You're the Cream in My Coffee Page 2

  “Will you finish it soon?”

  “Not if you don’t stop pestering me. Besides, you don’t need it until Spring Fling.”

  “Can I at least see it?”

  “Helen.”

  “Please?”

  I surrendered and opened my sewing basket. “Oh, all right. Here. Mind the pins.”

  She held up the pale violet frock—an old one of mine that I was altering to fit her—and swayed to and fro in front of the pier glass, glowing. “Oh, Marjie, it’s the cat’s meow.”

  “That shade suits you. Brings out your eye color.”

  “Am I pretty, Marjie?”

  “Pretty is as pretty does.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Now you sound like Frances.”

  I cringed. Sounding like Frances was not one of my goals in life.

  “You might be pretty,” I teased. “Maybe the tiniest little bit. When your horns aren’t showing.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Oh, you’re a hot sketch. Be serious.”

  I smiled. “You look like our mother.”

  Her eyes widened. “I do? Honest?”

  “Honest. And she was stunning.”

  Helen was silent a moment as she absorbed that thought.

  “But remember what the Bible says,” I said. “‘Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain . . .’”

  “‘. . . but the woman who feareth the Lord, she shall be praised,’” we finished together.

  “That’s Scripture,” I added. “Not Frances.”

  “I know. Mrs. Varney had us memorize it in Phoebe Circle. That reminds me. She wants to know if you’ll help out next fall.”

  “Help out with what?”

  “Phoebe Circle. After you’re back from your honeymoon, of course. She says the group is getting too large for her to handle all by herself. I overheard her tell Superintendent Lewis that we’re quite a handful,” she added with pride.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Aw, she’s just getting old. Anyway, she said you used to love Phoebe Circle, and she’s hoping you’ll come back and help lead it. She said she’s been planning to speak to you about it at church, but you always disappear right after the service. Which is true.” She tossed me an accusatory look.

  I made no reply. Mrs. Varney was right. As a girl I’d been active in Phoebe Circle and other church activities. But that was before the Lord chose to take away everything that mattered most to me. His prerogative, of course. “Thy will be done,” said the prayer I still dutifully recited. But for the past few years, as my Bible gathered dust on my bedside table, I’d found it hard to pay Him much more than a perfunctory visit on Sunday morning. And even that was largely due to Frances’s insistence that “nice people” go to church.

  “I’m sure she’ll ask you about it herself,” Helen concluded. “I only said I’d mention it.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “It’d be fun, having you for a leader.”

  “You just think I’d let you get away with more high jinks than Mrs. Varney does,” I teased. “You’d be surprised what a tough old bird your sister can be.”

  She took one last twirl and handed me the dress.

  “I don’t know about that. But you sure are a whiz with a needle and thread.”

  She whirled out of the room. As I opened the sewing basket, I caught sight of something half-hidden in its depths. My heart squeezed. I lifted the photograph, worn around the edges from much handling. Jack in his army uniform, smiling and confident.

  I turned it over. “I’ll be home before you know it,” he’d written on the back in his strong, black cursive. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

  Oh, Jack, how wrong you were. I rubbed my thumb over the sepia image. I’ve had plenty of time to miss you. Ten years, and I’m just getting started.

  Gently I replaced the photograph and covered it with Helen’s half-sewn dress. If only a heart could be restitched as neatly as the seams of a dress after it’s been torn apart.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The misty evening enveloped Richard and me as we sat on the front porch swing after we returned from dinner at the Tick-Tock Café. A light breeze cooled the air, and I shivered slightly in my pale blue sweater and skirt, in spite of the weight of Richard’s arm around my shoulders. Nonetheless, it was easier to talk on the porch than to move indoors, with inquisitive ears around every corner.

  Richard had taken Eugenia’s rumor remarkably well under the circumstances.

  “Time will prove her wrong, of course,” he said with his usual faultless logic. “Someday we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

  But at the moment he wasn’t laughing. Neither was I. The harsh social consequences of an out-of-wedlock birth, even a mere rumor of one, cast a dim light on our (mostly my) virtue. Still, there was nothing we could do except wait it out.

  “Good thing the Hospital Auxiliary tea is coming up on Tuesday.” Richard gave the swing a push with his legs. “That’ll give the other doctors’ wives a chance to meet you and see for themselves how sweet you are.”

  “Oh, Richard, do I have to go?” I blurted before thinking. Unfortunately I did that a lot.

  He adjusted his spectacles, something he did a lot, particularly when annoyed. “What do you mean, do you have to? I should think you’d be pleased. A personal invitation from Mrs. Cavendish doesn’t come along every day.”

  I shifted on the hard seat. “I know. Of course I’ll go. I understand how important it is to you that I make a good impression. I just feel so . . . I don’t know. Like I’m being interviewed for a position. Like they’ll cross-examine me to see if I qualify as your wife. I’m sure some would have liked to match you up with their own daughters.”

  Richard chuckled. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I only have eyes for you. Once they meet you, they’ll understand why you’re the perfect match for me.”

  “Will they?” Breathing in his familiar scent of bay rum and cloves, I wished I shared his confidence.

  “They will. Trust me.” He lifted my chin so I could see my face reflected in his spectacles. I readied myself for his kiss, but instead he said, “Of course, I don’t like it one bit that you fainted in public. I don’t detect any other symptoms, but I wish you’d see Doc Perkins, just to rule out anything I might be overlooking.”

  “My goodness, I feel like one of your patients.” I turned away from his gaze. “Everyone is making too big a fuss over this.”

  “You’ve been under a strain. You’re working too hard, that’s all. Maybe it’s time to give up your job at the store.”

  I sat up straight. “Give up my job? You mean—now?”

  He touched his spectacles. “Why not? You’ll be quitting soon anyway. The wedding’s only a few months away.”

  I squirmed, my blouse sticking damply to the back of the seat. “Well, yes, but I didn’t think I’d stop working right away. Maybe when we start our family . . .”

  Richard rocked the swing. “You’ll have plenty to keep you busy, even before children come. Ask the other doctors’ wives. They’ll tell you. Committee meetings, socials, volunteer work.” His voice took on a certain stiffness, and a little vein throbbed in his temple. “Besides, you won’t have to work. I’m fully prepared to support my wife.”

  “Of course you are, but Pop needs me at the store.”

  He patted my knee. “I’m sure he’ll manage fine, sweetheart. Helen’s old enough to help out after school. Isn’t it almost time for summer break anyway? She’ll need something to do besides loafing around reading movie magazines.”

  “Helen can’t replace me. She doesn’t have my experience.”

  He smiled. “Really, darling, how much experience does it take to measure out fabric and choose some buttons to go with it?”

  I braced my legs to stop the rocking, which was making me seasick. “There’s more to the job than that.”

  “Now, sweetheart, don’t take it the wrong way. I know you’re good at what you do. But you oughtn�
��t to keep working if your health is compromised. And the only way Helen will get any experience is by actually doing the job.”

  “I suppose she’d appreciate the pocket money,” I said. “But I won’t have her taking over because of my health. My health is just fine, thank you.”

  We sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets. The air felt thick, hard to breathe. Suddenly exhausted, I leaned back against Richard’s arm. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did need a rest. But how would Pop and Charlie manage the store without me?

  Finally Richard yawned. “Ah, well, sweetheart, this will be your last summer as a single girl. Enjoy it while you can. Before you know it, you’ll be Mrs. Richard Brownlee.”

  “Mrs. Richard Brownlee.” The words felt strange on my tongue. “Marjorie Brownlee.” There was security in becoming Mrs. Richard Brownlee. A bright future stretched before me. A prosperous husband. A fine house. Pretty clothes. A shiny automobile. Children.

  So why did I feel reluctant to stop being Marjorie Corrigan?

  His arm tightened around my shoulder. Scads of girls would kill to be in my place. What difference would it really make if I had to give up my little job, when I was blessed in so many other ways?

  I looked up at his even profile and said, “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” Wasn’t that the sort of thing leading ladies said to leading men as they sat on porch swings in the moonlight?

  Richard smiled. “No, sweetheart, I’m the lucky one.” At last he kissed me.

  But as he did, the same weariness I’d felt earlier settled over me again. Where was the delicious shiver I’d savored so long ago with Jack? Was this what grown-up love was like? Sensible and practical? I’m the luckiest girl in the world, I repeated silently. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

  Somehow I could not imagine the French farm girl, in the arms of John Gilbert, needing to remind herself how lucky she was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The morning sun slanted through the display window of Corrigan’s Dry Goods and Sundries, making me squint as I wrestled a white cotton voile tea dress onto a dressmaker’s dummy. I’d designed the dress myself to showcase some new summer fabric. In my youth, poring over the public library’s copy of Vogue, I’d dreamed of becoming a great couturière like Coco Chanel, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Kerryville girls could pronounce, much less become. Besides, there wasn’t an art or design school within hundreds of miles. Even so, I sought to bring a bit of artistry to the shop—no easy task where Pop was concerned.

  For example, I’d been nagging him for months to order one of the new modern mannequins—the kind that looked like a real woman, with a head and face, arms and legs. The sort used in Meyer’s Department Store down the street, our fiercest competitor. But he insisted on keeping the old-fashioned dressmaker’s dummy. A conservative shopkeeper of the old school, he was not quick to adopt what he called newfangled ideas. Charlie had a fight on his hands even to update the inventory system.

  As I climbed out of the display window, Charlie appeared from the stockroom and surveyed the sales floor with a dubious eye. “We’re supposed to receive that shipment of seersucker this morning. Any place to put it?”

  “I’ll make room. This pale blue wool can go on the markdown table. With the weather turning warm, it’ll never sell.”

  Charlie squinted. “You call that blue? More like battleship gray. No wonder it didn’t sell.” He gave a mischievous grin. “Speaking of dull, how was your date with Dr. Darling last night? I’ll bet he was sore when he heard about the crazy rumor going around town.”

  “As a matter of fact, he was not. And I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

  Charlie lifted his hand. “Hey, just making conversation. Anyway, I meant what I said about pounding anybody who says a word against you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “’Cause I bet the dear doctor can’t risk getting his delicate surgeon hands dirty in a fistfight.”

  I crossed my arms. “You’re right. Richard is too much of a gentleman to resort to barroom brawls.”

  “Too refined to fight for his country, too,” Charlie grumbled.

  I groaned. “Charlie, we’ve gone over this. It’s not his fault that by the time he enlisted, the war was practically over.”

  “Doesn’t change the facts. He was lounging at some fancy college while Jack and I were over there doing the dirty work.”

  “I’d hardly call medical school ‘lounging.’ And Dr. Perkins was mighty glad to have his help when the influenza came to town.”

  “Face it, sis. You wouldn’t be giving Richard a second glance right now if Jack were still around.”

  I reeled as if he’d slapped me across the face. “Leave Jack out of this. Look, I don’t know what you have against Richard, but whatever it is, it has nothing whatsoever to do with Jack.”

  Charlie’s eyes took on a faraway look. “But what if someday he comes back? He’s still officially classified as missing, presumed dead. They’ve never actually found—”

  “—his body.” I held up a silencing hand. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve thought of that, wished for that, a thousand million times? For Pete’s sake, Charlie, Jack was my sweetheart.”

  “He was my best friend.”

  Our gazes locked.

  Finally I said, “It’s been ten years. I need to move on with my life.”

  “I know.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. Ironically, it was a gesture Jack used to make whenever he was perplexed or worried about something. Seeing it brought a pang to my heart.

  “Sorry I said anything,” Charlie continued. “At least you’d have welcomed home your soldier. Not like . . . some people.” He tilted his head away, his expression stony.

  He meant Catherine, the sweetheart who’d jilted him when he returned from Europe with a bum leg, a damaged arm, and screaming nightmares that woke the entire household. I appreciated Charlie’s faith in my loyalty, his certainty that I would have happily married Jack if he’d come back from the war alive, no matter his condition. But in my deepest heart of hearts I honestly did not know if I deserved Charlie’s faith in me, or whether I’d have behaved any better than Catherine, had Jack returned broken and crippled. Maybe no woman knows for sure how she’d react until she’s in that situation. At least Catherine was honest about her feelings. But poor Charlie had never gotten over her rejection. Nor had he dared to court any other girl. He assumed his injuries made him a pariah where romance was concerned. Which was a shame, because my handsome, charming brother would make a first-rate catch for any girl. Except when he drank.

  Or when he was being stubborn and annoying. Like now.

  “My life would be very different if Jack had returned,” I admitted. “But he didn’t, so there’s no sense dwelling on it. Besides, think of the grief Frances would have given us. She didn’t even want us to date.”

  “You were very young.”

  “I was old enough to know my own heart. Frances hated Jack, but she adores Richard.”

  Charlie snorted. “That’s because Frances is a social-climbing schemer. She thinks your marriage to Richard is her ticket into Kerryville society, such as it is.”

  “A little harsh, don’t you think?” I said, although he had a point.

  “Come on, we both know it’s true. Frances married Pop thinking she was landing some tycoon-in-the-rough, only to discover he’s perfectly content as a small-town shopkeeper. She’s never recovered from taking a step down socially. So you’re her only hope, see? Richard’s a college-educated doctor from a well-to-do family, while Jack was facing a lifetime on the factory floor. He never measured up, in her estimation.”

  “Maybe. But you never give Richard credit for his many fine qualities.” Thrifty, brave, clean . . . “He treats me well.”

  Charlie smirked. “If you say so. It’d just be nice to hear you say that you love Richard, instead of rattling on about how much Frances loves him.”

 
; “Nonsense. Just because I don’t gush doesn’t mean I don’t have deep feelings for Richard.”

  “Doesn’t mean you do have them, either.”

  Touché.

  I avoided Charlie’s gaze. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “Marjie, don’t get sore. I hope you’re doing the right thing by marrying Richard, that’s all. He’s all right, I guess. I just don’t know if he’s right for you.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but that’s not your call to make.” I cocked my head. “Is that a truck I hear pulling up in the alley?” Charlie limped back to the stockroom and out of my hair, just as the bell over the door jingled, announcing a customer. I shoved Charlie’s comments to the back of my mind and pasted on my best salesgirl smile for the customers, a neighbor and her daughter.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Calloway. How can I help you today?”

  The sturdy matron peered at me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. “Oh, my dear,” she breathed. “I should be asking how I can help you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She clucked her tongue. “So shocked to hear the news. Shocked.”

  “What news?”

  “You know, dear,” she murmured with a sidelong glance at her daughter. “The stork.” She took my hand and patted it. “After all, these things do happen.”

  “The stork?” My face burned. “Mrs. Calloway, I assure you, there is no stork. But there is the most awful falsehood going around town. Perhaps you’ve heard it.”

  Mrs. Calloway stepped back. “Oh. Well, glad to hear it’s a falsehood. As I was just telling Sadie Miller—” She stopped short at the look on my face, then briskly changed the subject. “My Daisy here needs a graduation dress. I’m thinking white cotton lawn with a rose-colored sash. Not exactly rose, a rosy sort of coral, but not too coral . . .”

  By the time I deciphered what Mrs. Calloway meant by not-exactly-rose, measured and cut the goods, rang up the purchase, and sent her on her way, Charlie reappeared, carrying a large box.

  “Is that the seersucker? Don’t bring it out yet. I have to make room.”