She playfully poked a finger at his chest. “I’ll raise them wherever their father is.”
Abe smiled a mischievous crooked smile. “I suppose you’ll want to marry me.”
She’d been content with the implication, never expecting him to say the words. Betty’s temperature spiked; her face heated. Then she rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess so—for the sake of the children.”
Abe kissed her. “Your grandparents aren’t going to approve of these plans. I’m only half-Jewish and I’m getting in the way of your future.”
“You are my future.”
Nothing and no one would change that.
Chapter 12
BOOP
The next day, Hannah drove Boop and the girls to the nail salon before heading home to Kalamazoo. “If I want to work this out with Clark, I have to be honest with him, no matter what,” Hannah said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“I want whatever you want,” Boop said.
Georgia patted Hannah’s shoulder. “Same.”
“Honesty is always the best policy,” Doris said.
Boop sighed as she stepped out of the passenger’s seat and as the girls emerged from the back of the car.
Doris was loving and lovely but sometimes stuck her in-need-of-a-pedicure foot into her mouth.
Boop set Hannah’s quandary to the side of her thoughts, after repeating a short, silent prayer that everything would be easy for her granddaughter going forward—with Clark, the baby, and life.
“You have to stop looking so grouchy,” Doris said. “Your face will freeze that way.”
“I am not grouchy, I’m just concentrating.” Boop forced a smile. She handed Doris a bottle of Ballet Shoes, grabbed Reddy or Not for herself, and chose Over the Taupe for Georgia, who already had her feet soaking.
The girls sat in a row of black faux-leather pedicure chairs at the front of the salon, and one by one, nail techs sat on swivel stools by the footbaths.
Natalie had been doing Boop’s nails every summer since she’d opened the salon five years earlier, and every week since Boop moved to South Haven full-time.
Boop had admired her right from the day she’d wandered in without an appointment, drawn by the Grand Opening sign. Not only had Natalie opened a business on her own, she was a single mother with a nine-year-old daughter. Though Piper spent intermittent time with her father in East Lansing, Boop knew Natalie shouldered most of the parenting alone. She always tipped Natalie well, and these days befriended Piper as much as a now-fourteen-year-old girl would allow.
The salon buzzed with friendly banter and local gossip, just like her beauty parlor had back in Skokie. “It’s busy season again,” Boop said.
“Thank goodness.” Natalie looked up and smiled.
“Remind me what Piper’s doing this summer?” Boop asked. She often heard music floating—or pounding—out of the back room. Her weekly appointments created familiarity without baggage. She knew about Piper’s hobbies and grades, and some of Natalie’s dating escapades.
“She’s spending most of it with her dad, but this week she’s in Chicago with my parents. They love spoiling her, and I needed extra time to work on a new project.”
“That sounds interesting,” Boop said.
“I’ll tell you all about it, but first, let’s see your color.” Natalie lifted the bottle from Boop’s hand. “Red. Nice. I’ll add it to my stash.”
“Your stash?” Doris leaned toward them from her chair.
“Natalie goes to Maplewood Assisted Living every Monday morning and takes along colors I recommend. Isn’t that right? Seems I have a knack.”
“You certainly do.” Natalie smiled broadly, the corners of her mouth puffing her cheeks. She was a pretty young woman—a little more worn and tired-looking than Boop’s granddaughters, with an often-furrowed forehead. Business and motherhood had stolen some of her carefree youth, but Boop imagined they had given her more than they’d taken. She had a daughter.
Natalie’s eyes were round, big, and brown, rimmed with dark liner and mascara on the top and bottom lashes, both artfully applied. Earrings dotted parts of her ears Boop never knew were meant for piercing. Natalie was thirty-five years old, as short as Boop but rounder and softer, yet still shapely, with a bouquet of flowers tattooed on her calf. Boop couldn’t get close enough to see what variety, but they looked like poppies. Natalie and Piper lived in an apartment over the salon.
Boop adored Natalie for her fortitude as much as for the weekly pampering and conversation.
“So, what’s this new project of yours?” Boop asked.
Natalie pulled off her gloves and stood. She reached for a stack of papers on a shelf below the reception desk to her right.
Natalie handed flyers to all the women in the salon. Boop would support Natalie however she could. Then she looked at the paper.
THE SEARCH IS ON FOR THE NEXT
MISS SOUTH HAVEN!
NOW ACCEPTING CONTESTANTS:
WOMEN AGES 18–22
MUST HAVE A CONNECTION TO SOHA
TALENT, DRESS, AND POISE CATEGORIES
REGISTER IN PERSON AT NATALIE’S NAIL SALON
SPONSORED BY THE SOUTH HAVEN CHAMBER OF COMMERCE
With her peripheral vision, Boop saw Georgia and Doris gazing at her. Boop stared at the page as it took on the weight of her past, a single pink sheet of paper, three words laden with memories: Miss South Haven. Boop’s chest thumped hollow and cold, like a wind was blowing through her. She folded the paper and handed it to Natalie, who chattered on, unaware of Boop’s discomfort.
“They’ve always done the Blueberry Princess and the Vacation Queen, but Miss South Haven?” Natalie leaned in as if that would give them privacy. “There hasn’t been a Miss South Haven since 1951. Can you believe it? The records are vague but there was some kind of scandal.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Doris said.
“Just an excuse because someone lost some town records, I’m sure,” Georgia said.
Boop turned to her friends but averted her eyes when she smiled and nodded. Her tongue tasted like tin and felt dry, like she’d stuffed her mouth with cotton.
“I don’t know,” Natalie said, sounding self-assured, even argumentative. “At the chamber meeting they all seemed convinced that something had happened to the winner and the sponsor dropped out. But if there was some kind of town moratorium on the title, it’s over.”
“Says who?” Boop hadn’t meant to challenge her, but she wanted to know.
“Says me.” Natalie sat straight, stretching upright from her hunched pedi position. “I thought a pageant would be a way to boost business this summer, which I really need to do this year. I asked why there was no Miss South Haven and no one knew anything concrete. So, Miss South Haven it is. Seems like a no-brainer.”
“The town has done fine without it,” Boop said.
“Maybe, but it could be just the thing I need.”
“How so?” Doris asked.
Natalie glanced around. “Business is great in the summer but really falls off during the rest of the year. I need it to pick up before Labor Day to make up for the slower months.”
“And doing nails for a few girls will make a difference?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, but it’s more than that,” Natalie said. “My name will be on every flyer, every poster, every program, every ad. I couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity.”
Boop wished she could argue that Natalie was wrong.
“And now I’m curious too,” Natalie said. “What could have been so horrible that they wiped a whole pageant out of South Haven’s history?” Natalie led Boop from the pedicure chair to her manicure station. “You and your friends grew up here—do you know anything about what happened?”
Georgia had followed and sat at the station next to Boop. “That was a long time ago. But if anything comes to mind, we’ll let you know.”
“It doesn’t really matter.” Natalie examined Boop’s fingernails as if ther
e were an answer hidden beneath. “It’s water under the bridge.”
Her voice faded into distant, muffled hums.
Boop was drowning.
The cab ride home was quiet until Boop sniffled.
“Are you okay?” Georgia asked.
Boop shrugged. She felt jostled and bruised, as if her memories had roughed her up instead of having appeared in type on a piece of pink paper. “I’m sorry this is how your visit is turning out. We were supposed to have fun like we did when we were girls.”
Doris chuckled. “That would kill us.”
Boop smiled. “You know what I mean. We’re caught up in Hannah’s drama and in my past.”
“When did we have the most fun back in the day?” Georgia asked. “When we holed up in your bedroom and talked. About school, about boys, about clothes, about our parents.”
“We’re together. That’s the important thing,” Doris said.
“I know,” Boop said. “But you came back at the same time, after so long, and that’s when all heck breaks loose in my life? It’s like the universe conspired against me.”
Doris leaned her head back and chuckled. “You don’t think the timing is a coincidence, do you? The universe didn’t conspire against you. No sirree. The universe armed you.”
Back home, Boop excused herself to her bedroom. She flipped the brass hook into its eye on the doorjamb, though the hardware served more as a delay than a blockade. Anyone who was to turn the doorknob and push would encounter only slight resistance, which was fine with her. There was a precarious nature to living alone. Boop was independent, but not foolhardy. If there was an emergency, someone could get inside to save her.
Talking about Abe with Hannah and the girls was one thing. She could temper the story, omit details, paint it pretty. But who could protect her from her recollections of the long-ago Miss South Haven pageant that served as her life’s turning point?
She’d never been glad Marvin was gone, but now, God help her, she was relieved he wasn’t there to hear about the new pageant. During the first years of their marriage, any reference to a beauty pageant had set him to sulking, as if he had needed to remind Boop of the past without mentioning it. Later, the televised Miss America and Miss Universe contests were discouraged in their home, and Marvin had always harrumphed and snorted at the idea that a girl would want to do such a thing. He knew she had been such a girl, but Boop kept her promise and had never mentioned how she’d longed for the title of Miss South Haven throughout her girlhood. After all, Marvin had been a kind husband, and she found no reason to upset him, even when he involved himself in every part of her life—except for her outings to South Haven.
He’d chosen her clothes from Marshall Field’s on State Street and preferred Boop cook meat loaf on Tuesdays, tuna casserole on Wednesdays, and roast chicken for Shabbos. Those were his favorite meals. But, in Marvin’s defense, he had always complimented her cooking and her appearance, so Boop didn’t see the harm in any of it. Marvin had encouraged Boop’s leisure time activities like bridge and canasta with bellowing enthusiasm, neighborhood boasting, and gifts such as the best bridge table and chairs he could buy. He’d provided a hardy fund with which she could buy the latest cookbook or even cater a gathering of her friends, who were envious of her good fortune in landing a husband who was generous and stable.
She was a lucky girl.
Boop had never forgotten Nannie’s words.
The trade-off for Boop was that Marvin had never balked at the summers she spent in South Haven with Stuart, or the weekends she escaped the suburban turmoil or trials of motherhood on her own, handing Stuart off to her mother-in-law on occasion.
She never said she wanted to go, but that she needed to go. This had always quieted what she sensed was a bubbling objection.
Marvin had never known that, on their wedding day, Boop had stood outside Zaide’s office, dressed in her finery. She’d overheard Marvin and Zaide discussing something—or rather, someone. Her!
“She’ll be a proper wife and mother, but she must be able to come here whenever she wants.” Zaide’s voice was deep but soft. Of her two grandparents, he wasn’t the serious one, but her welfare was serious business, even when she’d disappointed him. Then she’d heard the slap she’d imagined was the handshake that had sealed her fate.
“Yes, sir,” Marvin had said, sounding resolute and like a man. A husband.
“After the wedding I’ll talk to your father about that promotion he promised you. Maybe I can help to speed things along. And Yetta and I will help out with the house. Make sure it’s what Betty will like, where she can feel at home. All you have to do is keep your end of the bargain. All your ends.”
In that moment, and in the wedding that followed, Boop had set aside the detail that her marriage was not just her agreement with Marvin but a transaction between him and her grandparents. She’d turned and headed toward the kitchen, pivoted, and then walked past the office again, feigning ignorance as Zaide opened the door, none the wiser that his granddaughter knew he had built her an escape hatch from her suburban bungalow.
Someone tapped on her bedroom door. Boop didn’t want to talk about the memories that had stirred because of one measly flyer. It’s not like she had anything to do with the pageant now. She could avoid the topic at home and at the nail salon. Heck, she’d been evading the topic for almost seventy years.
She opened the door.
“We should talk,” Georgia said. She and Doris stepped inside.
They sat on Boop’s bed. Their younger selves would have plopped and bounced and waited for tales of a date or a dance. Tonight, they sat gingerly. Doris wrung her hands.
“I didn’t realize Marvin didn’t let you talk about the pageant,” she said.
Boop widened her eyes at Georgia.
“What?” Georgia asked. “Doris wanted to know why you were so flustered by the new pageant when Natalie mentioned it. I told her that Marvin forbade you to talk about it.”
“He didn’t forbid me. I agreed not to mention it because it bothered him. We focused on what happened after that day, not before,” Boop said.
“But it was so important to you,” Doris said. “Didn’t that make it important to him?”
“He didn’t want to be reminded of when we weren’t together, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize. I thought you were so happy it just didn’t matter anymore and that’s why you didn’t mention it. You’d won a better prize! You got married!”
Doris had a knack for forgetting unpleasant details.
“It was the right thing to do at the time,” Georgia said. “But I guess times change.”
“How about if I set out lunch on the porch?” Doris stood and walked toward the bedroom door. “And whatever you want to talk about is okay with us.”
Georgia stayed seated on the bed.
“Thanks, that all sounds great,” Boop said.
After Doris left the bedroom, Boop waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs faded to a patter across the wood floor and then disappeared. She turned to Georgia.
“He didn’t make me do anything,” Boop said. “I agreed to be quiet. But Marvin’s gone. Maybe it’s time my family knew the whole story.”
“After all this time, you’re going to go against his wishes?”
“I’m tired of hiding a part of my life. That day of the pageant made me who I am—or at least who I was. It shaped my marriage. It’s part of me, even now. God forbid I die tomorrow: Shouldn’t my family know the whole truth, or at least as much as I know?”
“I always thought it was better for you to forget about it all, but that’s the point, isn’t it? You’ve never forgotten.”
“No, I haven’t.” Boop wouldn’t discount her life with Marvin, but it was time to acknowledge she had been someone before she’d become Boop Peck. She had been Betty Stern—a smart and sassy girl. A bathing beauty.
“It’s not just your family, you know. Your manicurist is mig
hty curious about the last Miss South Haven. I don’t think she’ll stop digging until she finds answers,” Georgia said.
“She’s going to be too busy organizing the pageant and wrangling all those contestants to worry about what happened in the past.”
That night Boop found her tackle box right where she’d left it, sloppily stowed where anyone could have found it, had they been looking. She removed the box again, and like her heart, it felt too small to hold everything inside, so she set it on the bed in case it burst.
Her nightgown buttoned to her neck and fleece slippers on her feet even though it was June, Boop lost her resolve to open the box and backed away. Was it really time to unlatch the past? To touch it instead of just talk about it? She’d always considered herself brave, but when the act of bravery included baring her heart, she hesitated. Boop skittered around the bedroom, rearranging empty, decorative perfume bottles on her dresser top, grazing her hand along the top of the rocking chair that had belonged to a great-grandmother she’d never met. She fluffed the sheer curtains, and faint particles scattered into the air like fairy dust. The sky was blue and black and speckled with stars, reminding her of a navy Swiss dot pinafore she’d worn as a girl, back when her future was open, her possibilities endless.
Boop looked at the box and imagined the world it represented. Was she the only one who held these memories dear? Had Abe told anyone about their summer, about her?
Boop scoffed at her own vanity.
If Abe still had all of his faculties as he aged, he wouldn’t be thinking about the girl from South Haven. She gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. She’d never thought of him aging. She’d always pictured him young and handsome, that dimple in his chin peeking out when he smiled. If he was alive, he’d be pushing ninety.
If.
“Dear God, I hope Abe was always surrounded by people who loved him. And that he didn’t suffer in his life.” Boop knew the odds. “Or in death. Amen.”
Boop heard a tap on the door. She unlocked and opened the door.
It was Georgia. “Doris is out for the count. Are you doing okay?”
The Last Bathing Beauty Page 13