Five Brides (8 page)

God answered her prayers in the form of Betty Estes. “What do
you
want to do with your life?” she’d asked Inga that evening over plates of apple pie.

Inga thought a moment before answering. “I want to
go
places.
See
things.”

“What about your sister?”

“Magda? The only adventuring Magda has done is through the pages of all those books she reads. They’re all she talks about. Sometimes I think she thinks the characters are more real than the flesh-and-blood people around her.”

Betty paused before responding. And when she did, her words were so brilliant, they changed everything for Inga. “Well, I’d say, if you want to
go places
, fly there.”

Within days Betty had the sisters moved in to her apartment on Greenleaf, and the day after that she made a phone call to someone
she knew at Trans World Airlines. Then she placed another call to a friend at Olson Publishing and landed Magda a job.

“I wonder if Betty has made it home yet,” Magda now said as they rounded the sidewalk in front of their street. The scent of burning firewood filled the air as it hung between the leafless branches of the few scrawny trees lining the street.

Inga glanced at her watch. “I doubt it. She probably won’t be home until later.”

“Maybe the other two are there. Joan usually gets home early after church on Sunday.”

“Because she—they—don’t have family here. There’s nowhere to go after service.”

They arrived at their building, and Inga drew out her key before Magda had a chance to even open her purse.

“Yes, they do,” Magda said.

They headed down the stairs leading to the basement apartments. “Yes, they do what?” Inga asked.

“Have family,” she answered quietly. “Here, I mean.” She opened the outside door.

“How do you see that?”

Magda smiled. “They have
us
.”

Inga chuckled as they hurried in. “Us? We see each other five minutes a week. I’d hardly call us
friends
, much less
family
.”

Joan punched out at precisely noon on Monday. After grabbing her coat, gloves, and hat, she made a beeline for Betty’s office, where she found her pulling her purse out of her desk’s bottom drawer. “Are you leaving now for the interview?” Betty asked.

“I am. But I wanted to ask . . . Did Evelyn do all right this morning?”

Betty closed the drawer. “So far so good. She filled out the paperwork and starts in the morning. She said to tell you she’d see you this evening.”

They made their way to the elevator. “I hope she got home okay.” The thought of Evelyn—who had appeared scared mindless during the morning’s commute to the Loop—taking the train alone back to the apartment on Greenleaf was frightening in and of itself. Joan imagined Evelyn wandering around the city, her eyes filled with tears as they scanned the massive height of the buildings.

Betty pushed the Down button next to the elevator. “Not to worry. I walked her to the Loop and put her on the train myself.”

The elevator doors opened and the two women—along with several of their workmates—stepped in. “But did you tell her where to get off?” Joan asked with a smile.

Betty shoved her left hand into a black glove and wiggled the fingers. “I repeat: Don’t worry.” She slanted her eyes playfully toward Joan.

Joan giggled as the elevator car came to a stop. Their shoes clomped along the polished flooring, echoing with the shuffling of men’s shoes. Joan slipped into her coat and gloves, and finished by pinning her hat into place. Outside the front doors, the chill of Chicago slapped her face as though she’d said or done something to offend it.

“How do I look?” she asked, turning toward Betty.

Betty reached up and adjusted the hat. “This hat looks better on you than it does on me, quite frankly.” She finished with her fiddling and took a step back. “Okay. Smile pretty and make me proud,” she teased. “Now, off you go . . .”

Joan pushed through the revolving door of David & DuRand with a sense of trepidation that heightened as she stood inside the store. Classical music floated overhead, hovering between chandeliers dripping with crystals and glittering in a rainbow of colors. Salesclerks stood behind various display cases while women draped in fine coats, hair perfectly coiffed and rhinestone bracelets glimmering on their wrists, stood on the other side.

And all this before one o’clock on a weekday.

A deep yet feminine voice interrupted her plan of escape. “May I help you, dear?”

Joan turned, mouth gaping, to an older woman, stocky in build but as authoritative as a schoolmarm. Her chest jutted forward, nearly matched in distance by her chin. She smelled of talcum powder and didn’t smile, but Joan did, and as quickly as she knew how.

“I’m here to see . . . Delores . . .” The last name escaped her, but only momentarily. “Delores King.”

“
Mrs.
King?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. This way please.” Joan followed her for several feet before the woman turned and spoke. “You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

They wove through the departments—accessories, shoes, costume jewelry—until finally arriving at shiny gold double elevator doors. The woman who smelled of talcum pushed the call button and stepped back. “This will take you to the private showing room on the fifth floor, where you’ll find Mrs. King.”

“The private—” Her words were interrupted by the swoosh of the elevator doors as they opened. Joan glanced inside, and back to the woman who had already walked away, leaving her to scurry inside and push the gold-etched
5
.

As the elevator glided upward, she read the brass plates next to the floor numbers.

Infants and Children
.

Ladies
.

Men
.

Formal and Bridal Wear
.

And next to the
5
—
Private Showing Room
.

Locating Mrs. King didn’t prove difficult; she was the only person on the entire floor of velvet-covered settees, French Provincial armchairs, and low tables. The scents of fresh-brewed coffee and tea roses permeated the air, clinging to the spaces between massive Monet replicas.

At least Joan
assumed
they were replicas.

“Mrs. King?”

Delores King was nothing if not exquisite. And tall and
willowy in a form-fitting crepe dress. The color of her shoes perfectly matched the navy blue of the dress. Her hair—dark and luxurious—had been combed back and held in place by her hat. Though she stood on a round platform-type stage rearranging a vase of long-stemmed roses, she wore wrist gloves. Rhinestones winked from her ears, throat, and wrists.

She finished placement of the last rose, stepped from the platform, and extended her hand with all the refinement of Grace Kelly. “You must be Joan Hunt.”

Joan took her hand and released it quickly, unable to keep her eyes from the woman’s—the perfectly shaped brows, the intensity with which she drank her in. Joan felt undressed, as though she might have to turn around and walk back to Hertz, defeated. In spite of Betty’s efforts to “doll her up,” she stood like a poor child without twopence to her name, peering into a window showcasing elegance. “Nice to meet you,” Joan said, her voice cracking.

Mrs. King smiled—white, even teeth behind full red lips. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m getting ready for a show.”

“A show?”

“For a private client.” She glided to a blond wood desk accented with gold trim. A French-style phone stood on one side, an ornate lamp on the other. In the center, an appointment book lay open wide with a fountain pen poised on top. Matching chairs sat angled just so on both sides. “She’ll be here momentarily, but I hoped we could at least talk for a minute.” Mrs. King turned, waiting for Joan to join her, and Joan quickly made her way to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. After Mrs. King sat, Joan followed. “What did Betty tell you about the job?”

“Only that it’s part-time.”

“And that you’d be working for me? Here?”

Joan glanced around the room. Behind the carpeted stage stood
three massive gilded mirrors where a client—she now understood—could see the form of a model dressed in any number of outfits and imagine herself looking as fashionable as the figure before her. “Here?” she asked, returning her attention to Mrs. King.

“As a model. Evenings mostly, with the occasional Saturday.”

“And I’ll—” she could hardly imagine it—“model for society women?”

“Mostly men. They come in, wanting to buy that special something for their wives. Mothers. Sisters.” The arched brows rose. “Whomever. We don’t ask and they don’t tell.”

Joan had managed to work in a number of capacities in her young life. Standing and turning in fine apparel couldn’t possibly be any more difficult than collecting scraps of food for a man’s pigs. “When do I start?”

“We’ll want to train you first.” Mrs. King flipped a page on the calendar. “Tomorrow evening. I’ll set an appointment for you with Mrs. Blue. She’ll teach you all you need to know about walking, standing, turning . . .”

“Modeling,” Joan said, feeling a sudden sense of adventure.

Mrs. King nodded as she wrote Joan’s name on a page of the calendar. “You get off from Hertz at five?”

“I do.”

“You can be here by five thirty?”

“I can be here by five fifteen,” Joan said, feeling assured.

Mrs. King opened the right-hand drawer, removed a small pad of paper, scrawled her pen across it, and then tore the top sheet away. “Here you go,” she said. “When you arrive tomorrow, let anyone downstairs know that you are here to see Mrs. Blue. You’ll be taken to her straightaway.”

Joan took the paper. Read it. “Thank you, Mrs. King,” she said.

Delores King pulled the hem of her glove away to reveal a thin
watch around a dainty wrist. “I’m sorry, Joan, but I must say good-bye now. The client will be here soon.”

Joan stood, opening her purse as she did, and dropped the now-folded piece of paper into it. “Thank you again,” she said.

Mrs. King glanced toward the elevator. “The dressing room for our models is to the right here,” she said, pointing her fountain pen in that direction. “Go through it, look around, and you’ll find a door that leads to a stairwell.” She smiled. “That’s the best way for you to leave.” Again her eye went to the elevator.

“I understand,” Joan said, and she did. “I’ll see you again soon, Mrs. King.”

Joan was trained in a matter of afternoons, ready to begin her new part-time position by the start of the following week. The job suited her as well as any she could have hoped for. She spent her days at Hertz, typing on forms and adding up sums, and her evenings draped in the finest ball gowns, party dresses, and furs.

Mrs. King had been correct in saying that most of the clients were men. And, as she’d assumed the day of her interview, the models were expected to be discreet. Whether the customers purchased for their wives or their sweethearts was not the concern of the models.
They
and
their satisfaction
, Mrs. King said time and again, were the primary concern.