Five Brides (55 page)

Eibsee Hotel rose like a beacon, pushing its way through blankets of snow and lighting the way for those seeking comfort in its warmth. But beneath the shadows of the Zugspitze, it looked like no more than a pesky bug. The mountain, which lifted its rocky, snow-laden face nearly ten thousand feet toward the heavens, appeared a jagged anchor against a neon-blue sky.

“I can’t wait,” Joan said as the foursome stepped out of her car. She stared at the side of the mountain. “Let’s hurry and get settled in.”

“What are you in such a hurry for?” Robert teased. “I thought you weren’t much of a skier.”

Joan laughed. “I’m not. It just looks like such
fun
.”

The day turned out better than she could have imagined. All fun and no broken bones. After gliding between the snow-dusted
evergreens for hours, they decided they couldn’t ski another slope without collapsing from sheer exhaustion.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Robert suggested to everyone. “We can change, grab something to eat . . .”

“I want to sit in front of that fireplace in the lobby,” Joan announced as they turned toward the cable cars. “It may take a month before my toes fully thaw.”

By the time they walked into the richly paneled lobby, dusk had settled over the Eibsee Hotel, turning the snow to the color of a baby boy’s blanket and the lake beyond the windows a rich shade of indigo.

“Before it gets too dark,” Robert said to Joan as they approached the lobby elevator, “how about you and I drive into Garmisch?”

“Whatever for?”

He grimaced. “Bandages and Mercurochrome.”

Joan stopped and he did too. Leo and Bob continued on. “We’ll meet you down here at nineteen hundred hours,” Bob said, already pushing the elevator’s call button.

“Why do you need medical supplies?” Joan asked.

“I hate to sound like a baby, but the ski boots rubbed blisters on my heels.”

Joan bit her lip to keep from saying, “Poor baby . . . ,” but she patted the side of his face anyway.

An hour later, Joan and Robert headed back from Garmisch-Partenkirchen with a small white bag of first aid supplies. Robert read the label on the Mercurochrome and moaned.

“It’s certainly cold outside,” Joan said to change the subject. “Colder than I thought it would be.”

“I guess that makes it better for skiing, which I’m not so sure I’ll be doing tomorrow.”

“I’ll probably be too sore to ski anyway. If the boys want to go
back up, why don’t you and I sit in the lobby and drink hot chocolate?” Joan smiled as she parked the car at the hotel. She reached for the key in the ignition just as Robert’s hand reached for hers.

“Leave it on,” he said, his voice coaxing.

She turned to face him. “Something wrong?”

“Not a thing,” he said as he brought his lips to hers. Joan felt the softness, the deliciousness, and—despite the ice and snow outside—warmth slid down her spine, her legs, and settled sweetly in her toes.

A sudden tap on the driver’s window forced them apart. Joan gripped the crank to roll it down and peer out.

A German guard stood over the car. Joan looked from him back to Robert, whose eyes were caught somewhere between mirth and frustration. “Is there a problem, sir?” Robert asked.

“This area is for parking only,” he said, his English remarkably decent for a German.

Joan looked at Robert, whose brow shot up. “But, sir,” he said, chuckling, “that’s what we’re doing.
Parking.
”

Seventeen months later

September 1955

Joan had not come to Germany with the intention of finding her special someone. Of falling in love. And, in spite of the number of times Robert had proposed that they marry while in Germany, she’d certainly not come halfway around the world to walk down the aisle.

She had, however, come to Germany to work. To seek adventure.

She had somehow accomplished both of those things . . .
as well as
falling in love.

But they—she and Robert—could not live in Germany forever, working during the weekdays and driving from Nuremberg throughout Europe on the weekends. Playtime had come to an end. Soon, too soon, she would have to return to Chicago.

And Robert would go home to the South.

The day of Joan’s departure from Europe loomed in the form of two weeks. Fourteen short days. Train tickets—Joan’s a one-way and Robert’s a round-trip—would take them to Amsterdam. Then the
SS Rotterdam
would take Joan back to the States.

Robert would return to Nuremberg for another few months.

Joan sold her car to Leo for four hundred dollars with the understanding he would take possession on the day she left Germany.

“What will you do with all that money?” Robert asked her.

“Add it to what I’ve already saved.” With her consistent promotions within the General Schedule levels of pay, Joan had made good wages. Because most of her needs were taken care of by the government, she’d been able to save the surplus. “I’m not going home to a job, so I’m sure I’ll need it to get settled back in Chicago.”

They sat together at one of the outside tables of the PX coffee shop where they’d had their first “date.” Unlike that night, moderate weather wrapped around them like a summer sweater and they were able to sip their coffee more out of enjoyment and less out of a recourse against hypothermia.

“Tell you what, Joan,” Robert said. “You could eighty-six this notion of going back to the States. Stay here. Marry me.” He grinned.

“One,” Joan said, holding up her index finger, “over the past year, I’ve gotten to know your mother through her lovely and gracious letters to me. Not to mention your sister, Nancy. I would
never
start my future relationship with your family in such a way as to rob them of seeing their only boy getting married.”

Robert groaned.

“Two,” Joan added, holding up another finger, “I told you before . . . I have a dress in the States that I truly wish to wear on my wedding day. I paid good money for it.”

“But you love me, right?” he asked.

“I do, Robert. But I’m not going to marry you. Not here.” She held up the third finger. “And certainly not without knowing what my life will be like in North Carolina.”

Robert held up his hand. “I give up then. As long as you promise to write.”

Joan nodded. “At least once a week.” She held up her entire hand as if taking an oath. “On my honor.”

November 1955

Lake Forest, Illinois

“You’re
here
,” Betty Callahan all but shouted as she ran from the front door to the long driveway where a taxicab had, not thirty seconds earlier, pulled in.

Joan exited from the back passenger door, her face bright. She stood upright, throwing her arms out wide, and Betty rushed into them.

“I can’t believe it.” Betty held her friend at arm’s length. “Look at you.” She gave Joan’s shoulders a light squeeze. “Love looks good on you.”

Joan laughed, her eye gazing overhead to where tall trees swayed and shimmered in reds and golds. “Everyone looks good this time of year.” She glanced at the ranch-style home as the cab driver opened the car’s trunk. “Your home is lovely, Betty. Even from out here.”

Betty looped their arms and pulled her toward the still-open front door. “Wait till you see the inside. Pat has given me carte blanche when it comes to decorating, and—”

“And you’ve taken him up on it, have you, Chloe Estes?”

Betty threw back her head and laughed, nonplussed by the remark tying her to her mother. “Yes!” She glanced over her shoulder; the cab driver followed behind them, carrying Joan’s small piece of luggage. “That’s all you brought? I wanted you to stay a month, not a weekend,” she said just as her husband dashed from
the door dressed in his usual Saturday attire—casual slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a V-neck sweater.

“Pat!” Joan squealed.

“Joan Hunt,” he exclaimed, awkwardly wrapping them both in his arms.

“Pat, for goodness’ sakes,” Betty said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “Pay the cab driver, dear.”

“Of course,” he said, reaching for his back pocket. “Go on in, girls. I’ll be right there.”

Betty hurried Joan over the threshold and into the warmth of the living room, where stylish furniture had been expertly placed, looking ready for a photo shoot for the cover of
Good
Housekeeping
magazine.

“Oh, Betty,” Joan breathed out, and Betty smiled in appreciation. “Look how far you’ve come.” She grinned. “A roomful of furniture . . .
and it all matches
.”

Betty grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward a sliding-glass door leading to a kidney-shaped swimming pool, their laughter trailing behind them. “Pat will take care of your things,” she said. “Come see the expanse of this backyard, will you?”

They stepped outside to the patio and pool, its water dotted by autumn leaves that had spiraled earlier from the sturdy trees. “Oh,” Betty groaned. She’d so wanted everything to appear perfect. “Pat will have to get the net out again. I suppose he should go ahead and cover the pool, but I enjoy sitting out here in the afternoon when Sean Patrick naps.”

Joan turned to her. “Where is he? I’m dying to get my hands on him.”

“Napping, thank the good Lord,” Betty said. “He’s quite the Irish handful.” She laid her hand against her stomach then. “But guess what. I’m expecting again, Joanie.”

Joan’s eyes grew wide.
“No.”

Betty nodded. “Yes.”

Pat joined them then. “No, yes . . . what?” Then, as understanding crossed the handsome features of his face he said, “Ah. You told her.” A light blush blended with the natural freckles dotting his cheeks. “What do you think, Joan Hunt?”

Joan hugged them both once more. “I couldn’t be happier. And you?” she asked them both. “You’re happy? Really and truly? I mean, not just about the baby, but . . . really and truly?”

“Ecstatic,” Betty said, her eyes searching for Pat’s. She felt the sheer joy shimmering within them. “But as for this baby,” she said, turning back to Joan, “I’ve not even had a moment of morning sickness this time. Have I, Pat?”

Pat shook his head and, deepening his Irish brogue, said, “No, Joan Hunt, she has not. Glory hallelujah. Glory be.”

February 1956

Savannah, Georgia

Evelyn had tried. She had told Edwin every which way she knew that she could not—would not—date him. In the nearly three years they had been working together, and had occasionally gone fishing together, they had become good friends. But Evelyn wasn’t ready for more. Not yet. And maybe not ever. She’d come a long way since her departure from Chicago and George; she didn’t want to take three steps backward when she’d barely made two forward.

Yet, here she was, holding the telephone to her ear, listening to Ed tell her about the high school sweetheart dance they’d been asked to chaperone. “I got the call from Dr. Forrest not five minutes ago. You’ve made such an impression on the board of
education, Evelyn. Especially now that you’re working within the school system.”