Читать книгу Letters From Home - Kristina McMorris - Страница 13

Chapter 7

Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois

The gilding of the room amplified the stiff formality at Liz’s table. In the corner, a string quartet played Rachmaninoff over silverware clinking on fine china. A tuxedoed host at the entrance relieved a woman of her fur stole while waiters slipped in and out of the kitchen that smelled of grilled steak and spices. Diners nodded and murmured and lobbed laughter back and forth like a tennis ball in a never-ending match.

“All done here, miss?” The waiter gestured with his upturned hand, the movement as groomed as his mustache.

Liz opened her mouth to decline, but Dalton replied for her. “We both are, thank you.”

Why on earth did he choose a place as fancy as this if he wanted to eat at drive-in restaurant speed? Had she known he was in a hurry, she would have bypassed the vegetables and savored the marmalade chicken first.

Liz pressed up a smile as the waiter retrieved their plates. The distraction of eating gone, she bounced her leg under the tablecloth, keeping time with the drumming awkwardness.

Dalton took a long drink of red wine. Tabletop candlelight traveled through his crystal glass and cast severe shadows across his face. With the chiseling of his features, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him draped in a toga, orating before the Roman Senate in another lifetime.

“Was your steak all right?” she asked, attempting conversation.

“Come again?”

“You only ate half your dinner. Was something wrong with it?”

“It was fine. I just had a late lunch.” He offered a lean smile, then popped his second Rolaids of the evening into his mouth. If it weren’t for knowing heartburn ran in his family, she might suspect she was the cause of his indigestion.

Sipping her lemon-wedged ice water, she glanced to her side. A middle-aged couple, necks adorned in a bow tie and pearls, sat silently at the next table. Engrossed in their meals, they sliced, chewed, and dabbed their mouths with white linen napkins. They had to have been married fifteen, twenty years. No children, Liz guessed. Just a small, yippy lapdog waiting at home. The woman would knit next to the radio while her husband read the paper before they retired to opposite sides of the bed.

Liz tried not to stare, but she had exchanged so few words with Dalton over dinner she began to feel as though they had more in common with the neighboring couple than each other.

Dalton drained his glass and contributed to their small talk, finally. “Did you end up with all the classes you wanted?”

“For the most part. I was hoping to take the one on Yeats, but it was still full.”

“That’s great.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Had he heard a word she’d said?

“Dalton, I said I didn’t get into the class.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m just looking for our waiter.”

She hoped he was planning to ask for the bill rather than the dessert menu.

“Dalton Harris, how the heck ahh you?” A deep male voice encroached on their table.

Dalton shot to his feet, accepted a handshake. “Mr. Bernstein, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

A swath of the man’s slicked gray hair fell over his temple as he slapped a palm on Dalton’s shoulder. He reeked of cigar smoke and old Boston money, and the button closing his pin-striped suit jacket appeared ready to launch should he laugh too hard.

“Did you just arrive?” Dalton asked.

“Just finished up. Dinner meeting, you know. All hobnobbing and politics. Not a romantic evening like yours.” He motioned his double chin in Liz’s direction.

“Please,” Dalton said, “allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Elizabeth Stephens.”

Mr. Bernstein gave her hand a cordial peck. “Nice to meet you, missy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Her father is Professor Emmett Stephens,” Dalton pointed out, “a recent transfer from Northwestern to Georgetown.”

“Ah, yes. I believe my son, Warren, took one of his classes way back when. History, was it?”

“Classical literature,” Liz replied, then risked a peek into Dalton’s eyes to make sure correcting the gentleman was acceptable, an act she immediately regretted. When had seeking his permission become a reflex?

“Literature. Of course,” Mr. Bernstein said. “Well, no time for amusing folk tales anymore. Right, Dalton? Not with law school keeping you as busy as it does my own boy these days.”

Amusing folk tales? Liz’s jaw coiled closed, and thankfully so. She was feeling less and less inclined to refrain from slinging retorts labeled “brash” by the charm school Julia had attended.

Dalton folded his arms, wholly absorbed. “Warren is in his second year at Harvard now, isn’t he, sir? And already published in the Law Review, I believe.”

“That’s right,” the man said, surprised. He looked down at Liz. “Sharp as a tack, this one is. You hang on to him, and you just might end up our nation’s first lady. Right after Warren’s presidential term, of course.” When he chuckled, Liz dipped her gaze to the taut thread securing his coat button, hoping for a fracture in the monotony.

“I believe you mean his terms,” Dalton said. “Re-election would be a given.”

Mr. Bernstein slanted a grin toward Liz. “What’d I tell you? Sharp as a tack.”

Dalton delivered a low, hollow laugh that grated on her ears, one he had developed when the campaign began. It was an imitation, she now realized, akin to a man of Bernstein’s build. Even Dalton’s chest appeared slightly puffed to enlarge his medium frame.

“You two enjoy the rest of your evening.” The fellow shook Dalton’s hand. “And you stay on top of those studies. We’re going to need men like you to lead when those boys get shipped back after the war.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

While other girls might, Liz never felt a bit embarrassed over her boyfriend’s lack of uniform. She preferred his safety to the unknown. Apparently so did his father, who’d made it clear that the primary obligation of his only son was to carry on the family name. That the nation would best benefit from his political prowess, not the sacrifice of his blood. With Mr. Harris’s connections, a deferment, or stateside defense job at most, was a surety should Dalton ever be drafted. A relief to Liz, on one hand; on the other, frustration that the decision wasn’t viewed as his own.

“Good night, Elaine,” Mr. Bernstein said to Liz while leaving. “Oh, and son”—he turned back, bumping a busboy in passing— “tell your father to give me a call. We’ll see what we can do to get that man the seat in Washington he deserves.”

Face alight, Dalton nodded. “Any support would certainly be appreciated.”

Another shark reeled in.

Dalton was in the midst of sitting down when their waiter returned and set a dome-covered plate before Liz. She peered up at the man. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any dessert.” Her desire to get home squashed any craving for a decadent torte.

Without a word, the server removed the lid in a grand arc, the dome pinging above his head.

Obviously, no one was listening to her tonight. She would be better off skywriting a message. “Sir, I said I didn’t order—” The objection died on a gasp, strangled by the sight of the small box on her plate.

A sterling box.

For a ring.

Dalton reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Elizabeth.” He spoke slow, articulate. “We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember.”

Her hands tingled with fear of where this was leading, of sentences resembling a life-altering speech. She focused to hear him over the quick thumps of her heart. Every word carried a pulse. She strained for each vital syllable, to confirm that merely an early birthday present lay before her. Or a Christmas gift—in August.

“Thanks to our grandfathers, you were the little pest I was stuck playing with every summer.” Nostalgia seeped into his voice. “For years I thought of you as a kid sister. But eventually, it became clear our friendship was destined to grow into something more.”

A proposal. It was a proposal. Too soon, it was too soon!

“Dalton,” she stage-whispered, “I thought we were going—”

“To wait, I know. But there’s no reason we can’t make our plans official now. In less than two years, I’ll have my degree and you’ll have enough credits to graduate early. Still top of your class, knowing you. Then we can finally start our lives together. With my practicing law, and your professorship, we’ll be . . . unstoppable.” He smiled, eyes twinkling like sapphires.

“But my father—”

“He’s already given his permission.”

The statement clattered in her head. “He what?”

“He said so long as you had a degree in your hand first, we could sign the marriage license whenever we wanted.”

Her life, in an instant, became a runaway train. The velocity left her breathless. “You spoke with him?”

“On the phone last week. Told me he was absolutely delighted.”

Absolutely delighted. Did he use those very words? Ones that conveyed an actual emotion? The image of her father wearing an expression in the realm of happiness slowed her thoughts, lessened her alarm. His acceptance of Dalton, though established long ago, had never implied such zeal. Perhaps with the inclining prominence of the Harris family, their marriage could resuscitate her father’s approval.

Certainly, she favored that possibility over the alternative: his delight but a form of relief, her wedding vows marking the end of his parental obligations.

Dalton slid from his chair and knelt before her. He picked up the box and creaked open the lid. “This ring has been in my family for four generations.” He pulled the heirloom out of the turquoise velvet tuck. A beveled emerald shone at the center of the star etched into the gold band. Five small diamonds winked between each point. “If you’ll have me, Lizzy, it would be my honor to pass it along to you.”

Either the restaurant had fallen silent or shock was hindering her hearing. No tinking of silverware, no lobbing of laughter.

He peered into her eyes. “Elizabeth Stephens, will you marry me?”

The question burned in her ears, its heat stretched down her neck. Her tongue was cold, absent a reply. She glanced over Dalton’s shoulder, stalling to produce her answer. Against a swagged velvet curtain, their waiter stood at attention. She wanted to ask him to open a window before the pressure bowed the fabric-lined walls. But the bottle of champagne in his hand, surely intended for her table, indicated his task card was full.

“Elizabeth?” Dalton said.

She returned to the ring, then to Dalton’s face. When he leaned forward a fraction, candlelight brushed a caramel glow over his skin, erasing the hard lines on his forehead. Before her eyes, he reverted to the boy she’d grown up with. Dalton Harris, her child-hood friend. The one who spent a week by her side when she had chicken pox, playing jacks while stuffing themselves with Baby Ruth bars. The same one who taught her how to ice fish and took her to her first dance. The guy who’d held her hand at her grandfather’s funeral.

And now, here he was, matured into a man, offering his devotion and security. What girl in her right mind would say no?

Liz drew a breath. Under the gaze of the entire room, she smiled. Then nodded.

Applause erupted as Dalton guided the ring onto her finger. It was halfway on when her knuckle resisted the band. She winced from a second push. A feeling of self-consciousness stirred inside, an itch she couldn’t reach. Was the coliseum of spectators interpreting the mismatched size as a bad omen?

“I think it might be a little small,” she said quietly.

“It’s okay, it’ll fit.” Determined as always, he twisted the band one way, then the other, as if the solution were a matter of angle.

“No, Dalton, really.” He shoved harder, pinching her skin. “Ow!” she cried, halting him.

He raised his eyes, and his whole body sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This isn’t going the way I’d planned.” His crestfallen tone released a rush of compassion in Liz, and, in its wake, regret for misjudging his behavior throughout dinner.

“It’s no problem.” She shrugged. “I’ll just have it resized.” Smiling, she shifted the ring onto her pinkie. “Until then, this should work.”

Soon a beam returned to his face. He pulled her hand toward him and stood to embrace her. The audience caught a second wind and clapped louder.

“I love you, Lizzy,” he said into her ear.

She closed her eyes, relished the familiarity of his arms, his musky scent. “Me too,” she replied, holding him tighter.

This was right. This made sense. You didn’t need chills or flutters or illusionary magic from a fleeting dance. Just the loyalty and devotion of someone who cared. Any other notions were better left as daydreams.

Of this she was certain.