Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin

by Pamela S. Meyers

  Jack came behind her. “It is important. Oscar should have printed your story.”

  At the bottom, she faced him. “Jack, you haven’t even read it.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “True, but I’m sure you’re a good writer.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can forget about buttering me up. The answer is still no.”

  They headed under an arch then passed the spot where the gigantic water slide once stood.

  “So what’s behind these?” Jack pointed with his thumb at three yet-to-be stained doors.

  She stepped over and ran a hand across the raw, smooth wood. “Bathhouses complete with lockers. So much better than before.” She tilted her head. “Don’t you want to take notes?”

  He pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. “Good idea. I’ve been distracted by the view.”

  She turned away from his irresistible smile and continued walking toward where the new docks jutted out from the back of the building, reminding herself that charm was often deceptive.

  “So when did construction actually begin?”

  Meg faced him. Jack held his pencil over his notepad.

  “Shortly after the bond vote passed.” May as well answer and make sure he gets his facts straight. “Men worked twelve-hour days for most months, but the area looked nothing like it does now.”

  He glanced up. “This is good. Go on.”

  “Jack Wallace, surely you can’t mean that after working for a US senator, a little recreational building in Lake Geneva is exciting news? I know we don’t have much action around here, but don’t mock me.” She turned on her heels and marched around the east side of the structure. He was wasting her time.

  Hurried footsteps slapped the pavement behind her.

  “I did read the archives, but hearing the history from you makes it come alive, Meg. And yes, I find it exciting because I love this lake and town and want to see it prosper.”

  She stopped in front of where a pier for small boats was planned and stared at him. “I didn’t agree to a first-name basis.”

  The left corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve been calling me ‘Jack’ for the past half hour.”

  She flushed, scrambling to remember. “I have not.”

  He threw his head back and guffawed. “Yes, you have. Once I thought it was a slip of the tongue, but after the third time, I took it to mean I could call you ‘Meg.’ Away from the office, of course. But the last time, you used both my names together, so maybe that didn’t count.”

  He hadn’t given one hint that she’d called him “Jack,” but somehow between dinner and now, he’d stopped being “Mr. Wallace.” She allowed him a small smile. “It came out so naturally, I never noticed. But I still don’t think you’re going to learn anything new here.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “No more questions. Want to stop somewhere for coffee?”

  She raised a brow. “Where do you think you’ll find a café open on a Sunday?”

  He took her elbow as they meandered under an arch toward the street. “Shows you how long I’ve been living in the big city. There’s always something open there. I owe you a rain check.”

  Somehow she’d gone from being upset to a first-name basis. Now he held her arm as though they were a couple. If she were smart, she’d pull away. But it had been a long time since a man had treated her like a lady. Maybe Mom still had coffee in the pot at home.

  Chapter Seven

  On Monday night, Meg folded her arms against the stiff breeze as she and Helen walked to the Geneva Theatre. “Are you sure your mom will be okay while we go to the picture show? It looked like her legs were giving her more pain than usual.”

  Helen flicked her wrist, her blond waves bouncing. “She was on her feet for three hours with Mrs. Whiting this afternoon. No one’s hair takes as long as hers, and she won’t let anyone but Mom work on her. I offered to stay home, but Mom shooed me away. Said I need some fun in my life.” She picked up the pace. “I can’t wait to see Dick Powell and Ginger Rogers dancing their shoes off.” She twirled with an imaginary partner in the middle of the sidewalk.

  While Helen spun, Meg’s thoughts whirled back to yesterday and her unexpected afternoon with Jack. Since then, she’d tried to see things from his point of view. He said his position at the News-Trib had been arranged and it wasn’t his decision. But his taking the job still didn’t seem fair when he had a position waiting for him in Chicago.

  Helen fell in step beside Meg. “A girl can dream about dancing with someone like Dick Powell, but I’d be satisfied just styling Ginger’s hair.”

  Meg loved her friend’s drive to never give up on her dreams. If Meg had stayed in school, maybe she’d be working for a large paper like The Chicago Tribune or the Beacon, ready to break ground into the reporting pool. They turned the corner, and the flashing marquee came into view. Several people stood in line, including Jack. Meg’s heart quickened.

  “Isn’t that Jack Wallace?”

  Meg stared at Helen. “How do you know what he looks like?”

  “I told you, I was introduced to him at the Utopia Café the other night.” Helen grabbed Meg’s arm and tugged her the last fifty feet. “Hi, Jack. So you like musicals too?”

  Jack turned, and his gaze flicked from Helen to Meg and settled there as a grin took over his face. “Hello, ladies. To be honest, I prefer an old whodunit. But a movie beats sitting at home and listening to the icebox run.”

  Helen laughed. “That sounds better than listening to my mother’s radio programs.”

  A memory of Mom’s comment about well-to-do people being lonely popped into Meg’s thoughts. Would she enjoy rambling around in a mansion alone? Most times, someone else was at home with her. She checked her watch. Jack and Helen’s conversation had moved on to movies they’d seen. She waited for him to end his sentence.

  “Helen, if we’re going to catch the newsreel, we’d better get inside.”

  Jack looked at Meg with a start. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to horn in.” He held up his ticket. “I’m all set here.”

  Helen flashed him one of her playful smiles. Her clear complexion seemed to glow beneath the marquee’s bright lights. “Jack, why don’t you join us?”

  Meg’s eyes widened. She did not want the man sitting next to her in a darkened theater, their arms sharing a narrow piece of wood. Nor did she want her friend sitting next to him. Stunned at her last thought, Meg flushed and scurried over to the ticket booth.

  She shoved her dollar under the window. It was a free world and he could see whomever he wanted, which he probably did anyway. She gathered her change and ticket then turned and caught Jack’s eye. Feeling as if he had read every thought in her head, she looked away.

  Helen stuffed her change into her handbag. “What do you say, Jack? Sit with us?” She clasped the purse shut.

  “I like the balcony, but thanks for asking.” Jack opened the door and waited for the women to enter.

  “If you prefer sitting next to strangers over our scintillating company, so be it.” Helen laughed as Jack headed for the stairs. “That’s one good-looking man.” She turned to Meg. “Here I’m trying to help you out, and you clam up.”

  “Help me how? I’m not looking for romance. And if I were, I wouldn’t look for it at work or with him.”

  “I don’t see why not. Seems to me you and Jack might be destined for something more than coworkers. If you let yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In this small town, you can’t let office protocol block the road to love. The way the man looked at you back there, if I were you, I’d get my claws in him before another gal steals him away and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“he’s gone.”

  Helen made it sound like every single woman in town was after Jack. Even if he wasn’t a big flirt and handsome beyond words, the truth remained. He was lakeshore and ran in a different crowd than the townies. Meg opened the door to the auditorium. “Let’s get insid
e.” Someday Helen would learn that life wasn’t a movie script.

  They found seats on the aisle halfway down. On the screen, black-and-white images of President Roosevelt’s recent inauguration flickered. Meg had wanted to see the newsreel, but her thoughts drifted. Had Jack really looked at her the way Helen said? All she saw was his eyes fixed on Helen. How could he not stare at her friend? The woman was gorgeous. Meg twisted in her seat and studied the balcony, but no face was visible in the dark theater.

  She turned as the newsreel ended and a Popeye cartoon began. Another reason to avoid Jack was that he’d probably overheard her conversation with Lester. Any attention he gave her would likely hold a price she wasn’t willing to pay.

  Since that day, a Bible verse kept popping into her thoughts: “Ye have sinned against the Lord: and be sure your sin will find you out.” The same verse that had convinced her to stop helping Lester. Not only were her actions against God, but despite Mr. Zimmer’s old-fashioned views, he was a nice man and she hated going behind his back. She’d stop for sure after Lester turned in the meeting article and she fulfilled her part of their agreement.

  The movie began, and Meg escaped into a world where women’s career dreams were realized instead of snuffed out by the men around them. All too quickly, the film ended and the lights went up. Blinking, Meg turned and scanned the balcony. A man stood in the aisle with his back to her. It could be him. The build was similar.

  Helen poked her. “For someone who doesn’t care to be involved with the man, you’re sure interested in his whereabouts.” She snickered. “Are we going to get to Franzoni’s before all the booths are taken?”

  “I was just noticing how full the theater is tonight.” Meg stood and started up the aisle.

  “Especially the balcony. Hey, if I worked with a good-looking man like Jack, I’d search for him too. But right now I’m more interested in a chocolate soda.”

  The women managed to snag the last available booth in the packed soda fountain next to the theater. They gave their orders to the waitress then slipped out of their coats.

  “Wasn’t that a marvelous picture?” Helen set her pocketbook on the seat beside her. “There’s my customer, Mrs. Crumple.” She waved at a woman sitting at a nearby table then continued to scan the crowd. “Jack must have gone home to his icebox.”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “I loved the movie. A good picture helps to get one’s mind off her troubles.”

  Helen faced Meg. A frown creased her forehead. “Other than ‘the man,’ what kind of troubles?”

  “I wish you’d stop. My only man trouble is how Mr. Zimmer refuses to consider me for a reporter job. I’ll never be able to break in if I stay around here.”

  “Didn’t you say Jack’s family owns the Chicago Beacon? Maybe he can put in a good word for you.”

  “I doubt his dad would agree to hiring a woman because she’s a friend of his son’s. Especially a woman with no known experience.”

  “Why is it so important you become a reporter now?”

  Meg drew in a breath. “I’ve told you before. I feel it’s my calling in life.”

  The waitress burst upon them with their chocolate sodas. After she left, Meg scooped ice cream and whipped topping onto her spoon. She closed her mouth around the concoction, enjoying the feel of the carbonated mixture on her tongue.

  “Come on, Meg. Out with it.”

  Meg tilted her head. “Out with what?”

  “What’s the real reason you want to be a reporter?”

  Meg raised her shoulders and let them drop. “That is the reason, the same way you feel called to be a hairstylist to the stars.”

  Helen flipped a platinum wave away from her face and sipped her drink. She stared off to the side for a moment. “I may have a solution to your problem.”

  Meg’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Helen rested her elbows on the worn tabletop and leaned forward. “It’s obvious that as long as Mr. Zimmer is the boss, you aren’t going to become a reporter in this town. Right?”

  Meg stared into her soda and studied the swirls of whipped cream floating midway in the chocolaty drink. “Right.”

  “Your best chance is to work your way up at a large daily paper. Right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then move to Hollywood with me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Meg gaped at Helen. “You can’t be serious. We’re in the middle of a depression. And what about your mother?”

  A grin split Helen’s face. “Mom is the one encouraging me to give Hollywood a shot. We have a beautician friend who’s interested in coming on board with us. She can take my place. And Mom will be better soon. Until then, what she does lightens the load enough.”

  Meg tilted her head. “Your mom can hardly walk after being on her feet. There’s been times you’ve had to assist her to bed.”

  “Beatrice, our friend, will be living with her. She’ll be fine. Mom says it’s time I chase my dream while I’m young. It’s something she never did herself and she doesn’t want me to have regrets.” Helen waved a hand, almost whacking her glass. “I bet those LA papers have lots of women reporters. Not to mention warm breezes all year, palm trees, and the Pacific at our doorstep.” Her eyes widened. “Maybe we’ll even have an orange tree in our backyard.”

  Meg pushed her glass away and leaned across the table. “Why haven’t you told me about this before? It sounds like you’ve been planning for weeks.”

  “I have, in my head mostly. Beatrice spent the weekend with us. We just decided yesterday.”

  Meg drew in a long breath. In less than an hour she’d gone from expecting to spend her entire life in Lake Geneva stuck in a dead-end job to considering a move to California, of all places. “I don’t know, Helen. If you don’t find a job at a studio, you can always work in a beauty shop, but getting my foot in the door of a large daily may not be so easy.”

  Helen’s eyes twinkled. “I know you’d find something. Maybe you can take want-ads like you do here and work your way up.”

  Meg sat back. Doubt swirled in her chest, but Helen had a point. “Mattie Nordman, who used to proofread for the News-Trib, now works for the Los Angeles Examiner. I could write and ask her how jobs are there.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “Maybe. Her husband was hired to work on the tunnel related to that big dam project on the Colorado River. He died last year on the site. She moved to Los Angeles to be with her mom and sister.”

  Helen’s eyes dulled. “I remember. That was so sad. Good idea to write her.” She slurped up the last of her soda. “Maybe you should pray about it.”

  Meg started. “Since when have I known you to pray about anything?”

  Helen looked away. “I wasn’t suggesting that I pray. You’re the one who is always preaching to me about God’s will and praying over things.” She faced Meg. “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard you say much about God recently.”

  Meg jabbed her straw against the bottom of the glass, willing away the swelling guilt. “That’s because I haven’t said much. God hasn’t been answering my prayers lately.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing you right. You’ve always said sometimes His answers come in ways we don’t expect. Maybe my idea is your answer.” Helen wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Are you game to at least think about it?”

  Meg squirmed. She’d need traveling money, not to mention cash to live on, until she got a job. At the moment, her savings would barely take her past St. Louis. “Not so fast. I can’t move without assurance of a job or money.” She hated the disappointment etched on Helen’s face, but she needed time to process everything.

  Helen wiped her mouth then checked the wall clock. “Do you mind if we call it a night this early? All the talk about Mom and her aching legs makes me want to get home and check on her.”

  Meg tipped her glass and drank the last of the melted concoction, letting the chocolaty flavor linger in her mouth for an extra second. She swallowed and set
the empty glass on the table. “I’m ready.”

  She followed Helen out into the chilly night air. Her friend had to be joshing about moving. If Helen couldn’t be away from her mother more than two hours without checking on her, how would she be able to move anywhere else, let alone California?

  Jack entered his house and tossed the keys onto the kitchen counter. Behind the round oak table, the new gleaming icebox stood like an armed sentry. He stared at the thing. “Hi, icebox. Miss me? Can’t say I missed you.” The machine’s motor kicked on as if to say, “I’m new and sleek and have a new name.” He chuckled. One of these days he’d get used to calling it a refrigerator.

  He wandered through the dining room, where he shed his suit coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then pushed on to the living room and sank onto a sofa. As much as he loved the old house, he hated living here alone. His days passed quickly, but the nights were murder. He loosened his tie and pulled off his sweater vest, tossing it aside. What he needed was some noise. He stood and crossed the room to the radio console and flicked it on.

  “Today in Washington, President Roosevelt—” Jack turned the dial. The tune “I’ve Told Ev’ry Little Star” blasted from the speaker. Satisfied, he returned to the sofa and stretched out his legs.

  His thoughts shifted to that evening’s encounter with the girls. He hated balconies, so why did he say he preferred them? Probably because he hadn’t figured out whether Meg even liked him; she seemed so hot and then cold. The expression on her face when he’d revealed at the dinner table that his father owned the Beacon was enough to sour milk. He’d been working up to apologize during their walk later, but when her mood changed as she raced him up those steps, he refrained. She’d been like Cinderella wanting to go to the ball, peering through the window. He’d be her Prince Charming if she let him, but after tonight’s frosty reception, he doubted she was interested. At least she was calling him Jack. He liked that much better.

  He should have told her he needed to be in Chicago tomorrow, but with his doing interviews away from the office for most of the day, he hadn’t gotten a chance. Maybe after his visit with Dad, life would be a bit easier for her.