The Bridegrooms: A Novel

by Allison K. Pittman

  Evil girl.

  At once, the rows of swirled cinnamon had lost all their appeal. “Nothing, thank you. I just needed you to read the note.”

  “Next time, then? And you bring dat nice young man with you.”

  “Of course.” She forced a smile and turned to see an elderly woman standing impatiently behind her. Funny, she hadn’t heard the bell ring.

  Outside, LaFortune was at her elbow the minute she stepped onto the sidewalk. “And did you find out what you want?”

  “Yes.” She stared at the ground, nearly choking on the word.

  “Hey,” he said, making a show of searching around her. “Where my treat?”

  She dropped the dime, warm from her hand, into his outstretched palm. “Go on in and buy your own. I didn’t know what you wanted. And here”—she opened the clasp on her little purse and found the two buttons—“take these.” She pressed them against the ten-cent piece and closed his fingers around them. “Now you have no reason to speak to me again.”

  If he protested, the sound was lost in the ringing bell of the bakery door. And it never occurred to Vada to look back.

  12

  Vada didn’t go straight home, harboring some irrational fear that LaFortune might follow. Instead she made her way around the block, weaving in and out of people, stepping in and out of shops, hoping to lose herself in the crowd.

  She found her feet following the familiar path to church. The distinct sound of laughter and rejoicing called her attention, causing her to slow her steps, then stop altogether at the sight that came out from behind the building.

  First came a little girl, her hair a mass of thick sausagelike curls that flew behind her as she ran. She had an enormous pink bow on top of her head, and she wore a dress of pure white silk with a matching pink sash.

  Behind her came a little boy, not nearly as elated as the girl. He wore a little sailor suit fashioned of pale blue silk with a wide white collar. He trailed his steps, dragging one foot behind the other, causing the little girl to turn back and run circles around him, as if herding him to the front steps of the church.

  Vada laughed at the sight. Here, then, is the picture of marriage in miniature. She made a note to remind herself to share this with Hazel when she got home and was about to leave when the rest of the party came around the corner and took her breath away.

  Half-a-dozen older girls—young women, really—walked as one ruffled, feathered mass, their dresses identical sweeping things with pale striped skirts and lavender bodices. They carried bouquets of purple lilies and wore hats made of purple straw festooned with long curling feathers. And in the midst of them, the bride, her arms encased in close-fitting white silk, flounced broad at the shoulder. Her skirt smooth, pure white silk, trimmed in white silk roses. The thin veil hid her face, but nothing could disguise the face of her father. He appeared set in stone as he looped his black jacketed arm through his daughter’s.

  Vada allowed herself a luxurious moment to imagine her face behind the veil, looking out at the world through yards and yards of delicate lace. She could picture her father beside her, Hazel, Althea, and Lisette trailing behind. And she longed to believe that Garrison would be behind the church door, waiting at the top of the aisle. More than that, she wanted Garrison to imagine the same thing. To want the same thing.

  She looked closer, trying to make out just who was getting married. She didn’t remember an announcement in the recent weeks, and she certainly hadn’t received an invitation. But she supposed there were those who wouldn’t come to church to worship but would use it for a wedding.

  And what a morning for a wedding—bright and cool, a promise of warmth later in the afternoon. Inside the church there would be promises, later there would be dancing. This was the day that would change that woman’s life, and Vada was half tempted to follow the party inside and join in the celebration. After all, her shawl practically matched the wedding party’s colors.

  Instead she simply stood, watching, while the girls got the children in order and the first strains of organ music could be heard through the doors. It wasn’t until all had filed in and the doors were once again closed, the music muted, that Vada took the next step. She may have stumbled upon this scene through aimless wandering, but she left it with a new sense of purpose and an urgent one at that.

  Continuing up Cleric Street and over to Chancellor, she found herself outside the door of Garrison’s office building. He was three floors up, and if he were to look out his window at that precise moment, he would see the top of her hat. He might even recognize the plum-colored shawl, though he might be disconcerted by the sloped shoulders beneath it.

  She looked straight up, willing him to come to the window. But he wasn’t the type of man to take a frivolous glance on a chilly spring morning. So, against all logic, she walked not only to the door, but through it and up the stairs that creaked under every step until she reached the landing of the third floor and a door etched with Benedict, Parker, and Hughes, Attorneys-at-Law in swirling gold letters. It wouldn’t be easy to add Walker to the door, should Garrison ever realize his goal of making partner.

  Inside, everything was uniformly dark, heavy, and brown, save for one crooked, amateurish painting depicting a studious boy studying under an apple tree. A brass plate mounted to the frame read: The seeds of the future are planted in youth.

  Beneath the painting, a thin, pale man sat at the desk in the front office, pounding the keys of a typewriter. Vada had to clear her throat several times to get his attention. When she did, he extended a single pinky to hold her at bay, never interrupting his rhythmic typing.

  “There now,” he said after a final, flourishing stroke. “With whom do you have an appointment?”

  “Nobody, really. I’m here to see Garrison Walker.”

  “Ah, you have an appointment with Mr. Walker?”

  “Not an appointment. I am just here to see him.”

  “Without an appointment?”

  “That is correct.” Smile frozen on her face, she matched his game of formality.

  “Well, this is highly unusual.” He tapped his fingers in a circular pattern across the top of his desk with the same enthusiasm he’d used earlier in his typing. “And whom shall I say you are?”

  “Here.” She opened her pocketbook and took out one of her calling cards with her name written in raised calligraphy surrounded by green, winding ivy. “If you will just give him this.”

  He studied the card, then looked up at her, his pinched face betraying the tiniest fraction of recognition and pleasure. “Ah, Miss Allenhouse. Of course. If you’ll wait right here.”

  He fairly glided out of the office, his shoes making no noise on the hardwood floor. Now that the typewriter was silent, she could hear the low, muffled voices humming out from the doors around her. So many grave, important conversations. She imagined Garrison was quite happy here—nothing silly or superfluous. Even the apples in the painted tree were precise and symmetrical.

  Four straight-backed chairs lined the wall on either side of the door, and she was about to take a seat in one of them, when she heard, “Vada?” Garrison’s voice had an echoing quality in the Spartan room. “Sweetheart, is anything wrong?”

  She was grateful for the watchful eye of the secretary who was back in his desk before she could reply. Otherwise, she might have collapsed right then, melting into a puddle of confession, begging for either a proposal or forgiveness. She allowed Garrison to take her hand in a most proper manner and told him she was simply in the neighborhood and decided to stop by.

  “You’ve never stopped by before.”

  “Sometimes you just—I just need to see you.” She took his other hand.

  “Well, then. Isn’t this nice?”

  The two had certainly shared moments of conversationless quiet over the years, but Vada had never felt quite so awkward. Maybe it was the stale odor of wood and paper, or the creaking floorboard as they shifted their weight. Soon the intermittent clack of
the typewriter popped into the midst, and they shifted their eyes toward the young man, who quickly looked away.

  “I was wondering,” Vada said at last, “would you like to slip out for a moment? Maybe get a cup of coffee?”

  “It’s ten-fifteen in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s two hours until my lunch break.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, not at the moment.”

  “Later this morning?”

  “I’m not—” He looked at the secretary who shook his head, never taking his eyes from his typing. “But it’s just ten-fifteen.”

  “Honestly, Garrison.” She squeezed his fingers, surprising herself at how close she was to pleading. “Is it unheard of to have a cup of coffee at ten-fifteen?”

  “If you like, sir, I can pop across the street and fetch you a cup. Or two.”

  “No, thank you, Rod,” Garrison said. Then to Vada, “I’m sorry, dear. But if I’m to make tonight’s rehearsal, I do have work to finish up.”

  “Of course. I understand.” She felt a burning at the back of her throat and needed to leave quickly, lest she make an even bigger fool of herself than she already had.

  “Rod,” he said behind her, “I’m going to escort Miss Allenhouse downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

  “Duly noted, sir.”

  “No,” Vada protested without turning around. “I’m fine.”

  “I insist,” Garrison said, and she felt his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out the door and across the hall. The staircase was too narrow to allow them to walk side by side so Vada took the lead, never once separating herself from his touch. Only a dim gaslight kept the stairwell from utter darkness, though its light barely touched the landing between the two flights.

  Here there was room for two, and as the faint touch encircling her waist expanded, she was brought against his body. When she closed her eyes, the blackness increased only a little, and she felt Garrison’s mouth on hers, kissing her as he had on the rarest occasions, with an urgency against her lips that she was more than ready to answer.

  She brought her hands up around his neck, feeling the strap of her pocketbook slide to her elbow, and tried to bring him closer. Not just to deepen the kiss, but to take him in—to fill her up and banish the images that swirled in her darkness.

  No matter how ardent the embrace of this man, her mind wrapped around another. One with broader shoulders and coarse, curling hair. It was his hands she imagined roaming the breadth of her back, underneath the plum-colored shawl, which now seemed unbearably cumbersome. His voice, filled with his tainted French, lurked beneath the small contented sounds she made. She wanted to kiss Garrison forever, if it meant a chance to meld the two.

  But too soon he released her from their kiss, though he drew her close enough that she could smell the efficiency of the office on his shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his hands still trailing along her back, “that I didn’t have time for coffee.”

  She craned her head back to look at him and smiled, hoping to banish her thoughts. “That’s quite all right. But you must hurry back now. It has to be nearly ten-twenty.”

  “Until tomorrow night?”

  “Until tomorrow night.”

  And please, God, keep me true until tomorrow night.

  She reached up and straightened his glasses. “We don’t want Rod to get the wrong idea.”

  Minutes later, when she stepped out into the sunlit street, she brought her hand to her lips, returning to the moment. Now the tears that had threatened to spill upstairs in his office appeared unbidden, and she stumbled, head sagging, down the sidewalk. Vague mutters of concern echoed from the strangers who passed her, but she ignored them and eventually was able to walk upright, her shoulders back, the last tear whisked away with the corner of her shawl.

  She had a list of errands the length of her arm, but right now she couldn’t keep them straight. All the tiny slips written in Herr Johann’s precise hand were jumbled in her pocketbook, but she couldn’t face opening the little snap and seeing Katrina’s accusatory note. There was very little to do at the office until the afternoon, and she couldn’t go home. The kitchen would be full of Molly and Vada’s bedroom full of Eli. How was it she’d come to this age without a single place to call her own?

  She found herself back at Moravek’s bakery—welcomed by the tinkling bell, enveloped by the warm, yeasty aroma.

  “Well, now,” Mrs. Moravek said, already taking a small plate from the stack on the shelf behind her. “I know you would come back. What can I get you?”

  “Coffee, please.” Vada dropped her pocketbook on a table by the window.

  “Sit, sit. I bring it out to you. How about a nice piece of lemon cake?”

  “That sounds good.” And it was, perfectly tart with a thin layer of sweet vanilla icing. She doled it out in tiny bits, alternating with sips of hot coffee, letting all of it—the bitter, the sour, the sweet—melt together and dissipate before the next bite.

  Oh, Lord, I need—But the prayer went no further. Eyes open, her serene face guarding the chaos within, she eased a corner off the cake. I don’t know what I need. But forgive me, Lord. For my thoughts—LaFortune and his charming crooked smile looked back from her coffee—like that one, Lord. I told him to stay away. Keep him away, and I can overcome this temptation. But if You don’t—

  The knock on Moravek’s window startled her, sending the empty fork clattering to the plate. She looked up to see Hazel, stiffly corseted in a severe brown suit, waving. For a few seconds, both sisters beckoned the other to the other side of the glass, and in the end Hazel settled in across from Vada on the other side of the table.

  “What happened to you?” Hazel asked, breathless from the act of sitting. “I didn’t know you’d be gone all morning. Have you been here the whole time?”

  “Yes.” Vada didn’t miss a beat. “I needed a little quiet to plan out my day. Who’s sitting with Eli?”

  “Cupid himself. It was that or Molly was going to make him paint the shutters.”

  Mrs. Moravek came over with a slice of cake and coffee for Hazel. “Be sweet to your sister. She seem sad today. And who wouldn’t, with such tragic story?” She walked away, tsking and shaking her head.

  Hazel’s round, soft face burned with curiosity, and Vada reported the contents of Eli’s note.

  “You know what that means?” Hazel spooned sugar into her coffee. “He’s dying from a broken heart.”

  “He’s not dying. And if he were, it would be of a broken head.”

  The sisters shared a guilty giggle, and Vada felt the cloud of the morning lifting. Thoughts of Garrison and LaFortune and even Alex Triplehorn drifted away with it, and Hazel and Vada settled into speculation about the story behind the note.

  “To think,” Vada said, “he came all the way to this country to find her in love with another man.”

  “Unless she found another man in the old country, and that’s why he came here.”

  “He wouldn’t carry that note across an ocean.”

  Hazel held up three envelopes. “I don’t know…a single letter can carry a lot of weight in a romance. At least I hope it will.”

  “Really, Hazel. It’s rather cruel of you to lead these men on. You can’t marry all of them, you know.”

  “That’s why all of these letters send my regrets. I’m returning their pictures too.”

  “To all of them?”

  “Not all.” She sifted through the envelopes and held one up. Her face flushed crimson above the ruffles of her shirt.

  “Barth the mountain man turned sheep farmer?”

  “I’m still holding out some hope.”

  “That’s good,” Vada said. “Hope is good.”

  “So,” Hazel leaned in with a conspiratorial air, “should we tell Althea about the letter? Perhaps she’s the woman worthy of Eli’s love?”

  Vada thought for a moment, then shook her head. �
��No. Not yet.”

  “So, it’s another secret to keep?”

  “For now, yes. Hope is good, but let’s give her just one thing to hope for at a time. Now, tell me, why are you dressed like a suffragette on parade?”

  “No parade. Just a meeting. At the Junior League Hall up the street. Want to come?”

  “Thanks,” Vada said, “but I think I’ll leave the world changing up to you.”

  “Oh, it’s not so much about changing the world as it is Mrs. Noratelli’s peach sorbet. Come on, Vada. A cup of tea, a few speeches. What else have you got to fill your morning?”

  “I have responsibilities.” She pressed the back of her fork to the plate, picking up crumbs. “Things to do.”

  “None of it can wait until the afternoon? The meeting’s only an hour. You might learn a little about being a woman in the next century.”

  Vada offered a weak smile. “I’m having a hard enough time being a woman in this century.”

  “Please?” Hazel had a wheedling tone Vada could rarely refuse for long, and she finally agreed.

  “But no picket signs.”

  “That’s a promise.”

  They finished their cake and coffee while Vada recounted the wedding party outside of the church, giving an especially amusing account of the reluctant little boy.

  “I’m afraid the experience will turn him into a bachelor for life,” Vada said as they stood to leave.

  “I figure every man’s a bachelor for life,” Hazel said. “Until he meets the right woman.”

  They left Moravek’s with their arms linked and chatted all the way to the post office, where Hazel gave one envelope a kiss before handing the stack of letters over to Mr. Witherspoon.

  The Junior League Hall was just two doors down, a pretty white-brick building with a rosebush-lined walkway out front. Hazel led Vada up the front steps and through the ornately carved front door, where an older woman in a pale lavender suit sat at a small table, her pale hand resting atop a wooden box.