Lies in White Dresses

by Sofia Grant

  Dedication

  For Caitlin,

  my Reno girl

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Francie

  Chapter 2: Virgie

  Chapter 3: Francie

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7: Virgie

  Chapter 8: Francie

  Chapter 9: Virgie

  Chapter 10: Francie

  Chapter 11: June

  Chapter 12: Virgie

  Chapter 13: June

  Chapter 14: Francie

  Chapter 15: Virgie

  Chapter 16: Francie

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18: Virgie

  Chapter 19: June

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21: Francie

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25: Virgie

  Chapter 26: Francie

  Chapter 27: Virgie

  Chapter 28: Francie

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32: June

  Chapter 33: Virgie

  Chapter 34: Francie

  Chapter 35: June

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37: Virgie

  Chapter 38: Francie

  Chapter 39: Alice

  Chapter 40: Willy

  Chapter 41: Charlie

  Chapter 42: Virgie

  Chapter 43: Willy

  Chapter 44: June

  Chapter 45: Francie

  Chapter 46: Charlie

  Chapter 47: Virgie

  Chapter 48: Charlie

  Chapter 49: Francie

  Chapter 50: Willy

  Chapter 51: Alice

  Chapter 52: Charlie

  Chapter 53: June

  Chapter 54: Virgie

  Chapter 55: Francie

  Chapter 56: Father Fletcher

  Chapter 57: June

  Chapter 58: Officer Green

  Chapter 59: Vi

  Epilogue

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise for Lies in White Dresses

  Also by Sofia Grant

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Francie

  May 1952

  It couldn’t be Margie, because she would cry, and besides, she might bring the children, which would turn the whole thing into a circus. Jimmy hadn’t come out and said it, because he was trying to spare her feelings, but he was playing golf with his father today—the club had called to confirm their tee time.

  That left Alice. As usual.

  “Mother, do you want the blue with the feather or the tan?” Alice called from upstairs. She had skipped her painting class this morning to help Francie finish packing and to say goodbye to Vi. Vi’s two boys worked for their father’s publicity firm, and all three of them were currently in the middle of the Mojave Desert getting ready to launch a client’s nuclear tourism business. It was just like Harry to leave his wife to make her shameful departure from an empty house, even when he was the one who’d smashed their sacred vows into smithereens.

  “Oh, the blue, I suppose,” Francie called. “Though it hardly matters, does it?”

  “Don’t be glum.” Alice came down the stairs carrying the hat under one arm, leaving the other free to hold on to the handrail. “It’s going to be lovely, Mother. You just need to think of it as a vacation. You and Vi have talked about going to Reno together for ages.”

  “Yes, but not like this. There won’t be any snow and we’ll be coming back divorced.”

  Francie put on the blue hat, checking her reflection in the hall mirror. How had she let this happen? It had been a decade at least since Vi first broached the idea of visiting her hometown—she wanted to show Francie the house she grew up in, to visit her parents’ graves, to see the mountains covered in all that lovely snow. There’d be ice skating, Vi had promised, and walks along the river, and drinks at the Sky Room on top of the Mapes Hotel.

  But it had never seemed like the right time. There’d been graduations and weddings and engagements and grandchildren, and it had seemed as though they had all the time in the world.

  Before Alice could respond, the front door opened and Vi walked in. She hadn’t bothered to knock since she and Harry had moved across the street from the Meekers three decades earlier, when she was pregnant with Frank, and Francie’s firstborn, Margie, was only a baby.

  “Good morning, Francie. Hello, Alice, darling.”

  “Well, you don’t have to sound like you dropped your ice-cream cone,” Francie scolded. “Alice was just telling me to keep my chin up, and you’ll simply have to do the same.”

  The driver followed behind Vi timidly. Harry always hired men who were afraid of him. “Should I get the bags, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please.” Francie grabbed Alice’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I suppose this is goodbye, then. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Dear Alice—she was as brave as she was thoughtful. “Just call Dad for anything you need. Don’t try to do everything yourself.” For the ten-thousandth time, Francie sent up her prayer—Dear Lord, take care of Alice—a habit like breathing.

  “I’ll miss you too, Auntie Vi,” Alice said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Francie was gathering her purse and gloves when she saw Vi do something she’d never done before—she placed her hands on either side of Alice’s face and pressed her forehead to hers. Didn’t say anything, just stood like that for a moment.

  Vi had never been the demonstrative sort. Was this what she was in for, Francie wondered, six weeks of maudlin fussing? All because of Harry—who, in Francie’s opinion, wasn’t worth wasting a single tear on.

  “Let’s go,” she said, too sharply. “I want to get on the train before they start letting the coach passengers on.”

  THE TRAIN WOULD be departing at nine, but at eight-thirty the sleeping-car passengers had been allowed to board. Francie had been determined to settle into their compartment before the hall became congested with other passengers.

  The porter looked at their tickets, then at his clipboard. “Madam? You wanted pillow service?”

  “Yes, please,” Francie said tiredly. “I know we’re only going as far as Reno, but if you would be so kind . . .”

  “Of course.” He was back in minutes to turn down the beds. “Have a nice trip.”

  “Do you remember,” Vi said dreamily, once he was gone. “The year Frank broke his arm, and we had to drive all the way back from Yosemite in the dark?”

  “Oh, I do. Jimmy was so upset that he missed feeding the bears.”

  “What I remember most is that you didn’t think twice, you just started packing up the station wagon. You could have stayed and enjoyed the rest of the trip, but you and Arthur and the kids all came back so my boys wouldn’t feel like they missed out.”

  “Of course we did!” Francie said. “You would have done the same for me.”

  “I would have. But Harry wouldn’t. It’s funny—when I think back over the years, you were there for me all the times that he wasn’t. Sometimes I wish I could have married you instead of him.”

  For a moment both of them were quiet. “I believe I’ll lie down,” Francie finally said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. What about you, dear?”

  “I think I’ll read the paper.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  Francie kicked off her shoes and climbed into the lower berth. She knew Vi wouldn’t mind; Francie wasn’
t built for going up and down ladders, but Vi was still as thin as a whip and agile as a cat after all these years.

  It felt strange to pull the bed linens up when she was fully clothed. The cotton sheets glided over her stockings; her woolen skirt twisted around her hips. She closed her eyes, but moments later opened them again. She reminded herself to check her makeup and wondered how much rouge she was leaving on the pillowcase.

  Vi had barely moved. She was staring out the window, the newspaper untouched in her lap. Of course, it’s different for her, Francie thought. Harry didn’t care a bit about Vi’s humiliation. Arthur, for all his faults, had always been kind.

  She watched her friend as the train sped through the bright morning, enjoying its hypnotic rocking. Outside the door to their compartment, she could hear the voices of the porters. Vi sighed and pressed a hand to her cheek, but her expression didn’t change. Should Francie say something? Offer some sort of comfort? Vi had never welcomed that kind of attention.

  Francie let her eyelids slowly drift down. She felt both deliciously indolent and uncomfortably warm. How lovely it would be to strip down to her camisole and slip.

  This is how it began, then, the transformation she had never asked for. In six weeks she would return, a divorcée. Arthur had rented his North Beach apartment several years ago, though very few people knew; he stayed there only a few days a month. While she was away, he would arrange for the rest of his things to be moved. He’d asked for so little from the house—but then again, nearly all of it had been bought with the money she’d brought into the marriage.

  It was as though time were moving backward, a loose thread being wound around the spool. The apartment was on Powell, a ten-minute taxi ride from the Arcadia Dance Pavilion, where they had first been introduced. Breathtakingly handsome in his uniform, Arthur was serving as a coast artillery soldier at Fort Winfield Scott on the Presidio; all day long he fired enormous guns at targets out in the sea, while Army Air Corps pilots flew overhead, dipping their wings when a target was hit.

  How could she not have fallen in love with him?

  SHE WOKE SEVERAL hours later, groggy from a dream in which she was riding on the lower wing of a biplane while shouting for Arthur to take her home, but he couldn’t hear her.

  For a moment Francie stared up at the wooden struts supporting the upper bunk, slowly remembering the purpose of the trip, the reason she was here. She glanced over at Vi and was not surprised to see her sitting exactly as she had been before, though now her eyes were closed.

  Francie faked a little cough, as a courtesy. Funny, in all the time they’d known each other, they’d never slept in the same room. Vi started awake, and for the briefest second, a look of panic crossed her face. But then she was herself again, smoothing her skirt and giving Francie a sphinxlike smile.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “If you can call that sleep,” Francie said, easing herself out of the bunk and putting her stockinged feet on the floor. How anyone could spend an entire night in these things was a mystery. “I feel bounced about like a cart going to market.”

  “We’ve stopped half a dozen times. We’re in Roseville now, but they just announced that we’ll be moving again in a moment.”

  Francie hadn’t heard a thing—the last announcement she remembered was when they were pulling out of the station on Market. She had been sleeping more soundly than she realized. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl face of the dainty platinum watch Arthur had given her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  “We should get to the dome car for lunch,” she said. “I’m ravenous—I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”

  “I think I’ll stay back here.” Vi’s smile slipped a little. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” Francie said firmly. “I won’t have you moping around all day.”

  Vi shrugged and took a compact from her purse. From the corner of her eye as she touched up her own makeup and patted her hair in place, Francie watched Vi gaze at her reflection as though she were looking at a stranger. Finally, Vi put the compact away, sighed, and stood up.

  “Lead on,” she said.

  The dome car of the City of San Francisco had been a thing of fascination for Francie’s son, Jimmy. Arthur had brought him to the station for the unveiling of the new train when it debuted; he reported that Jimmy—ten or eleven at the time—had stared, enraptured, through the curved glass panels that allowed uninterrupted views, even though it was the same platform and tracks he’d visited many times before. Of course, Jimmy had long ago lost his love of trains; these days it was all work, work, work at the bank.

  All these years later, the car’s banquettes had been reupholstered in turquoise leatherette, the fussy dining area replaced with club chairs in a coral jacquard. The waiters wore snappy bow ties. As the maître d’ was showing them to their seats, moving the table so that Francie could more easily shoehorn her derriere into the booth, he suddenly frowned. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ll be right back.”

  He strode to the entrance of the car, where a tentative young woman stood, holding the hand of a little girl with blond curls.

  “Miss, this dining room is only for the use of sleeping-car passengers,” he said, more loudly than necessary. “I’m sure you’ll find the other dining car more than adequate for your needs.”

  The woman blushed furiously but held her ground. “We won’t be but a minute,” she pleaded. “It’s just that I promised her. It’s the only thing she wanted to see.”

  “That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”

  Francie felt her hackles rise. Perhaps it was the years of forging a path for Alice, plunging into social encounters with the ferocity of a mother bear, insisting that she be treated like any other child—but Francie could not stand to see the young mother be humiliated in front of the well-heeled passengers.

  “Sir, those are our guests,” she said loudly. “Please show them to our table.”

  Conversation stopped. Vi flinched. Francie didn’t care. Her pride had already taken a beating; how much worse could it get? She looked around at the other passengers’ curious gazes and gave them the regal demi-smile she’d cultivated all those years ago as the richest girl at Lowell High School, then turned her attention back to the maître d’, who sagged under the weight of her chilly gaze. In his profession, it was to his advantage to recognize money when he saw it. “Of course,” he said, obsequious in defeat.

  “Oh, I don’t—” the young woman blurted.

  “We’re so glad to see you,” Francie called. Hesitantly, the woman and her daughter approached the table. Other diners looked on approvingly; the court of public opinion was clearly on the side of the pretty stranger and her adorable child. The maître d’ didn’t bother to help them into their seats, so Francie rolled her eyes and patted the bench next to her. “Here, darling, you sit with me—there’s more room for your mother with Mrs. Carothers.”

  “I’ll bring two more menus,” the maître d’ said, but Francie ignored him.

  “Thank you,” the young woman said, looking as though she was about to burst into tears. “I don’t know what I would have done—I didn’t realize, you see, I’ve never—I thought anyone could visit the dining car. I didn’t know there were two of them.”

  “It’s silly, isn’t it?” Vi said. Kindness came naturally to her. “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Patty,” the little girl said softly, looking to her mother for confirmation.

  “And how old are you?”

  Instead of answering, Patty gravely held up four fingers.

  “Four!” Francie exclaimed. “What a delightful age to be. Good for you. I’m Francine Meeker, but I’m called Francie by my friends. And this is Violet Carothers.”

  “Please, call me Vi.”

  “I’m June. June Samples.”

  She wore a dress that would have fit a woman fifteen pounds heavier, the wool shiny with wear, the style several years out of date. Her shoes wer
e the sort one buys if one can afford only a single pair for church and town—too plain for one, too dressy for the other.

  She wore no wedding ring.

  “We’re heading for Reno,” Francie said.

  “Reno!” June looked taken aback. “That’s—but that’s where we’re going too!”

  “Well, then, you must dine with us, so we can get acquainted.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t impose. And besides, we already ate.”

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” Patty said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

  “I have sandwiches,” June said rather desperately. “We’ll go back to our seats and—”

  “I really wish you’d allow us to treat you to lunch,” Vi said. “You see, my husband made me promise to enjoy this trip. I mustn’t let him down. And it will be so much nicer if you stay. I’ve known Francie for thirty years, and I’ve run out of things to say to her.”

  There was a brief, shocked silence, and then Francie burst into laughter. “What’s gotten into you, Vi? Oh, never mind—since Harry is treating, let’s order every lovely thing on the menu!”

  Chapter 2

  Virgie

  Hey, Virgie,” a voice called from one of the open doors down the carpeted second-floor hall. “Come here a minute, will you?”

  Virgie Swanson slowed her step, tucking the mail she was carrying into the big patch pocket of her pinafore. Her mother, the owner and manager of the Holiday Ranch hotel, had sewn the pinafore herself. It was made of white cotton duck with cheerful red rickrack trim, and in addition to the large pocket there was a smaller one that contained a notepad and several pencils, for writing down the guests’ requests and messages, and a metal ring to hook the supply-closet key to. There was also a tiny pocket sewn onto the inside of the pinafore where Virgie stashed the tips that the guests gave her until she was back in her room and could hide them in the baking-powder tin behind the wall.

  The voice summoning Virgie was hoarse and a bit pitiful, the way the ladies sometimes got after they stayed out too late. Virgie hoped it was the girl from Las Vegas. She had seemed nice enough when she checked in two weeks ago, but more important, she probably had money. Her mother drew this conclusion from the girl’s suitcases and her coat; she said you could learn a lot about a person from observing them carefully, a skill that Virgie was trying hard to learn on her own, as she planned to be a detective when she grew up. Indeed, she recorded in the back of her diary all kinds of useful observations, mostly gleaned from eavesdropping.