It was after five before they paid off their taxi and walked, or rather limped, into the hotel lobby. Francie’s eyes were blurred from the number of objects she had looked at during the afternoon. At the moment she was surfeited with home decoration, and for that matter, with hotel decoration too: she wouldn’t have cared if the whole great structure had been denuded of curtains, lamps, and overstuffed chairs. All she wanted was to get into a hot bath, and if one judged from Mrs. Ryan’s appearance, she was in the same state of mind.
A glimpse of herself in the elevator mirror added to Francie’s dismay. She had what looked like a mustache of dust, and her blouse collar was grimy. Oh, never mind, she thought; a few minutes more would make a lot of difference when her shoes were off and the bathwater was running, and one comfort was that Florence Ryan, who looked even more shopworn if possible, didn’t seem at all perturbed. Fortunately they were strangers, Francie reflected. Nobody who mattered could see her now.
“Francie! For crying out loud!”
Even before she recognized the voice, Francie thought savagely that this was what life was always doing to a girl. Scowling, she turned and looked at the youth standing behind her in the car. She had noted him subconsciously when they got in, a citified youth with a hat in his hand. It was Glenn.
There were exclamations and explanations. Glenn was going on to Jefferson the next day. It was a surprise visit; he had meant to telephone that very evening to warn his mother and Francie. There hadn’t been time before.
“It’s wonderful meeting you here,” he said. He beamed: it was apparent that dusty mustaches had no terrors for him. “Francie the breadwinner!” he said.
“Oh, shut up, Glenn.”
“You can have dinner with me, can’t you? Both of you,” said Glenn.
Francie spoke quickly. “I’m terribly sorry but we’ve both got dates.” She was impatient with herself for feeling guilty at the disappointed expression on his face. Why were her feelings scattered so? It was just the shock of seeing Glenn when she was thinking of Bruce, she decided. She was sure she wanted to dine with Bruce if possible, and anyway he’d asked her first.…
They had stepped out on their floor, Glenn following. “Oh, all right,” he said, “but at least you can come on back downstairs to the bar and have a drink right now.”
“Glenn, I just can’t go anywhere yet. I look terrible; I’ve got to have a bath,” Francie said plaintively.
“Nonsense.” Glenn rang the elevator bell firmly, catching the same car on its downward passage. “You look fine,” he said, taking her elbow. “You always look fine. She’ll be back upstairs in a minute, Mrs. Ryan.” He pushed her into the open door and it slid shut. The car dropped. “I had to see you alone for a minute,” he said. “You can tell me all about everything over something long and cool.”
“What, especially?” asked Francie. She rummaged in her handbag for a comb.
“Why, your news,” said Glenn. “Tell me what’s all this I hear about impending changes in the Nelson family.”
CHAPTER 12
The elevator slid to a stop. Francie gasped.
“Here,” said Glenn. “I shouldn’t have said anything, and so suddenly, too. I’m a dope. I ought to have known.… Why, you poor kid, you’re absolutely white.” He was frantically remorseful. Francie tried to reassure him.
“I don’t feel—” she began, but he motioned to her with his finger at his lips, and with a solicitous hand under her elbow guided her out into the lobby as if she were an invalid.
“You come along with me and sit down somewhere,” he said. “I know; this way.”
She stopped and protested: “You’re taking me into the bar. I don’t want a drink—I mean, I’m really thirsty. Come into the drugstore; I want a Coke.”
Her matter-of-fact tone reassured him somewhat, but he still watched her anxiously as they found a table and sat down. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked. “Not going to faint or anything?”
“Glenn, you poor angel! That’s grime on my face, not pallor. I told you to let me wash, but you were in such a hurry.… Now then, what did you mean? What changes in the family were you talking about?”
“Nothing,” said Glenn. “Just nothing.”
“Come on,” she said, coaxing. There couldn’t possibly, she thought, be such talk about her and Bruce that it would have gone all the way out to Glenn in San Francisco. Changes in the Nelson family! Wouldn’t she know it herself first? And how serenely Glenn was taking it, she noticed with a curious pang. “You can’t back out on it now. What did you hear, when did you hear it, and who from? Was it about me?”
Glenn said, as if stung, “You ought to know that if I heard any talk about you I’d shut it up pretty quick, or come to ask you if it was true or something.”
“Well, then,” said Francie practically, “if it’s not about me it must be about Aunt Norah or Pop. And Aunt Norah was perfectly normal yesterday morning when I took off, I know she was; I can read her like a book.” She paused and made a small questioning sound, but Glenn’s face remained rigid and gave nothing away. “Of course there’s Pop,” she added. “I can’t read him like a book. If we’re playing a guessing game, which it looks as if we are, my guess is Pop. Have I got it right?”
“It’s only gossip, remember.” Glenn sounded as if the words were being pulled out of him.
“Then it’s Pop.” Francie sat quiet for a minute. Her hand twisted the base of the Coke glass slowly on the wet table-top. “Who is it he’s supposed to be sweet on?” she asked at last. “Jefferson’s the talkiest town I ever was in, I must say.”
“Jefferson’s no worse than any other community,” said Glenn, bristling as he always did when his town was impugned.
“Pop doesn’t even see anybody, though. Only old family friends and such,” said Francie, ignoring him. “People like Cousin Biddy and Mrs. Clark. Oh. Oh, I see.”
She fell silent, because her mind had suddenly begun to race ahead as if to make up for former lethargy. Mrs. Ryan’s remarks popped into her head, and now at last she recognized the meaning behind them. She went cold. It was only the surprise, she told herself.
“You’re worrying,” said Glenn. “Listen, Francie, it’s just like I told you, it’s only talk. Please forget it. I bet there’s nothing in it at all. Mother merely repeated what she heard around town; she always writes everything to me for want of any better material. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, honestly, if I hadn’t thought you already knew. I could kick myself around the block for being such a blabbermouth. Come on, forget it. Don’t look so worried.”
“I’m not worried,” said Francie irritably. “That is, I don’t know if I am or not; I haven’t had time yet to be worried. Stand back; don’t crowd me.”
“Sorry.”
She finished her Coke and put down the glass with a thud. “Okay now,” she said, and managed to smile. “I’m not worried after all. Not a bit.”
“You mean there’s nothing to it,” said Glenn in relief. “It’s not true?”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. I don’t know, as a matter of fact, if there’s anything in it or not. Could be. But even if it’s true, so what? Poor old Pop, he’s got a right to a life of his own. When you come to think of it, why in the world shouldn’t he marry again?”
Glenn said, “You could look at it that way, I guess, but most daughters wouldn’t.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Francie bravely. “Most daughters! The days of wicked stepmothers are over and done with, and I like Mrs. Clark a lot.”
Glenn lit a cigarette and sat back. He said, “Speaking for myself, I can’t seem to take to the idea of older people getting married. Doesn’t seem suitable.”
“That’s an unreasonable attitude,” said Francie, blowing her nose.
“Yes, I guess it is, but that’s the way I feel about it. Mother spoiled me, most likely. After Dad died she never gave another thought to her own life,” said Glenn, “and I’d have been pretty sore then if she had.
I wouldn’t have liked another father foisted on me.”
“It’s different,” said Francie. She leaned forward, chin on hands. “It’s different for you. Your father died comparatively lately, and your mother has lived all her life in Jefferson. She’s got her friends, relarives and interests and the same old house as always and so on. Jefferson’s a part of her. But all Pop’s life has been outside of this town. My mother died years and years ago, and he’s filled in the whole time since with his work and travel. Now all of a sudden he’s deprived of his work—only temporarily, but still, it must be an awful jolt, having so much time on his hands. He feels lost, I bet. He probably told himself all these years that he was doing everything for me, and he was, too. But I’ve grown up, and I’m not much of a companion to him now.”
“You’re a swell daughter,” said Glenn quickly. “Everybody knows that.”
“No,” said Francie sadly, “I’m not. I’m too busy with my own affairs. I guess it just isn’t good enough for a man like Pop. Whereas Mrs. Clark can talk his language. He’s been lonely all this time and it’s been wonderful for him finding a woman like Mrs. Clark in Jefferson to talk to and play canasta with and so on.… You know, Glenn, if I keep on talking long enough I’ll sell myself on the idea, whether or not Pop’s sold on it.”
She laughed tremulously, and Glenn patted her hand and said, “Good kid.”
They ordered more Cokes.
“Francie,” said Glenn in the tone of one starting a new subject, “can you imagine a girl settling down in Jefferson, I mean really settling down, if she’s known life outside the Middle West?” As she hesitated, he went on, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever really given it a thought, but I’d certainly like to have your opinion. Take yourself, for instance. A girl like you, who’s been in New York and abroad—well, I would understand if you told me the truth and admitted that you’re only staying out here for the moment, as a sort of stopgap. I know all about your circumstances, so you needn’t be shy in telling me how you really feel. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings. What’s your considered opinion of Jefferson? Try to imagine for a minute that you were facing a future tied up with the town.”
“All right,” said Francie. “I’m trying.”
“The thing is this,” said Glenn seriously. “I’m very fond of Jefferson myself. I’ve never felt restless there, the way you did, I remember, when we were in high school, and I’ve just about made up my mind. It seems to me that Jefferson is the kind of place I’d like to stay in, do my work in. I’ve been in San Francisco a long time now, and I’ve stayed a while in Los Angeles and I’ve seen other big cities. They’re not for me. They’re all right for a visit now and then, but for residence, give me Jefferson every time.”
“How nice for your mother that you feel that way,” said Francie. “So convenient!” She sounded detestable to herself, strained and flippant, but she couldn’t help it: Glenn was confusing her, springing a proposal like that at such a moment. And that he was about to propose she had no doubt whatever. It was fantastic that he should have been thinking along such lines at just the same time that she’d begun putting him out of her thoughts. The only difference in their musings, evidently, was that in her mind’s eye she had been trying to fit Bruce, not Glenn, as her partner through a long peaceful autumn of life in Jefferson.
“A girl who’s seen a good deal of the world,” continued Glenn, “a girl who’s been around, like you—”
“So this is your idea of a hen party, is it?”
Bruce Munson’s voice cut sharply across their dialogue and Glenn turned around in surprise, a funny mixture of embarrassment and annoyance on his face. Francie too was embarrassed. When she had refused Brace’s invitation, she hadn’t of course mentioned Glenn because she hadn’t known he was anywhere near. Now, though Bruce looked cheerful and friendly, she could feel his suspicion. She said hastily, “Oh, hello, Lucky. Look who I’ve just bumped into in the lobby, large as life! I didn’t know Glenn was in town.”
“I didn’t know you were either,” said Glenn to Bruce, in tones far from gracious, but he scrambled politely to his feet and shook hands, and said, “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m struggling along,” said Bruce. “Keeping my head above water.”
Francie was rearranging her thoughts. She had intended to telephone Bruce from her room and ask him to take her out to dinner after all, since she’d got Mrs. Ryan’s permission, but now she was wondering if that was what she really wanted to do with the evening. There were lots of things to discuss with Glenn; it might be better—she could make her peace with Bruce later on, surely. Francie decided.
“Do you mind waiting for me a couple of minutes, Glenn?” she asked. “I’ve really got to go and fix myself up a little. Then if you still feel like taking me out to dinner.…”
“Sure I do,” said Glenn. “I’ve asked you once already.”
Francie turned to Bruce and said apologetically, “You see how it is; this man’s dropped in and changed everything.”
“Evidently,” said Bruce. “And who could blame him for that? Be seeing you some time, I suppose.” He nodded briskly in the general direction of both of them and then, before Francie was ready to see him go away, he started off. She called after him, in dismay that her voice couldn’t quite conceal, “See you at breakfast?” and he gave a non-committal wave before he vanished.
“Well, gee, it looks as if I broke up your arrangements for tonight. I’m sorry, especially if you mind,” said Glenn. “Wasn’t your date with that boy? He acted like it, anyway.”
“No,” said Francie quickly. “I mean, it wasn’t a definite date, and it’s quite all right. Forget it. Now I’ve just got to wash my face and so on. Let’s meet in the lobby in about twenty minutes, shall we?”
As she dressed she thought about a medley of subjects—Glenn, waiting for her downstairs, waiting to ask her to marry him, Bruce and his probable state of mind, and what she might be getting into in her relations with him. What would everyone think if she came back from Chicago engaged? Things were fearfully mixed up—she was interested in Bruce—wasn’t she? It couldn’t only be vanity, she was sure. She would say No to Glenn, she decided, not Maybe but No; even at the risk of losing him, she reflected comfortably. And then she wasn’t so comfortable as she remembered that Glenn had always been around, and it would be very strange if he weren’t.
Francie pulled away from this forcibly, and thought about the Birthday Box, and Chad, and the day at the Merchandise Mart, and about Charley’s Aunt and the rehearsals she was missing. She thought about everything, in short, except one topic that she flinched from examining: the question of Pop and Mrs. Clark. It was one thing to sound brave and broad-minded when she was talking to Glenn about it; it was quite another to live up to the act once she was alone. She just mustn’t worry.
But when at last she looked nice enough to satisfy herself and was in a taxi with Glenn on their way to the restaurant, she couldn’t keep off the subject any more. It didn’t seem polite to sheer away from Glenn’s imminent proposal, but it was necessary; she simply didn’t know what she would say if he tried to go on from where Bruce interrupted him, and he showed no signs of taking it up again. Francie was relieved. All that could wait.
“Do you mind telling me something?” she asked. “What did your mother say, exactly, in her letter?”
Glenn frowned in the effort to be absolutely scrupulous and remember exactly. “I can’t recall her words,” he confessed. “I can only say that I got the idea somehow there was an understanding between Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Clark, and that everybody is expecting an announcement soon. And I’m sure she said something about how you were in on the secret,” he added in injured tones. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise. You are very friendly with Mrs. Clark though, aren’t you?”
Francie said, “As it happens, I am. I see a lot of her. She comes into the Birthday Box practically every day, being a friend of Mrs. Ryan’s, and she gets on well with Aunt Norah, too—th
ey’re old chums, of course—and so naturally I saw a lot of her, and naturally Pop did, too. She’s quite a person. I’ve always liked her ever since I found out she wasn’t just another nice old frump, like the kind we get such a lot of in the Box. But as a stemother—” She broke off, trying to analyze her feelings. “Any woman would seem queer as a stepmother,” she admitted at last. Her voice must have quivered slightly, because Glenn patted her hand, and that made matters worse than ever.
She felt shy at first as they walked into the restaurant full of strange people: it had been a long time since she had been on so urban a date. But, as she told herself, there was no need to feel embarrassed merely because she was dining in a Chicago room instead of a Jefferson one. She looked as pretty as anybody in the room: she had bought a new dress for the trip and she knew it was becoming. People noticed them as they followed the head waiter to a table; people looked at her admiringly, and Glenn was aware of that.
“It’s good for my manly ego, taking you out, do you know that?” he said. “A fellow likes to feel he’s being envied.”
“Silly,” said Francie, but she was delighted, nevertheless. She told herself that they probably did make an attractive couple, especially in that place where most of the customers were older and jaded-looking.
There I go again, she thought, pushing people into age groups, just as if they didn’t have any right to be walking the earth because they happen to be older than I am. I’ve got to get over that notion. Deliberately and for the first time in her life she looked at the older women around her and assessed their attractions, as if she herself were Pop’s age. The more she practiced thinking about it, the less grotesque seemed the idea of her father’s marrying again. But it was all the more disturbing for that.
“You’re very quiet,” said Glenn.
“I’m wrestling with my demon, Glenn—do you know what’s the matter with me? I’ll tell you anyway. It’s jealousy, pure jealousy.” Francie looked at him with round, shocked eyes. “I would hate giving up my position as the only woman in our family,” she said. “Is that terrible, do you think?”