by Pamela Morsi
"It would be good for Father to have someone when I've gone to college. I hate to think of him alone in that big old house."
"And poor Aunt Gertrude," Claire said. "Don't you know how trapped she must feel living her whole life hemmed in by George and Prudence?"
"George and Prudence?"
Claire flushed slightly and gave an arrogant toss to her head. "I refuse to call those people 'mother' and 'father.' They may be Lester's parents, but they are not mine. I can't yet call Aunt Gertrude and Mr. Stefanski 'mom' and 'dad,' but I can quit speaking the lie I've been forced to live."
Claire's tone was overly dramatic, but Teddy didn't really notice. He was pensive, trying to imagine Mikolai Stefanski— who, his son was sure, could do anything—being thwarted in love.
"Father seemed pretty certain last night that he'd never been in love," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody lives as long as Mr. Stefanski and Aunt Gertrude without having been in love," Claire declared with the certainty of youth. "It was just such a heartbreak for him. That's it, Teddy. He lost not only the woman of his heart, but his own daughter, too. He's probably put it out of his mind completely."
"I don't know, Claire, that doesn't sound much like my father."
Teddy was just about to point out how unlike Mikolai Stefanski it would be to shirk responsibility for a child and to allow his own flesh and blood to be raised by George Barkley. It was a puzzling concept and he meant to bring it up for discussion, but he was momentarily distracted.
"Hi, Teddy! Hi, Claire." The voice that called out was that of Olive Widmeyer, the most popular girl in the senior class.
"Hello, Olive." Teddy's voice cracked slightly and he flushed in annoyance at the sound.
The pretty young woman, nearly bouncing with enthusiasm, reached out to grab Claire's wrist, giggling with excitement and delight. "I just spoke with Miss Dudley and Principal Shue and you will honestly never guess."
Claire probably couldn't guess and Teddy was far beyond even trying.
Olive Widmeyer was Venice High School's version of the femme fatale. Since the differences between the girls and boys first became apparent, Olive had become to the young men of the town the true symbol of all that was good and fine and wonderful about the great state of Missouri. The boys on the football team spoke of Olive often, and with near reverence. The young gentlemen of more literary bent composed sonnets that used her name in rhyme. Even the staid old professors were known to avert their eyes and clear their throats nervously in her presence.
Certainly her cornsilk-blond curls hung prettily down the middle of her back. Her big blue eyes were wide-spaced and expressive. And her bright, winning smile seemed to light up her face with a magic glow of friendliness. But it was none of these qualities that captured the attention of the male population. To the boys of the varsity, Olive was known simply as "The Bosom." And like the others, Teddy Stefanski was mindlessly enchanted by the way those robustly feminine mounds of flesh filled up the front of her middy blouse.
"They are going to let us have a dance." Olive was squealing with delight. "A real dance after the football game in celebration of our victory over Rogers. Isn't it terrific?"
'Terrific," Teddy agreed.
Claire looked puzzled. "What if we don't beat Rogers?"
Olive's eyes widened in distress. "Oh, but we will beat them." She turned her pretty face up to the silent young man beside her. "We will beat them, won't we, Teddy?"
"Of course," he squeaked and then cleared his throat with a deep bass sound. "Of course, we'll beat them, Olive."
"And then we can dance and dance," she said wistfully, adding a delighted giggle. "It's all arranged. All we have to do is come up with some chaperones."
"Ah." Claire nodded understanding.
"I'll take care of all the plans and the decorations, but I know you'll be much better than me at getting parents to come as chaperones."
It was true, of course. When Olive talked to adults about fun or parties, they always seemed worried, as if unleashing all her youthful vitality and beauty upon the world might be dangerous. When Claire brought up the same ideas, people were generally more indulgent.
"All right, I'll round up the chaperones. What about your parents?" Claire asked.
Olive wrinkled her nose slightly. "Only as the last resort," she said. "My father is such an old fuddy-duddy. He gets mad at every boy who wants to dance with me. I was thinking about your folks, Claire. Could you ask them?"
"I suppose so. I'm sure Mama would love to come. It's just if she can talk my father into it."
"Well, tell her we're counting on them," Olive said. "See you. Bye, Teddy."
"Bye," he managed to get out.
As the young woman hurried off, Teddy turned his head to follow her figure. Olive flittered out of range, her smile ceaselessly beaming, her breasts perpetually bouncing.
Teddy stopped stone-still in the hallway, his gaze lingering after her, his expression part lovelorn lothario, part pouting puppy dog.
Claire couldn't help but notice. A flair of unexpected jealousy welled up inside her. Immediately she pushed it away. By all consensus, Olive Widmeyer was the prettiest girl in school. And she was nice to everybody, that couldn't be argued. Teddy certainly deserved the prettiest girl and a nice one, too. As his sister, Claire decided suddenly, she shouldn't wish him anything less.
"She's lovely," Claire commented with honesty.
"Huh? Oh, Olive, yeah, she's something all right," Teddy agreed.
"I think you should ask her to the dance."
Teddy's eyes widened and he stared at Claire as if she'd lost her mind.
"Me ask her, I— What dance?"
"The one she was just talking about. Didn't you hear what she was saying?"
"Guess not," he admitted.
In truth, he wasn't sure that he'd even be able to breathe, let alone listen, when he was in her presence.
"We're going to have a dance after the game with Rogers. A victory dance, I suppose."
"What if we don't win?"
'Teddy, you just told Olive that we would."
"I did?"
Claire shook her head and laughed in amused disbelief. "You did, and I do think that you should ask her to the dance."
Teddy looked somewhat daunted at the prospect. "Oh, Claire, I don't think she'd go out with me."
"Of course she would," she assured him. "She'd be a fool not to. You're terrific."
Teddy looked at her, askance at the unexpected recommendation. "You just think that 'cause I've finally learned to read John Milton."
Claire laughed. "I think it because it's quite true. I think she's terrific, too."
"She's terrific all right," he said. "In the old-fashioned sense of that word. She scares me to death."
"Don't be silly. Fullbacks don't get scared," she assured him. "And I do think that you should take Olive to the dance. But first things first. We won't have a dance unless we get some chaperones."
"Chaperones? Yeah, good idea."
"I suppose we could start with my parents," she said somewhat less than enthusiastically.
Stopping in midstride, she grinned broadly. "That's it!"
"What?"
"My parents."
Teddy raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I'll get Aunt Gertrude and your father to chaperone. They will have to spend the whole evening together and they'll probably dance together and, oh, Teddy, this is going to be wonderful."
Chapter Eleven
Alexandria DuPree was such a tragic figure, Gertrude acknowledged to herself as she gazed at the words she had just written so neatly on white vellum. She sighed heavily. It was hard to believe that the beautiful and courageous young heroine that she had created to be Tyler DuPree's second, much younger wife had turned into such a sad and almost pitiful war widow. It was shame, Gertrude thought, but it had to be so.
Tyler had married her when she was only the very ambitious and attractive young daughte
r of a drunken white-trash overseer. DuPree had not loved her, not the way he had loved his first wife, but he had wanted her. He had wanted her more than any woman since Mona, Weston's mother, had seduced him into betraying his marriage vows. His inconstancy had hastened his dear wife's death and to his dying day Tyler DuPree had never forgiven himself.
But still, he was a man. And as a man, his greatest weakness was his own passion. When Alexandria's drunken pa had been killed for cheating in a game of cards, DuPree had saved her and her mother from an uncertain fate. His cold embrace had never warmed the beautiful young woman in his arms, but she was very grateful. And it was that gratitude that ensured Alexandria would be loyal to her husband's memory.
Yes, she would have to keep Carlisle Place together for the perpetuity of the DuPree family. It was a sacrifice for a woman still young, a woman who would never know the stir of hot passions or be blessed with the gift of a child of her own. It was a sacrifice that was as expected and unheralded as the sunrise. Alexandria DuPree could rightfully anticipate to live forty more years. Alone.
Inexplicably, tears came to Gertrude's eyes, blurring the words before her. She fumbled with her skirt pocket, retrieving her handkerchief. Weeping was not something that she was prone to, but lately during this book, this last book of the DuPree saga, she'd found herself overwrought more than once. In all honesty she couldn't quite understand it.
She leaned back in her chair and stared thoughtfully into oblivion. This book was meant to bring the DuPree family full circle. It was supposed to show the triumph of the human heart over the devastation of war. But somehow when she looked at her characters, she didn't see courageous people starting over. She saw sad, wounded people. People whose shattered lives left them only dreams unfulfilled.
Gertrude sniffed loudly as once more the tears threatened. With disgust she wiped her eyes and rose to her feet. This was foolishness. Plain foolishness. She was intolerant of that in others; she hated it in herself. A good cup of tea would get her back on track, she decided. It would slice through the web of sentimentality that was obscuring her vision.
Wearing her knitted house slippers, her steps were silent in the hall as she made her way through the familiar passages of the house where she'd been born, the house where she had lived her life, the house where she would probably always be until the day she was dressed in a shroud and laid out in the front parlor.
It was not, however, her house.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard Prudence humming. In a flash she recalled that it was Wednesday. Wednesday was the maid's day off and baking day for the Barkley family. Gertrude knew that her sister-in-law would be up to her earlobes in bread dough. She hesitated and almost turned back to her apartment. Pru enjoyed the baking, it was one of the few activities that she truly seemed to relish and without ever being told, Gertrude understood that her interruption would be more of an intrusion. Prudence seemed to have so few truly joyous moments in her life, Gertrude hated to intrude upon the ones that she had. But this morning the need to escape her work was stronger than her wish to be kind to her sister-in-law.
Gertrude made her way down the long hallway parallel to the stairs and into the kitchen.
Prudence was there, as Gertrude knew she would be, looking flushed and pink and domestic in a snowy white apron and a starched cap.
"Oh, Gertrude," she said lightly, without the slightest hint of disappointment at the encroachment upon her private time. "I didn't expect you to pop in. Have you finished for the day?"
She answered with a negative shake of her head. "I'm just in for a cup of tea," Gertrude told her by way of apology. "I promise not to get in your way."
"Don't be silly," she replied. "Having tea is certainly no trouble in comparison to the mess I'm making." She indicated the giant mixing bowl where the dough was left to rise and the floury remains of her kneading that still dusted the huge breadboard.
"Help yourself," she told Gertrude. 'The water may still be warm."
Gertrude thanked her sister-in-law politely and picked up the water kettle from the cool part of the back of the stove. She tested the metal with a quick pat of the flat of her hand and determined that it wasn't hot enough to suit. She placed it upon the hot metal lid of the cookstove. Leaning indolently against the cupboard, she waited with some impatience.
Prudence was humming again. She turned and kneaded and pounded the dough against the board and sounded as delighted with her task as if she were walking out at a cotillion. Gertrude eyes her sister-in-law with some curiosity. Prudence was a good mother, a devoted wife, and an unfailingly dependable friend to the community. She made bread each week, not just to feed her own family, but to send to the widows and orphans and to the unmentionable folks who lived in shanties on the far south side. Prudence was quiet, dutiful, and boring. Not at all saintly material, but Gertrude knew her to be closer to that rank than many more well-known philanthropists would ever come.
"Claire has asked me to chaperone a school dance," Gertrude said, breaking the silence of the warm, sunny kitchen.
Prudence nodded as her thickly buttered hands formed the broad loaves of white dough and laid them carefully in the oblong tin pans.
"That will be nice for you," she said. "You need to get out more."
Gertrude chuckled lightly. "I think it is you that should get out more, Prudence. According to my brother and your husband I am getting out far too often," she told her.
"Oh, whatever do you mean?"
"My brother George thinks his sister causes a scene every time she goes out in public."
Prudence's brow furrowed with concern. "I hope he hasn't hurt your feelings, Gertrude," she said. "George is simply not himself lately." She turned from her labors long enough to sigh heavily. "He wants so badly to be chosen Sublime Kalifa."
"I can't imagine why," Gertrude answered with a shake of her head. "It's just a social club, for heaven's sake. George acts as if he's trying to be elected King of England."
Prudence nodded with agreement, but her expression was troubled. "It's such a gesture of respect from the community to be chosen," she said. "George needs that."
"George is respected in the community," Gertrude declared truthfully. "He's the banker, after all."
"That's it, Gertrude," she said. "George feels like he's inherited that respect from Mr. Barkley, just like he did his money, his position, even his home." Her expression was serious as she turned to face Gertrude. "Being elected Sublime Kalifa is something that neither his father nor grandfather ever did. It will prove that George has earned his place in this community for the things that he has done."
Prudence became very quiet for a long moment and stared soberly at the long row of pans brimming with gleaming white bread dough. "It will prove that he's earned his place in this community in spite of the things that he has done."
The silence in the room was large, enormous, unfathomable.
Gertrude took two steps across the room and embraced her sister-in-law, her own concerns and the hot water on the stove completely forgotten.
"Oh, Pru, that was such a long time ago," Gertrude whispered against the younger woman's cap-covered hair.
Her expression somber, Prudence answered her honestly. "The smaller the town," she said, "the longer the memory."
Chapter Twelve
A knock on the door and the sound of her aunt's voice requesting entrance startled Claire and she dropped the diary to the floor. She spent most of her spare time now reading it and rereading it. The words written there had taken on a life of their own in her young mind.
Hurriedly she pushed those most secret scribblings under her bed and piled her shoes on top of it. Her heart was pounding like a tom-tom, just the way she was sure Aunt Gertrude's heart had pounded on that day so long ago when she had secretly met the man she loved, the man her father refused to allow her to marry, the man with whom she had conceived a child of love.
Claire's face was flaming red at the thought, b
ut she could do little about it and quickly she sat down on her bed and smoothed her nightgown once before checking again to ensure that the diary was well hidden.
"Come in, Aunt Gertrude," she called out.
"Are you all right?" her aunt asked as she came through the doorway. "You look a little flushed."
"Oh, I'm fine, fine," she answered nervously. "Perhaps I got too much sun today. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's very late for you to be up," Gertrude said. "You're going to be yawning through your classes tomorrow, I suspect. What have you been reading?"
Claire felt the color staining her cheeks, "Oh, nothing," she insisted quickly. "I've just been sitting here thinking about things."
Gertrude raised a questioning eyebrow and came over to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. She was dressed in her nightwear, a white muslin gown trimmed in soft pink silk ribbon and her hair was covered with a shadow lace cap. Claire had seen her aunt hundreds of times looking this same way, but tonight somehow she saw her differently. She was no longer simply dear eccentric Aunt Gertrude, but rather a woman who had thrown caution and decency to the winds. And who, for that crime, had become her mother.
"What sort of things are you thinking about?" Gertrude asked her. "You certainly have a strange expression on your face."
"Oh, just things," Claire answered guiltily.
Gertrude smiled and hugged her tightly. "I understand, dear," she said. "I remember that when I was your age, my mind was simply awhirl with the possibilities. I wanted to do so many things. There were so many places I wanted to go."
She sighed as she contemplated the memory.
Claire eyed her aunt thoughtfully a moment before she spoke. "I'm sure you dreamed about places and things," she said evenly. "Did you ever dream about falling in love, Aunt Gertrude?"
Her aunt's eyes widened in surprise. Fluttering a bit nervously, she seemed hesitant to answer. "I'm sure that all young girls dream about that," she admitted before adding, "they'd simply be old women in young faces if they didn't." She chuckled as if she'd made a fine joke, but somehow her laughter did not quite ring true.