The Bridegrooms: A Novel

by Allison K. Pittman

  “Dear Lord,” he said in his usual, whispery voice, “we thank Thee for the food we are about to eat. May it nourish us to better serve Thee…”

  Vada’s mind drifted from the words of the familiar blessing. She heard Lisette’s waltzing footsteps above her head as the girl readied herself for an evening of gaiety and dancing. During her father’s deep, thoughtful pauses, Vada caught bits and pieces of her sister’s breathy voice singing a popular tune. She closed her eyes tighter and tried to hear the words. Something about gliding across the floor with a beautiful girl while the band played on.

  Much as he loved music, Garrison had never been much of a dancer, and for the briefest moment, Vada’s mind pictured a swirling room while she looked up into the eyes of a flirtatious journalist.

  She shook her head, hoping to dispel the image, but there it stayed until a quick pinch of her fingers brought her back to her senses.

  Hazel took her hand away, and the only sound to follow Doc’s “Amen” was the intermittent clicking of forks against plates. Still, it was enough to overpower the music upstairs.

  Vada dug into the haphazard conglomeration and put a forkful in her mouth. For just a moment, she tasted the phantom flavor of ice cream sodas and birthday cake. But the more she chewed, the more she tasted the undercooked potato, the leftover fish, and the flavorless peas.

  No use longing for what she couldn’t have. She’d had her days of dancing in parlors, and now she had Garrison. Once again, though the prayer was long over, Vada closed her eyes and swallowed.

  SUNDAY

  A PRELUDE TO A DAY OF REST

  4

  Up on the third floor, a flurry of ribbons and stockings were traded from room to room. Stairs bore the constant clattering of footsteps as the sisters tore up and down to the kitchen where the iron was heating on the stove. Arguments erupted as to what hat belonged to whom. Indeed, the dignity of the Lord’s day seemed tremulous in the hands of four young women wielding curling tongs. They yanked each other’s corset strings, stole each other’s shoe hooks, yet somehow managed to stumble out the door and down the front steps looking lovely while clutching dainty Bibles in lace-gloved hands.

  This Sunday, like most Sundays, Dr. Allenhouse remained behind a closed bedroom door throughout the ordeal. Vada knocked twice and said, “See you at church, Doc?” before rushing to join her sisters on the sidewalk. Vada and Hazel took the lead, with Althea and Lisette quietly following.

  “You got in awfully late last night.” Vada declined to turn her head to address her youngest sister.

  “Just…past…twelve.” Lisette barely got the words out around the yawn.

  “Did you have a good time?” Hazel asked.

  “Oh, the best!” Lisette regaled them with tales from the party—a small band playing on the lawn, punch chilled with frozen fruit in cut-glass bowls, and a veritable fashion show as some of the more affluent girls modeled the latest styles.

  “Honestly, Vada,” Lisette poked her head between the two older sisters, “you’ve got to be the last woman in America wearing mutton sleeves.”

  “I can’t afford to buy new clothes just because some magazine tells me mine are out of style.”

  “You could ask Doc for money—”

  “She’s not a child.” Hazel offered Vada a warm nudge with her own voluminous sleeve. “There comes a time when a woman needs to assume responsibility for herself.”

  “At least until she can land a man to take care of her,” Lisette said with a giggle.

  “If she’s waiting on ol’ Garrison, she’ll be wearing mutton sleeves into the next century.”

  Vada stopped, bringing the entire party to a halt, and glared in response to her sister’s mischievous grin. But Lisette’s giggle was infectious, and even Althea was grinning broadly.

  “Well, it could be worse,” Vada said, allowing her own little smile. “We could be wearing hoop skirts.”

  They talked of fashion—rather, Lisette offered a high-spirited tutorial—for the rest of the block. When they turned the final corner on Cleric Street, Garrison was waiting, dressed in a pale green summer suit that drew a snicker from Lisette to punctuate her lesson for the day.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He offered his arm to Vada and led the group across the street to Moravek’s bakery.

  The door to the small shop was open wide, better to accommodate the steady stream of Sunday-morning customers. A dozen small tables were placed up and down the sidewalk in front of the neighboring businesses, all of which were closed for the Lord’s day. Moravek’s would close too, right after the first ringing of the bells at the Methodist church. Until then, the good Christians of Cleveland could stop by for hot coffee and fresh pastries.

  One table was empty, with only two chairs, and Lisette grabbed Althea’s hand and rushed ahead to claim it. While Garrison set about procuring unused seats from other parties, Vada offered to go inside and order their breakfast.

  “Cinnamon buns and coffee?” Moravek’s cinnamon buns came hot from the oven, the sugar melting and drizzling into the folds of the waxed paper folded over the edge.

  “And a pistachio éclair,” Lisette said. “I’m starving.”

  “Make that two.” Hazel opened up her square little pocketbook and produced a dime. At the mournful stare of her youngest sister, she searched around for another one.

  “Althea?” Vada held a waiting hand under her sister’s nose until she’d been given a nickel to pay for her own bun and coffee.

  Inside, the bakery bustled with neighborhood churchgoers in their Sunday best. Vada took a numbered card from the hook by the door. Twenty-seven.

  Mrs. Moravek stood behind the counter, wiped her hands on her flour-dusted apron, and called, “Tventy-three?” just as Garrison walked in.

  “Are we close?”

  Vada showed him the card.

  “Not bad.” He moved a step closer.

  When Mrs. Moravek called, “Tventy-four?” the gentleman holding that number bustled past them, knocking Vada straight into Garrison’s buttoned-up vest. She caught a whiff of his shaving soap—a hint of mint permeating through the dense odor of fresh sweet bread.

  “You smell good,” she said, emboldened by the noise and the press of the crowd.

  “It’s new.” A flush of pink crept up from his collar. “Twenty-five cents a bar.”

  “Oh, my.” She leaned closer and batted her eyes. “A man with intelligence and a sense of luxury. What an irresistible combination.”

  He laughed—a quiet sound she might have missed entirely if not for the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

  “Do you remember when we first met?”

  His eyes circled around the room and came back to her. “Of course I do, darling. It was right in here. A year ago. Well”—he looked up, calculating—“sixteen months.”

  “You were the saddest thing with a plain cake donut and tea.”

  “I was just out of school. That donut was a luxury.”

  “And what did you think?” Vada said.

  “Aside from wondering how such a tiny woman could eat so many pastries?” He took both her hands in his. “I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

  Suddenly, despite the enticing aroma all around them, there didn’t seem to be any room inside her for a cinnamon roll. Her stomach squeezed tight and her heart turned the same fluttering spin it had the first time she saw him.

  She gave a flirtatious glance from side to side and ran a finger along the pale green lapel of his suit. “What would people say if you were to kiss me right here in the middle of Moravek’s bakery?”

  “Tventy-seven?”

  “That’s you.” He squeezed her hands and brought them to his lips to give her fingers a quick kiss.

  “Tventy-seven!”

  “That’s me.” Vada pulled herself away and went to the counter and rattled off her order to Mrs. Moravek. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she asked Garrison over her shoulder.

&
nbsp; “I had a poached egg and toast with Mrs. Paulie,” he said, all earlier traces of romantic abandon gone. “You know breakfast comes with the rent.”

  “I just thought you might like something…sweet.”

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  Vada gave up, turned around, and gave the handful of coins to Mrs. Moravek.

  The next minute Garrison was carrying a tray laden with sturdy white mugs of steaming coffee while Vada followed with a white sack of warm pastries. The crowd parted for them, and they made their way through the open door to the crowded table outside where Lisette was in the middle of an animated story about the previous night’s party.

  “So this woman was dressed like a gypsy with a patchwork skirt and an enormous black lace shawl. She had a scarf on her head and gold hoop earrings, rings on every finger—”

  “We know what a gypsy looks like,” Hazel said, rifling through the bag for her éclair. “Get on with it.”

  “Well.” Lisette took one of the mugs off the tray and took a tentative sip before continuing. “It was late in the evening and we all gathered in the parlor. Mary turned down all the lights save for a single candle and then, when we were all completely silent, this woman speaks.”

  Lisette set the mug on the crowded table and assumed the posture of a gypsy fortune-teller with a low-timbered voice to match. “‘Leesten to mee…’” She waved her invisibly-jeweled hands. “‘I see great joy coming very soooon for all of the young gentlemen in the roooom, and the ladieeees as well. I seeee a train coming into the station, and on it are men. Many men. Soooon the town will be overrun with Bridegrooooms.’”

  “Lisette, please.” Vada ripped a warm chunk off her cinnamon roll. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Lisette wrinkled her nose and dropped the act. “Then she reached into this old velvet bag and said she had a gift for all of us.”

  “Like a party favor?” Hazel spoke through a mouthful of éclair.

  “Exactly. We each got a ticket to tomorrow’s baseball game.” Lisette paused, obviously waiting for a response, but when the table remained silent, she huffed and continued. “Tomorrow. Cleveland’s playing Brooklyn. You know, the Bridegrooms.”

  Vada swallowed. “But you hate baseball. You’ve never gone to a game in your life.”

  “I know,” Lisette said. “But we’re all going. The whole party. And we’ll sit together and drink ginger ale, and I figure I’ll have to be next to some boy so he can explain the whole thing to me—”

  “But you have school.”

  “The game’s not until one. We’ll all skip out a little early—”

  “I can’t even imagine doing such a thing.”

  “Well, of course you can’t, Vada.” Lisette wiped a stray bit of cream away from her mouth with the back of her hand. “It would be ridiculous for a woman your age to go to a baseball game.”

  “My age?”

  Garrison, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed, but Althea and Hazel listened in with thinly veiled amusement.

  “I meant alone.” Lisette took the napkin Althea offered and placed it in her lap. “Now, if Garrison were to take you…”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Hazel piped in. She slapped her hand on the table, causing the cups to clatter and garnering the attention of the people around them—primarily those waiting for an open table. “How ’bout it, Garrison? Are you going to take Vada to the baseball game tomorrow?”

  “Um…no.” He looked just uncomfortable enough to garner a rush of protective sympathy. “I, uh, only have one ticket.”

  This prompted a hoot from Hazel that in turn startled a gentleman behind her so he sloshed coffee onto his exposed shirt-sleeve.

  “So, you go to baseball games?” Vada tried to include Garrison in the images she had of the ruffians in the stands, sloshing beer and getting into fights.

  He sat straighter in his chair. “I do.”

  “But what about work?”

  “I’ll take the afternoon off.”

  “Ah, he has the afternoon off,” Hazel said. “Tomorrow afternoon? Monday afternoon?” Her face contorted to produce such an obvious wink, everybody at the table turned to stare at Vada.

  “Oh, yes.” Vada remembered the luncheon invitation. “About that—”

  Just then the first peal of the church bells made its way through the streets, and the crowd gathered outside the bakery let out a collective disappointed moan. On cue, the Allenhouse girls gulped what they could of the hot coffee, knowing Mr. Moravek would soon be out with his giant tub, grabbing the cups out of customers’ hands.

  “So, what about me?” Lisette said in the midst of the flurry of finishing breakfast and brushing the crumbs off their skirts. “Can I go to the game tomorrow, Vada?”

  Vada and Lisette looked at each other for a moment, both knowing that neither permission nor blessing was necessary. A small sound of a clearing throat made its way through the cacophony, and Vada looked at Althea who, in turn, gave a brief, consenting nod in Lisette’s direction.

  “Oh, I suppose.” Vada sounded more exasperated than she really felt. “Now, you all head on to church. I need to talk with Garrison.”

  She offered her cup—half-full—to Garrison and took Althea’s to finish. The two remained rooted to their seats while all those around them emptied. They sipped quietly, uncomfortably, until Mr. Moravek, with his stained shirt and enormous mustache, came around saying, “Get up now. Go!”

  Still, they lingered behind the last of the stragglers, and even then they walked much slower than their usual, purposeful pace.

  Garrison was the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t take you to the game.”

  “I don’t care about that.” Vada looped her hand through his arm.

  “If I thought you really wanted to go—”

  “I don’t.” Vada tucked herself closer. “But I do need to ask a favor of you.”

  The church was just a block away, every step of the journey a familiar one. As they passed the neighborhood sights, Vada told him the whole story of Hazel’s letter-exchanging exploits, and if he was shocked at her behavior, he had the good grace to hide it.

  “So I need you to accompany us to lunch tomorrow,” Vada said, summarizing the tale.

  “At the Hollenden Hotel?”

  “I know it’s expensive. And I’ve told Hazel she would need to contribute to the bill because it certainly wouldn’t be proper to let a total stranger—”

  They’d arrived at the church steps, and she stopped to return one morning greeting after another as friends and fellow church members passed them on their way to the ornate double doors at the top. Vada kept her face a smiling mask, hiding just how much she hated having this conversation. Hated needing him so much for such a small thing.

  “I just need you to be there,” she said, fighting for control. “For my sister. And for me.”

  “Darling, of course if it means that much to you. I’ll gladly miss an afternoon at the ballpark to be your luncheon escort.” Without a hint of hesitation, he took her in his arms—right there on the church steps.

  She waited for the warmth that had nearly taken over her body at the bakery to fill her, but she remained stiff in his embrace, the brim of her hat keeping her distanced from his shoulder.

  After a moment he placed his hands on her shoulders and stooped to maneuver under that brim to place a warm, lingering kiss on her cheek. When he stood back, she lifted her face.

  “Thank you, Garrison.”

  “I’ll call for you at noon tomorrow. Now, shall we go inside?”

  And like that, it was settled. The unknown made staunchly familiar, as common as the feel of Garrison’s guiding hand at the center of her back.

  MONDAY

  OH, WHAT A DIFFERENCE A LUNCH MAKES

  5

  The maître d’ barricaded the doors of the Hollenden Hotel dining room with the help of an impressive wood podium that stood a good two feet shorter than
he but not quite as wide. His dark hair was plastered into two wings on either side of his round face, and his cheeks fluttered with every garbled breath.

  He paid no attention to Vada, Hazel, and Garrison as they approached through the lobby. Indeed, the gaze he fixed just above their heads seemed to move higher and higher with each step, until the first feature Vada saw close up was the depth of his cavernous nostrils.

  “Do you have a luncheon reservation?” he asked when it was clear they weren’t going away.

  Hazel looked as if she were about to be sick at any moment, so Vada took her hand, ready to turn and flee if her sister desired.

  “Actually,” Garrison said, posturing himself to command the snobbish man’s gaze, “we are due to have lunch with one of your guests.”

  “And which guest would that be?” He opened the enormous leather-bound book on the impressive podium.

  “Alex Triplehorn.” Hazel’s voice was little more than a breath.

  “Mr. Alex Triplehorn,” Garrison said authoritatively, as if he hadn’t heard Hazel at all.

  “Ah yes.” The man produced a smile that involved only one lip. “Allow me to show you to his table. I see, sir, that you have already checked your hat.”

  Garrison’s hand went up to smooth the soft blond tufts. “I, uh, don’t have a hat.”

  “Well, that’s one mystery solved, then, isn’t it?” He slammed the book shut. “I’ll take you myself.”

  Vada pinched her sister’s arm in retaliation for the barely contained snicker before sending Garrison an apologetic smile. The little party followed the broad dark suit through a second set of double doors into the main dining room.

  She’d seen pictures of the Hollenden Hotel before, of course. Every Monday morning the society page ran photographs of Cleveland’s elite gathered to do political and charitable things. But to actually walk in and see the intricate chandeliers glistening in crystal and pearls, the ornate gold-leaf wallpaper playing host to masterful works of art, the sea of tables draped in pure white linen—she had to stop, just for a moment, poised on the threshold to take it all in.