by Sofia Grant
Francie was glad Alice couldn’t see her expression. As much as she tried to mask it, Francie knew that every dashed hope for Alice showed on her face.
Sometimes she wondered what the harm was, in letting Alice dream of the things normal girls did . . . but Francie had lived long enough to know far too much disappointment. Better to be content with what life brings than to upset the balance by seeking more.
Chapter 31
Francie opened all the windows in her room so that they could enjoy the breeze and called June’s room to ask if she might bring Alice by to meet her.
“She sounded a bit flustered,” Francie said when she hung up. “Since I’ve abandoned her today, she’s trying to get everything done by herself. Let’s give her a few minutes to finish whatever she was doing.”
They relaxed in the comfortable armchairs, much as Francie and Vi had on the day they arrived. Could it really just be two days earlier that they arrived in town? That meant that Vi had been gone for an entire day already. Was this how it was going to be from now on—measuring the days since she’d lost Vi? Soon she would be marking the time by months—even years. How long until it didn’t hurt so much?
“So tell me more about this girl who made such an impression on you and Auntie Vi,” Alice said.
“She’s lovely, but we took her under our wing because she was so obviously in need,” Francie said, remembering Alice’s earlier comment about being jealous. “She had bruises from her husband’s . . . rough treatment. And she has next to nothing, not even a decent dress to travel in.”
“Fleeing with her child,” Alice said. “It’s just unthinkable that she has no one to turn to.”
“Once she has her divorce, she’ll be much better off,” Francie said. “Her ex-husband will have to go through the courts to win the right to see the child.”
“Then you must see that it happens.”
Francie smiled at Alice’s serious tone. “I will, darling—you can count on it. You should have seen Vi; she was so taken with June’s little girl. You know she wanted grandchildren so badly. It’s one of the things I understand the least, to be honest. Ever since Margie and Roy started having kids, she’s been waiting for her turn to be a grandmother. You should have seen her when we went to buy a gift for Dorrie—she was wild for all the tiny bonnets, the little socks.”
“I just wish I understood. Mother, do you remember, when we were saying goodbye? And Auntie Vi touched my face?”
“I do.”
“She whispered something to me. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right, and the next moment the driver came inside, and everything got very confused, but I swear she said ‘You’ve always been my favorite.’” Alice was blushing furiously. “I know she loves all of us, Margie and Jimmy, and Roy and Evelyn too, but . . . I couldn’t help the feeling that she was telling me goodbye.”
“That just about breaks my heart.” Francie took Alice’s hands; she was wearing the little pearl ring Vi had given her for her fifteenth birthday.
“Before I call Daddy to pick me up, Mother . . . there is something I wanted to tell you. I know it isn’t the best time, and I had hoped—I’d planned to tell you when you got back home, but now that I’m here—and Daddy is here too—”
“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Francie said, but at the excited look on her daughter’s face, fear rose up inside her. She couldn’t bear to see Alice go through another disappointment. She should have known something was going on; she should have nipped it in the bud. Memories of that horrible afternoon when Alice had sobbed for hours were almost more than her poor heart could stand.
But she would never shirk a mother’s duty. “I want you to know—if things don’t . . . work out the way you hope, I’ll be right there for you. We all have to lean on each other from time to time, and I’ve certainly leaned on you much too often.”
“Oh, but it’s nothing like that,” Alice said, surprised.
“It’s just that I’ve noticed you’ve been . . . your head in the clouds, missing dinner, coming home late after that class.”
Alice’s expression shifted; she gave Francie a funny little smile. “Oh, that. Well, you’re right—I have had something on my mind. But it can wait. No, this is about—well, about Daddy, and Bill.”
Oh, dear. Francie didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread. She should have known that this talk would take place at some point. She’d had a conversation years ago with each of her girls about the prospect of womanhood arriving, how the initial excitement would give way to the tiresome monthly inconvenience. With Margie, she’d stressed the sacred joy of one’s body preparing to give birth to babies conceived in marriage to a wonderful man.
But with Alice she had no such promises to make. Alice’s womb would remain empty month after month, year after year, until someday it would begin to fail as Francie’s own had recently, the body putting a stop to the possibilities that most women were quite ready to bid farewell to anyway. And so she’d consulted a medical textbook and done the best she could, focusing on the drawings of the female sexual organs in their curious arrangement, using the story of Alice’s own birth to describe the mechanics of the process. Alice, always so serious about her studies, listened attentively and was especially thoughtful and quiet in the days after.
What had Alice made of meeting Arthur’s friend outside that squalid theater? Francie wondered if Alice had heard about the congress between two such men through some other source—a book, perhaps, or an overheard conversation? It seemed unlikely. (And how awful for Arthur, Francie couldn’t help thinking, imagining her shy, thoughtful husband attempting to explain his presence there.)
“Do you understand,” she said carefully, “the, erm, nature of Daddy’s friendship with Bill? The reason that they will be living together in Daddy’s apartment?”
“Well, yes, of course,” Alice said. “They’re quite in love. Daddy says you’ve known about it for a long time, that you gave him your blessing.”
“Oh.” Had she? Not exactly . . . blessing was perhaps too strong a word. I suppose there’s nothing to be done had been her sad conclusion, and Arthur had nodded just as regretfully.
“And what I didn’t tell you—after that first time, when I met Bill, and he was so very nice, Daddy asked if I would come to dinner. With the two of them. I don’t think he meant to—Mother, I know he would never want to hurt you. But I think it was the relief of someone knowing—of me knowing, and whatever fears Daddy had about me and Margie and Jimmy, how we would react, whether we’d still want to see him—I could see how happy it made him that I didn’t act horrified. I mean, I was very uncomfortable, Mother, you must imagine, but he looked so shamed, and I couldn’t bear it—and I said yes. I had dinner at the apartment the next week.”
Francie said nothing, imagining the three of them at the table, making small talk, breaking bread. Arthur was a gifted host, and a meticulous one—in all the years they’d entertained together, it was Arthur who set the table with their wedding china and crystal, who created careful seating plans to encourage lively conversation, who remembered to decant the wine and order the flowers and select which records to play.
Francie suddenly remembered Alice insisting on going to the first session of a new class despite a rainstorm, declining the ride that Francie had offered, saying she didn’t want to be the only girl dropped off by her mother.
“That’s when I started going to the class at the School of Fine Arts,” Alice said. “Except I didn’t.”
“But you bought the supplies,” Francie protested.
“Window dressing,” Alice said. “To fool you. I’m so sorry, Mother, I know it was wrong. After that first time, I just pretended I’d signed up for more sessions, and each week I was actually going over to the apartment. It just made Daddy so happy. And Bill too—I could see how good they are for each other.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
Alice regarded her sadly. “If I had . . . do you really think you would
have allowed me to keep going?”
“I—maybe,” Francie said, though of course the answer was no. She was beginning to feel angry. She thought of the care she took to guard Arthur’s secret, when he was keeping yet another from her—one that involved their daughter. “At least I wouldn’t have been made a fool of. What did you think, when you came home from one of these evenings—‘Oh, poor Mother, toiling along in this sham of a marriage’?”
“No! I never—Daddy said that he would never leave you, that he’d been as loyal to you as he knew how. All he wanted was someone to . . . to witness this other life of his, to give him permission to be happy.”
“Well, it’s wonderful that he got to be happy,” Francie fumed. “That he and Bill get to have their little love nest where they can pretend the outside world doesn’t matter. But it does, Alice, you know that. You know that better than anyone.”
She wouldn’t forgive him, she decided. When this week was over, she’d tell Arthur that once she returned to San Francisco, he was to call before visiting, he was to behave like any other guest in her home. He wouldn’t be allowed to risk her honor and invite scandal without paying for the privilege.
“I was thinking—I was hoping—that maybe Bill could come to dinner tonight,” Alice continued doggedly. “No one will think a thing of it, not with us there. He could be Daddy’s brother, or colleague, or— You could get to know him, just a little at first. And you could leave if it became too much.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Francie said stiffly. “I’m grieving the loss of my best friend. I shouldn’t have to deal with that as well, not now.”
“All right,” Alice said sadly. “I’ll let Daddy know. But I wish you’d change your mind.”
“You said there was something else you were going to tell me. I think, given the circumstances, that it shouldn’t wait. After what you’ve already told me, I won’t be able to think of anything else if I don’t have at least a clue.”
Alice smiled shyly. “Well, all right, Mother, but only because I’m fearful it will come flying out of me—it’s been so hard to keep it to myself. I’ve met someone.”
So it was true—Francie’s greatest fear for her daughter. She hadn’t learned from the last time after all. “You’ve met someone,” she echoed. “Would this be a beau?”
“Yes,” Alice said, beaming.
“And does he . . . know how you feel?”
“I certainly hope so. I know he feels the same way about me. He told me so.”
Francie’s stomach twisted. The last time, Alice had thrown caution to the wind; she was too naïve to understand the intricate dance of courtship—or the special dangers that attended a lonely girl from a wealthy family. And see how that had ended up?
“Alice, darling, whatever conversations you’ve had, or think you’ve had, it would be a good idea to stop and take your time. You’re . . . new to this sort of thing, and rather naïve, there’s no shame in admitting it. The world isn’t always as safe as we’d like it to be; there are unscrupulous—there are terrible—”
“Mother,” Alice interrupted her. “This isn’t like that. It isn’t like last time. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“You weren’t a little girl then,” Francie said. “You were nineteen.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Alice said, digging in her purse for her handkerchief. “I thought you’d understand.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I am happy for you—or at least I would be, if I could be sure that this wasn’t—that he isn’t—”
As Francie floundered for the right words, Alice dabbed furiously at her eyes, then took a deep breath. “I think it’s best we talk about this another time. I shouldn’t have brought it up now, I don’t know what I was thinking. Losing Auntie Vi like this . . . I think I’m still in shock. I just can’t believe it’s true.”
“Of course, Alice, that would make perfect sense,” Francie said, trying to ignore the feeling of relief that Alice had let it go—this time. If this was anything like Gerald, Alice wouldn’t let it go for long—but at least Francie had a little time to plan her response. And, perhaps, to sniff around and find out a little more. She’d ask Margie if Alice had confided any more details to her.
Though it was more likely to be her father that Alice took her problems to. Unlike Francie, Arthur listened without judgment, offered comfort before solutions. Francie couldn’t help the way she was built; she couldn’t stand not to act, especially if her children were making a mistake.
But she couldn’t very well talk to Arthur about this now—not when he’d swanned into town with his friend in tow, for anyone to see. For the love of God, she hoped at least Arthur had been smart enough to reserve two rooms. Love made people careless—just look at Alice. Just look at her! All those years ago she’d watched Arthur across the room at that party and decided he was the one, and thrown herself into the courtship and soon after, marriage, without ever stopping to notice the little signs. Because they had been there—if only she’d been more careful.
But if there hadn’t been Arthur, there wouldn’t have been the children, the beautiful home filled with laughter and comfort; there would never have been Vi. It seemed so cruel—Francie wouldn’t trade the life she’d made for the world, but in the moment, it seemed she was losing everyone she loved the most.
“Well, then,” Alice said briskly. “Shall we go? As you said, there’s lots to be done.”
“Yes, you’re right.” But Francie didn’t want to end the conversation this way, with Alice upset. “Darling, I’m just so grateful you’re here.”
She folded Alice into her arms and kissed her cheek.
But for the first time she could remember, Alice pulled away.
Chapter 32
June
When they knocked on her door, June took a last look around the room. She had dropped Patty off with Mrs. Oglesby after breakfast and started working on her list of tasks, but when Francie called to say she was bringing her daughter by, she’d rushed to change into a simple leaf-green suit she’d found among Vi’s things, grateful that Francie had encouraged her to wear any of Vi’s clothes that she fancied. The maid had been there earlier to change the linens, but a full cleaning was provided only once a week, so June ran around the suite making sure everything was in its place.
She opened the door and there was Francie, along with a slim, auburn-haired girl who had Francie’s smile and her soft brown eyes, plus a sculpted jaw and narrow nose that must have come from her father. The girl seemed startled, taking a step back with a little gasp.
“I’m sorry,” she said, with her hand at her throat. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry. I’m Alice. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“I’m June Samples. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I wish it was under different circumstances.” It didn’t come out quite the way she’d practiced—she rushed through the words and garbled them a bit. “Please, come in,” she added belatedly.
Alice walked with a limp, twisting her hips and seeming to drag her foot. June had known a boy who walked like that during school; the other children had teased him, but he’d continued all the way through high school while his brothers left after fifth grade to work on the farm. The last she’d heard, he’d gotten a degree from UC Davis and owned an insurance office in Dixon.
“June . . .” Alice said. “I’m sorry I seemed startled when I first saw you. It’s just . . . that suit. Vi wore it one of the last times I saw her.”
“I’m sorry!” June exclaimed, horrified. Why hadn’t she thought? She shouldn’t have changed—how presumptuous Alice must think her!
“Oh no, please, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“June brought very little with her,” Francie said diplomatically. “It seemed sensible for her to wear Vi’s clothes until she had a chance to get some new things.”
“Of course, that’s such a wise idea,” Alice said kindly. “But I wonder . . . with Charlie co
ming today . . .”
“Oh dear, you’re right,” Francie said. “I should have thought. There’s just been so much to attend to—”
“I’ll go and change right now,” June said. How awful it would be, for the poor man to see her wearing his mother’s clothes. “I’ll put on my old poplin.”
“Wait, I have an idea,” Francie said. “Now that Alice is here—Alice, darling, could you take June shopping? She needs a few new dresses and perhaps a pair of heels—you weren’t anticipating being dragged around with us, were you, dear? And that way I can be here when Charlie calls. Taxis come right to the front door, and I’m sure we can ask Mrs. Swanson for a recommendation for a good place to shop.”
“But—I can’t . . .” June stammered. She did need new clothes, but she had been planning to wait until Francie paid her, and then see if there was an inexpensive seamstress or perhaps even a secondhand shop where she could find something cheap. And her shoes . . . she felt her face heat in shame. They were scuffed beyond repair and the soles were nearly worn through, but a good pair of shoes would cost at least three dollars. If only she were alone with Francie, she could confide in her. But she couldn’t bear the pity of a stranger.
Realization dawned on Francie’s face. “I believe I told you that June has been kind enough to agree to arrange everything this week,” she said to Alice, “and she’ll need an appropriate wardrobe for calling on everyone she needs to see, the mortuary and the florist and so forth. Not to mention receiving the family, and Vi’s friends when they start to arrive. So these would obviously be business expenses—have the bills sent home, sweetheart, and June, dear, perhaps you’d be so kind as to file the receipts for the accountant.”
Alice smiled. “That makes perfect sense, Mother. June, how clever you must be—I’m completely hopeless with paperwork. This is exciting. I haven’t been shopping with anyone but my sister or my mother in a very long time.”
“I don’t know what to say,” June fretted. “You’ve already been so generous, Francie, letting me stay here and all. Besides, you hired me to help—not to go shopping when we have so much to do before Tuesday.”
