Five Brides (51 page)

Evelyn whirled at the sound of it.

“Oh, and set it for three,” Aunt Dovalou said with a sugary-sweet smile. “Brother Ed is coming for supper.”

“Aunt Dovalou,”
Evelyn exclaimed quietly. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

With her hand shoved into a quilted mitt, Aunt Dovalou pulled the skillet corn bread from the oven. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The doorbell rang again. She waved her hand. “Go on, now.”

Evelyn hurried up the hallway, muttering to herself the whole way. A Bible passage she’d memorized as a child tickled the back of her brain.
“I will go before thee, and make the crooked places straight.”

“Isaiah, chapter 45, verse 2,” she whispered with a smile.

By the time she opened the door to the tall, well-dressed preacher, she knew her face had registered a new and gushing excitement.

“What is it?” Ed asked, stepping over the threshold. “Are you
that
happy to see me?”

“No,” Evelyn answered as she closed the door, listening for
the familiar rattle the wood and opaque glass had made for nearly half a century. “I mean, yes.” She rolled her eyes as Ed chuckled. “What I
mean
to say is, I didn’t know you were coming until two seconds ago, but—” Evelyn reached for his hat and then, after he turned to remove his coat, stood on her tiptoes to help. “I just had a marvelous idea, and I—” He turned back to face her as she dropped to her heels. “I want to tell you
all
about it.”

Nuremberg, Germany

Joan stood just outside her small home, staring up at the gray sky and the black tree limbs clawing their way toward it. Hearing a door open behind her, she turned to see her new friend, Lucy Cole, walking out. She stopped beside her.

“Good morning,” Joan said, buttoning her coat up to her neck against the bitter weather.

“Sure turned cold, didn’t it.” Lucy tugged at her gloves as she gazed around, then patted the light-brown hair curling around high cheekbones as if to warm her ears. “I guess this is winter’s first hurrah.” She looked at Joan.

They walked together toward their cars. “Lucy,” Joan asked. “I’m beginning to discern certain accents. Can you tell me where you’re from?”

“South Carolina. Born and reared.”

Joan stopped short. “South Carolina? Forty-eight states under Eisenhower’s presidential authority and I seem to be zeroing in on only one of them lately.”

Lucy smiled as she opened her chocolate-brown handbag and withdrew a set of car keys. “Meaning?”

“I’ll have to tell you later,” Joan said. “Why don’t you join me for a bite to eat after work?”

“Your place or mine?” She opened her car door.

“Mine,” Joan said. “I’ll run to the PX after work and get something for us to eat.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll bring dessert.”

Later that morning, Joan marched to the TWX office and straight to Robert’s desk.

“Are you here for the general’s messages or have you been missing me?” he teased.

“I’m here for the general’s messages,” Joan said, somehow managing to keep herself straight-faced.

Robert clutched his chest. “My heart is nearly broken,” he said. “I’m not sure it can be repaired.”

But he handed her the messages anyway.

“Robert,” she began, keeping her voice steady. “I’m just wondering . . . would you be interested in meeting a
real
Southern girl?”

His eyes narrowed and the square of his jaw became more pronounced. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, a girl who is
really
from South Carolina. I know one. A friend of mine who lives next to me in civilian housing.” She tried to read his face, to see if he might be disappointed at the thought that she would set him up with another female, albeit one nearly twenty years his senior.

He remained stoic long enough to make her wonder if she’d made a mistake in her gesture. Then the ends of his lips curled, finally breaking apart to reveal a large grin as the blue in his eyes burst into a prism of light that paralyzed her breath in her throat. “I would
love
to meet a girl from South Carolina.”

“Well, then,” Joan said, taking a step back, “how about tomorrow
evening? Since I have a car and you don’t, I can pick you up at the
Kaserne
. The three of us can go out for a cup of coffee at a local coffeehouse. And what with it being Friday, we can stay out as late as we please.”

His eyes never left hers. “All right. Say nineteen hundred hours?”

“All right.”

“I’ll wait just inside the gates. There’s a place to the right near where the buildings start.”

Joan nodded once. “I know it. See you then.” She turned to walk out but made it only halfway to the door when Robert called her name.

“Yes?” she asked, turning back.

“What’s her name?”

“Lucy,” Joan answered. “Lucy Cole.”

Savannah, Georgia

Evelyn nearly squirmed in the chair at her aunt’s kitchen table.

Aunt Dovalou sat next to her. Ed sat directly across from her. Between the three of them they had eaten six bowls of soup and devoured nearly all of the butter-slathered corn bread.

“So? You’ve heard the preliminary idea. What do you think?” Evelyn asked them both.

“You’re saying, use
this
house?” her aunt asked.

“The parlors and the dining room only. Maybe the carriage house out back but . . .” She adjusted her glasses by the temples. “I’ll know more about that later.”

“And we’ll open this up to the young people—both boys and girls—of Savannah?” Ed asked. “Beginning with the Baptist and Methodist youth?”

“Just to see how it goes. If it goes well enough, we’ll extend it
to the other churches in the community. And maybe I can work with some of the home ec teachers at the schools.”

Aunt Dovalou sighed. “Just think, Ed,” she said, putting her older hand on his. “A school of etiquette for young people, right here in my mother’s home.” She looked at Evelyn, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Oh, darlin’, Mama would be so proud to know it.”

“And you really think you can teach this?” Ed asked.

“Well, I can teach the girls what the girls need to know and you can teach the boys what
they
need to know that a woman can’t teach them. And I can address subjects like dining and social etiquette. I can even throw in some lessons in basic, conversational French.”
Teach them to count . . .
“And how to discern nice china.” She winked in her aunt’s direction.

Ed perched his elbows on the table to rest his chin on his fists, then jerked them off. “Oops. No elbows on the table,” he teased.

Evelyn waggled a finger at him. “Oh, no. After the meal, it’s fine.”

He looked at Aunt Dovalou. “I did not know that . . . ,” he muttered as he casually returned to his original position. He looked across the table again. “I guess all that etiquette training you received while working at Hertz paid off.”

Etiquette training for Hertz. The half-truth had rolled off her tongue so easily, but leaving it at that was better for now. Maybe forever. What did her aunt or her boss need to know about George Volbrecht and the hours she’d spent learning etiquette for everything from a dinner party to a casual business gathering by an outdoor pool?

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Evelyn asked, standing. She set about gathering up the dishes, slapping at her aunt’s hand as she attempted to help. “I’ve got this.”

“What’s funny?” Ed asked.

Evelyn straightened. “That we think we are learning something for one reason, but God has in mind that we use it for something else.” She walked across the kitchen balancing plates and bowls in her hands.

“Not so funny,” Ed called across the room. “That’s the good Lord’s way. He knows what’s what long before we do.”

Evelyn placed the dishes into the deep white porcelain sink, then stared down at them. “Indeed,” she said quietly. “Even a crooked path.”

Nuremberg, Germany

The cold front that had descended on the state of Bavaria had decided to sink in its talons. By the next day, the wind had picked up, the temperature had dropped considerably, and precipitation had fallen, leaving thin sheets of ice along the highways, rooftops, and tree branches.

Friday afternoon, as Joan drove home after work, her car hydroplaned on the street and nearly jumped the curb of the parking area. Once inside her flat, she made a cold sandwich and washed it down with a small glass of milk, then washed her face and reapplied what little bit of makeup she typically wore—pressed powder, lipstick, and a hint of rouge.

Joan didn’t have to think long about what to wear. She changed into a scoop-neck, long-sleeved dress that cinched at the waist, then blossomed to a full skirt. Two narrow ribbons wrapping around the hips and tied off with bows made it the most fetching thing she owned, which made it all the more perfect for the evening.

Minutes later, she slipped into her winter coat before dashing over to Lucy’s. Barking and thick nails scraping the woman’s
slatted wood flooring greeted her before Lucy opened her door, shrugging her arms into her coat sleeves and banishing the dogs.

“Go back to your beds,” she said, laughing and closing the door behind her. “Those two are itching for a trip outside of this door, in spite of the weather.”

Joan laughed with her. “So, are we ready for this?” she asked as they walked toward Joan’s Austin.

“
I
am, but the question is, are you?”

“I am. Most definitely.”

After settling into the car, Joan shoved it into reverse. “I warn you,” she said. “I’m a terrible driver.”

Lucy’s face wore a knowing look. “I know. I’ve seen you tear out of here and practically fly back in. To my way of thinking, when it comes time to return to the States, you won’t need a plane.”

Joan laughed again as she shifted, turned on the radio, and pulled out at breakneck speed. Hitting
Fürther Straße
, the minuscule car glided over the icy street.

“Good heavens,” Lucy shouted over the music, “I think you left my stomach back there near the last intersection.”

Joan smiled, though her stomach had tied in knots; the car’s speed had risen against her will. If she applied the brakes too suddenly, the car would slide into one of the storefronts. But if they kept going at this speed . . .

The car rounded the corner toward the
Kaserne
’s gates, which spread east to west between brick columns and stretched from the ground, high above car or man. The guardhouse, Joan knew from previous experience, would have no fewer than two soldiers in it. Possibly even four. Guards who would be armed with guns and would not take kindly to a car approaching as hers did.

“Joan,” Lucy shouted, “I’m afraid you’re—”

Joan slammed her left foot down on the clutch, her right foot
on the brake. “I can’t stop it,” she shouted back as metal struck against metal and the Austin crashed through the gates with determination.

“Joan!”

“Hold on!”

The Austin slid over the ice, angling until it came to a stop directly in front of a tall man standing on the sidewalk. Joan gasped as she looked into the rearview mirror. Four guards, guns drawn, ran toward them as, inside the car, Eddie Fisher sang “O Mein Papa.” Trumpets rose in serenade behind his smooth tenor; Lucy simply burst into laughter.