by Janette Oke
“I’m sure. Absolutely sure.”
Christine’s heart was thumping. She could not believe it. Boyd Kingsley-the Boyd Kingsley, every girl’s dream—was actually asking her to marry him.
Suddenly she looked at him from beneath her long eyelashes and whispered, “What are the magic words?”
He seemed taken aback. “I already said please. Please, will you marry me?”
She shook her head. “No, the other magic words.”
He leaned forward until his lips were almost brushing her cheek. “I love you. Really. I love you.” He understood.
She took a deep breath and leaned her forehead against his chin. “In that case,” she said, her heart singing, “the answer is yes.
Elizabeth was glad she was able to sit down at the table when Christine’s call came.
“Oh, Mother,” she exclaimed when Elizabeth answered the phone, “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Guess what?” she sang over the wires. “I’m engaged.”
“But ... we don’t even know him,” Elizabeth protested, trying to keep her dismay out of her voice.
“He’s wonderful. You’ll love him.”
It took Elizabeth a few moments to get her breath back. In the meantime Christine hurried on over her mother’s silence. “He took me to this wonderful restaurant, and we had the most magnificent meal. And my diamond! You should see it, Mother. It’s huge. All the girls are envious. And he isn’t going back to school. He’s going to stay right here and work for his father. We’ll—”
“Slow down—please. You are going much too fast for me,” Elizabeth finally was able to interject.
Christine laughed, sounding giddy with excitement.
They did eventually manage to have a two-way conversation. But even so, as Elizabeth hung up the receiver she felt shaken. She could not stand around waiting for Wynn to arrive home. She grabbed her coat, pushed the waiting meal to the back of the stove, and went to meet him.
He looked surprised when he saw her coming toward him. “This is a nice treat,” he said and reached out to take her hand.
Highly agitated, she poured out the entire exchange with Christine as they walked home together.
“I’m sure he’s a fine young man,” he said consolingly.
“We don’t even know him. And she’s so young. Only eighteen.”
“Lots of girls are married at eighteen. Besides—they might plan on a long engagement.”
. “Oh ... I certainly hope so. Well, I don’t know...” Her uncertainty and distress about the whole situation made her chest hurt and her head ache.
“Why don’t we see if they can make a trip here?” Wynn suggested, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I already tried that. Christine says they can’t right now. He’ll be busy learning his father’s business. I asked about Easter. She said he had already made some plans.”
“We’ll work out something,” Wynn said thoughtfully.
They were almost home when he turned to her. “What if you go visit them? You haven’t been on a trip for an age.”
She brightened, then sobered again. “Christine might think I’m checking on her.”
“Well... ?” He laughed.
She gave his hand a playful tug. Then, turning serious, she said, “I don’t want to alienate her.”
“I don’t see what could be more natural than for a mother to visit her daughter who’s planning a wedding. Don’t you have lots of things to discuss?”
Elizabeth nodded. It was true. Surely she would be expected to have a part in the arrangements.
“I’ll call her,” she said, her heart and step lighter.
Christine felt she was floating somewhere above solid ground. l’m engaged. To a wonderfulhandsome, most desirable young man. They soon would be making their wedding plans. Her mother was coming to share her joy. Life could be no better.
She glowed throughout the day, and when it came time to leave the office, she ignored the chill wind and the stinging snow and walked home with warmth in her heart.
Boyd called for her. It was the first she had seen him since he had dropped her off after their engagement dinner. The first time since they were engaged.
Engaged. The word rang in Christine’s ears. There was something so magical about it. So belonging. They were no longer just an item. They were a couple.
“One of these days,” said Boyd as he ushered her down the walk toward the waiting car, “I’m going to lead you away from Old Sourpuss and not bring you back.”
She was able to laugh.
“And the sooner the better,” he went on. “I hate these childish curfews. You’d think you were in grade school.”
He helped her into the auto and slammed her door.
“So ... what are we doing tonight?” she asked, sliding across the seat and up next to him. He shifted gears, then reached for her hand.
“Well ... I thought we should plan us a wedding.” He grinned.
“My mother is coming,” she enthused. “I phoned her and she phoned back to say she’s coming to the city. She’s excited about helping me find a dress—and all that.”
He said nothing, but he squeezed her hand.
“What kind of a wedding do you want? Big? Little? Private?” she asked.
“Private? Never. I want to show you off. The bigger the better. Let’s make it one grand party.”
“I’ll want a church wedding,” she commented, watching to see how he would respond.
“Have your church wedding. I’ve no objection. I’ve always pictured myself standing up there by that—what do you call that big piece of furniture in the front?—waiting for my blushing bride to come sweeping down the aisle in that long train thing. Sure—have a church wedding. Just as long as they don’t preach at us or put our name on their list or something.”
“What list?”
“I don’t know. Heard that all churches have a list so they know who to ding for money when they need it.”
She shook her head. “Who told you that? That’s silly.”
“Well, I don’t want my name on any list.”
She looked at him and frowned, wondering if he was serious. She could tell that he was.
“No list,” she said quietly.
He took her to his home, and they spent the evening before the open fire discussing plans for their future together. Mr. Kingsley was conspicuously absent. The fact that she was going to be married still seemed like a dream to Christine. Time slipped away too quickly, and she scrambled up when she saw the mantel clock.
“We’ve got to hurry, or I’ll never make it back in time,” she groaned.
“This is absolutely ridiculous.” He stood to his feet, grabbing a nearby cushion as he did. He flung the pillow with all his might, straight at the fire. Christine’s breath caught in her throat. The flames quickly caught one corner. He turned his back on it, and Christine rushed forward. It was too late to save the pillow. She grabbed the poker and struggled instead to get the burning mass into the fireplace, where it could cause no harm to anything else. Acrid smoke began to fill the room.
By the time she turned back, he had snatched his coat from the hall closet and was stomping from the room. Christine took one more look at the fire to assure herself it was safe to leave, then followed him.
“That was dangerous,” she said after they had ridden for many minutes in a silent car.
“This is ridiculous.” His face was still contorted with anger. He made no excuse for his behavior. “How are we ever to plan a wedding when you have to be back to your room at such a ridiculous hour? The day is just getting started. Even Cinderella was given until midnight.”
“Cinderella was a fairy tale,” Christine reminded him.
“Well—this is no fairy tale, I grant you that. Though we do have us a wicked witch.”
“Are you referring to Mrs. Green—or me?” asked Christine, turning toward him.
He pulled the car over to the curb and reached for her. “Hey,” he said, reaching b
oth hands to her hair. His anger had dissolved as quickly as it had begun.
His fingers loosened the pins, letting it spill about her shoulders. “You’re no witch. You know how I feel about you. It gets harder and harder to let you go. Don’t you know that?” He pulled her toward him, one hand on each side of her head and kissed the tip of her nose. “I hate it when your Mrs. Green takes you away from me.”
His words—his manner—were so tender, so sweet, that they tore at Christine’s heart.
“I really do need to go,” she whispered. “It won’t be long until we ... we won’t need to be apart. Not ever.”
She reached for the handle of the door, but he stopped her.
“Not yet. I can’t let you go yet.”
“But she will lock the—”
Her words were hushed by his kiss.
At last she pulled away, and he reluctantly let her go. Silently he walked her to the door. But she knew even before she tried the knob. She was too late. It was locked.
Without a word he turned her around and headed her back toward the car. “Good thing we’ve got all those extra bedrooms,” he said, sounding neither surprised nor repentant. Had he delayed her on purpose? But she put the thought from her mind.
CHAPTER Sixteen
Christine had never felt as embarrassed, as humiliated, as she did the next morning when she returned to the boardinghouse to dress for another day of work.
She knew many eyes followed her as she passed the dining area where her fellow boarders were having their breakfast. She tried to ignore them, but her cheeks flamed in spite of her effort to appear composed.
Back in the privacy of her own room, she changed her dress quickly. Mr. Kingsley, who always arrived at the office long before anyone else, was waiting in the car outside, reading the morning paper and drinking a cup of coffee he had picked up at a corner shop. Boyd, Christine assumed, was still sleeping.
Christine didn’t feel prepared to face a new day. Boyd had insisted on talking late into the evening. Christine had not entered the unfamiliar bedroom until some time after midnight. She had felt jumpy and confused—and a bit annoyed. She could not close the door on the impression that Boyd had deliberately held her back so this would happen.
She of course had not had a nightgown or toothbrush. Not even a brush for her hair. She felt so ... so stranded, so coerced into something not of her choice. So manipulated into difficult circumstances. And he had expected her to be sweet, compliant, eager to discuss wedding plans. The rest of the evening had been very difficult.
Now he was sleeping in while she scrambled to get herself in some kind of order for a day at the typewriter. And she’d had no breakfast. Not even a cup of coffee as her boss now enjoyed. Her stomach grumbled as she pictured those around the table, eating heartily of Mrs. Green’s morning porridge and toast with marmalade.
She would never be late again, she determined. Never.
Her hair did not go right, and after struggling with it she gave up and tied it back with a ribbon.
She had just stepped through her door and pulled it firmly shut behind her when she found herself face-to-face with Mrs. Green.
“Miss Delaney.”
Christine nodded.
The elderly woman looked more sad than stern. “I have reason to think you didn’t use your room last night.”
Christine flushed but nodded.
“I ... I was ... detained,” she stammered. “By the time I ... the door was already locked. I ... I stayed at a friend’s house. They have extra—”
“Your father entrusted you into my care.”
Christine nodded. “It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry.”
Mrs. Green’s face had not relaxed. Somehow she looked older—drawn.
“I hope not. For if it does, I will be forced to ask you to find accommodation elsewhere, and I will notify your father accordingly. I will not take responsibility for that which I cannot control.”
“I understand,” said Christine in little more than a whisper., “I’m sorry to have troubled you.” She felt sick inside.
The woman turned and headed back toward the kitchen, and Christine, with flushed cheeks but determined steps, made her way back past the dining room. Christine did not so much as glance in their direction or give the group her usual good-morning greeting.
Mr. Kingsley had finished his paper and his coffee and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Christine slipped in beside him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled another apology, wrapping her unbuttoned coat more closely about her body.
Mr. Kingsley did not speak for a moment. When he did, his meaning was totally obscure to Christine. “In the future I think we’ll need to make some other arrangements,” he said. “No need for you to be going into the office at this time of the day.” He put the car in motion.
Christine had no idea what the man was referring to. “I’ll just take the streetcar—as I always have,” she replied.
“That won’t work. You’d have to leave even earlier than this to get to work on time. Requires about three transfers. You’d see the entire city before you got to the office.”
She still was not following him. “I don’t do a transfer at all,” she explained. “It goes straight along the street from the boardinghouse to the office. That was one reason my father chose—”
“I’m talking about now,” he said, looking across at her. “Not what was—but how it’ll be with you at our house.”
Christine blinked. He assumed she had finally accepted his offer—was planning to stay from now on. Quickly she corrected his impression. “Oh—I haven’t moved in. I was just too late for the door last night. But I’ve no intention—”
He looked surprised. “Boyd said—”
“No,” said Christine insistently, shaking her head. “Boyd must have misunderstood.”
“He plans to go over after work today to gather all your things. He asked me if you could get off work early so you could pack up.”
“We never even discussed it,” said Christine, and suddenly she felt hurt and angry. Why would Boyd make such plans knowing how she felt?
“He plans to phone that—whatever her name is—your landlady today to tell her—”
“He can’t,” cut in Christine, feeling sudden panic.
Mr. Kingsley was scratching his head under the brim of his hat, making it wriggle in a cartoonish fashion. Christine wished he would put both hands back on the wheel. The slippery streets made her nervous.
“I just spoke with Mrs. Green,” she told him firmly. “I have no intention of moving out.”
He turned his head again and looked at her, making her more nervous. “Well—I’ve no idea how things got so balled up. Seems to me it would make a good deal more sense to do it Boyd’s way. You’ll be married in a few months. What difference—?”
“There’s lots of difference,” Christine argued, her cheeks feeling hot with frustration and anger. “We aren’t married now. My folks would be very disappointed if I left the place my father had found for me.”
“Seems a little old-fashioned.”
“Perhaps proper conduct always is,” Christine dared to say.
They pulled into the parking lot, and Christine was glad the ride was over. Now she had to get in touch with Mrs. Green before Boyd did. She could have called Boyd before he made the call, but he was not up. Mr. Kingsley had joked about how soundly the boy slept. He would never hear the phone. But when he did get up, whatever time of the day that might be, he likely would be going through with his plan.
With shaking hand Christine rang the operator and gave her the number. Mrs. Green was soon on the other en’d of the line.
“This is Christine Delaney. I ... I understand ...” How in the world could she phrase this? It sounded ugly even to her own ears. “There’s been a ... a misunderstanding. My ... my fiancé is ... is thinking that I ... that I am planning to leave your boardinghouse to live elsewhere. I’ve no intention of moving. None whatever. S
o if he should call, would you please just tell him that I will speak to him about the matter?”
Christine found it hard to settle down to her work. Her whirling thoughts on top of an empty stomach made it difficult to concentrate. Miss Stout was the first to push open the heavy door, and she looked surprised to see Christine already at her desk.
Christine had finished all her work the day before, and as no one was in to assign her new tasks—except for Mr. Kingsley, who had not called for her nor appeared at his door since it had shut behind him—she had nothing in particular with which to busy herself. She simply shuffled papers, pretending to read.
Now she greeted Miss Stout with a forced smile.
Mr. Peterson, next to arrive, came in, stamped his feet loudly, shook the snow from his hat onto the carpet-bringing a frown from Miss Stout—and announced in his raspy voice, “Snowing again.”
The next two men came in together, already in deep conversation about a business account, and did not even bother to give Miss Stout a nod of acknowledgment. Her lips pursed as she looked at their retreating backs.
Christine eventually felt herself relax. Soon they could get on with their day. The other office girls would be arriving, the rhythm of their keyboards filling the uncomfortable silence of the room. Things would feel so much better when they all fell back into the usual routine.
Boyd was waiting for her when she left the office. He did not look to be in good humor, and Christine felt her stomach tighten.
He said nothing, just opened the door on the passenger side, then with a stoneface climbed in and started the engine.
They had driven for several blocks in total silence when Christine said, “We need to talk.”
He did not look at her but answered stiffly with, “You’re right. We need to talk.”
He was not heading to her boardinghouse. Nor was he taking the street that led to his home. Christine had no idea where he was going. She was hesitant to ask.
He pulled into an empty area on the brow of a hill overlooking the river and switched off the engine.