Five Brides (37 page)

In fact, everything that could be right about it
was
right about it.

Pat turned right onto the street where her parents lived. “Much farther?”

“No. Almost to the end of the block here. On the left.” She sat straight. “There it is.” She pointed. “The one with the large Christmas tree taking over the window.”

“Nice,” he said. He grinned at her after he turned into the drive. “Remind me to tell your mother how
lovely
her home is.”

Betty socked his arm and he feigned injury. “That was my
gift-giving arm,” he said, his voice playfully strained. “Now what will I do?” Pat brought the car to a stop and slipped the gear to Park. “Well, my sweet . . .”

“Yes, my sweeter?”

He kissed her briefly. “I only wanted to say two things.”

“And number one would be?”

“That I love you.”

“I love you too. And two?”

“I’d give you a more passionate kiss, but your mother is watching us from the living room window.”

“I’m sure she is.” Betty placed her hand on his neck and pulled him to her for a proper kiss.

He drew in a deep breath when the kiss was done. “My gracious, little girl. What was it Rhett Butler said? ‘You should be kissed, and often’?”

“Hats off to Mr. Butler,” Betty said with a giggle.

Pat glanced toward the window. “Your mother is gone. I guess that means I need to get you inside before your father comes out with a shotgun or something.”

Betty straightened. “That would be Adela’s job. One more thing . . .”

He opened his door before looking over his shoulder.

“When this night is over, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Pat laughed then, bold and infectious. “Let’s go,” he said, placing one foot on the driveway, “and see what this night has in store.”

Evelyn eased into the room she shared with Joan—at least for the next couple of weeks—hoping her roommate would be asleep.

She wasn’t. Instead, Joan sat propped up under a mound of
bedcovers with an Agatha Christie novel in her hand—the one Betty had given her for Christmas. “Hi, there,” she said, looking up from her reading.

“Is it good?” Evelyn asked, closing the door behind her. “The book?”

“Very good.” Joan looked at the cover as if to remind herself of the title. “
Murder with Mirrors
,” she said. “It’s a Miss Marple detective story.”

Evelyn dropped her purse onto the dresser. “I remember when we were pen pals . . . the way you always wrote about whatever book you were reading at the time. You made me wish I were more of a bookworm.”

“Never mind that. What happened today with George?” Joan plopped the book onto the bed as she crisscrossed her legs and drew them up to her chest.

Evelyn sat on the edge of Joan’s bed and pulled the sides of her hair back to reveal a pair of rose-shaped diamond-drop earrings. “They’re Dior,” she said.

Joan leaned in for a closer look. “They’re
exquisite
, Evelyn.”

Evelyn rested her hands in her lap and stared at them. “They’re not a diamond
ring
, though.”

Joan grabbed her hands. “Evelyn . . .”

Joan’s face shimmered through the veil of tears in Evelyn’s eyes. “I’m acting like a child. I know.”

“Please tell me you acted like a big girl when George gave these to you.”

Evelyn nodded. “Of course,” she whispered, then forced a wobbly smile. “I gasped appropriately and said,
‘Ils sont beaux,’
which made his mother’s cousin—the one who lives in Paris—applaud lightly before declaring the same.”

“And then?”

“And then I took off the little earrings I was wearing—you know, the ones that look like silver bells. Like the Christmas song?”

“I know.”

“And I said—very sweetly—‘George, would you put them on for me?’” She sighed at the memory. “Honestly, Joanie, it was one of the most intimate moments of our relationship.”

Joan’s eyes grew large. “Evelyn, you and George aren’t—”

“Oh, no . . . No. One thing my mama and daddy taught me is that a man isn’t going to buy a cow when the milk comes to the door every morning for free.”

Joan blinked several times before bursting into laughter, forcing Evelyn to follow suit. And the laughter felt so good. Like all had righted itself within the world again, just by sharing a chuckle with her dearest friend.

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Joan said, breathless.

“I’m not foolish enough to throw
that
away, even for George.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Joan paused in an attempt to stop her giggles. “So, did George—did George like your gift to him?”

For weeks Evelyn had used all her spare time to shop until she found the perfect gift for George—replicas of Roman coins made into a pair of cuff links. She thought them smart and sophisticated and, fortunately for her, so had George.

“Yes, he did. He very gallantly asked me to replace the ones he had on with them.” She smiled. “The whole thing was quite romantic.”

Joan patted her hand. “I’m sure it was.”

Evelyn scooted back farther onto the bed. “Were you horribly bored today?”

Joan shook her head. “Not in the least.” She pointed at the book. “I’ve read mostly. Napped a little.”

“Did you miss being with your family? Being in England during the Christmas holiday?”

“Sure. I guess so. But in all honesty, I don’t think it’s the same for me as it is for you. You’re always talking about your traditions and—how does the song go? ‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire’? The Christmases of my childhood were a bit austere.” Joan shrugged. “Not so much to miss.”

“Because of the war?”

“Mmm-hmm. My parents didn’t have enough money really to buy anything, and anything that
could
be bought was in such short supply.” She smiled. “I have to say, though, if nothing else, my parents made certain we had a nice Christmas dinner. I did miss
that
today. And we
did
have stockings. Regular old stockings, mind you. Not some of these fancy things I’ve seen displayed about town.”

“My mother made ours,” Evelyn said. “Embroidered our names across the top. ‘Homespun is always best,’ she’d say.”

“On Christmas morning,” Joan continued, looking toward the door as though she’d returned to England for a short visit, “we’d rush to see what we’d gotten in our stockings.”

“Which was?”

“Typically fruit. Maybe some candy and one needed item. Gloves. Socks. A pencil box.” She looked at Evelyn. “Not
all
that, of course.
One
of those.”

“Did you have a tree?”

“Oh, no, no, no. But sometimes my brothers and sisters and I made paper decorations out of colored paper that our mother hung around the house. And there were no Father Christmases, but the churches all had a crèche.”

“No lights strung around the house?”

“Oh, goodness, no. There was a blackout so . . . no. No twinkling lights. No decorated store windows showing off their goods with red and green bulbs.
But
. . . the children still sang carols around the neighborhoods.” She laughed lightly. “And the sweet
souls with nothing to give always dropped a few coppers into outstretched palms.”

“Coppers?”

“You know. Farthings.
Or pennies.
”

Evelyn’s hand reached for Joan’s. “I’m sorry, Joanie. Here I am complaining because I got diamond earrings instead of a diamond ring and here you were, spending the day alone, recalling farthings and pennies.”

Joan shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, Evelyn. The times were bleak but we didn’t know any better. For us, they were . . .
normal
. What we were used to. And, for the most part, we were all very happy.”

“For the most part . . .” Evelyn scooted off the bed. “My mother’s last letter said Hank has been seeing someone. Did I tell you that? Dixie Monroe.” She frowned. “The dumbest girl in school. Maybe in the whole world.”

“So? What do you care?” Joan asked, pulling her Miss Marple book closer.

Evelyn stared at the earrings she now held cupped in her hand. “I love George,” she said. “But I don’t want Hank to end up with just any ole body.” She reached into her purse for the black velvet jewelry box the earrings had come in. The one she had—momentarily—believed nestled a diamond ring. “I want him to be happy.” She eased the box open. “You know, like me.”

As soon as Pat left the room with Betty’s father on their way to see Mr. Estes’s impressive stamp collection, Chloe Estes eased herself down to her favorite place on the living room sofa and said, “I admit he’s charming, Betty.”

Betty, in an unusual move, sat next to her mother, closest to the wide door leading to the foyer. “He really is something else, isn’t he?”

“I take it you fancy yourself to be in love then.”

“I
am
in love, Mother. No fancy to it. Pure and simple love.”

Chloe sighed before reaching for the tiny bell perched on a nearby end table. A minute later, Adela entered carrying a silver tray topped with crystal cups of eggnog.

“Plenty of nutmeg, Adela?” Betty teased.

“Your mama said this year to serve it on the side,” Adela answered with a nod. She set the tray on the coffee table. Straightening, she said, “I’ll be back in a jiffy with it.”

As soon as she left the room, Betty turned to her mother. “I can’t believe you didn’t give her the day off.”

Chloe crossed her arms. “I told her not to bother coming in since you and Pat weren’t due until so late in the day. But she insisted that she’d be here.” Betty’s mother visibly forced a smile. “That woman
wouldn’t miss meeting your special someone if the good Lord himself were coming to her house for the holiday.”

Betty tried not to laugh but couldn’t help herself. “Mother . . . such sacrilege.”

Chloe straightened. “Never mind that. Let me ask you something now while I have the chance.”

“All right.”

“I take it that your relationship with George is
completely
over?”

“Mother, I never had a relationship with George to
be
over. I tried to tell you
all
that, but no one was listening. Least of all George.”

“And what do you think of this little simpleton he’s been seeing for a year now? His mother is nearly beside herself, I hope you know.”

Betty forced the anger rising inside her to stay put, even if it meant not being able to eat one of Adela’s scrumptious Christmas dinners, which—from the smells emanating from the kitchen—was a fat ham, mashed potatoes, and asparagus drizzled with hollandaise sauce.

“Mother, please. Evelyn is
not
a simpleton. My gracious, did you know George has her learning French?
French.
”

Adela returned then, carrying a silver shaker filled with reddish-brown granules. “That’s a fine young man, little miss,” she said. “I can hear him in there talking to your daddy about stamp collecting like he’s the one doing it.”

Betty laughed. “He’s a fine young man for more reasons than that.”

“Shall I serve the two of you now, Miz Estes?” Adela asked Betty’s mother.

Chloe sat straighter—if that were possible—and said, “Let’s see how much longer—” Her words were halted when the two men walked in, Betty’s father clapping his hand on Pat’s shoulder.

“Chloe,” he boomed, “this young man of Betty’s is going places.”

“Do tell,” Chloe responded through a smile Betty recognized as feigned. Her eyes followed her husband as he sat in a chair on the other side of the coffee table. Adela busied herself in serving everyone their festive drinks.

“Sit, boy, sit . . . ,” Harrison Estes said, indicating a nearby chair.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Pat said as Adela served him his eggnog, “I’d like to continue our conversation from inside your study, Mr. Estes.” He placed the crystal cup on the end table near Betty.

“Go ahead then.”

Betty looked at her father. “What conversation would that be?”

“Don’t look at me, Daughter,” he answered, taking the shaker of nutmeg from Adela. “If you want your questions answered, you best look to the one who can answer them.” He nodded toward Pat.