Adjusting her gloves, she turned under the massive marquee near the box office, where a thick line of folks waited to see the same movie Joan and the others —who’d all made a mad dash for the ladies’ room afterward —had just enjoyed.
“I’ll be outside,” Joan had said to them after applying a light touch of lipstick and repositioning her hat.
She shook her head now as she made a final tug on the gloves. Sensing a sudden onslaught of moviegoers about to enter through the dark-glass doors, she shuffled to the right just as her flatmates exited.
“There you are.” Evelyn adjusted the frames of her cat-eye specs and squinted into the sunlight.
“Ice cream soda, anyone?” Inga asked, pointing across the street to a malt shop.
Betty linked her arm through Inga’s and pulled her eastward. “Wasn’t all that popcorn and soda enough for you?”
The rest followed. “My sister,” Magda called out, “should be worried about her figure or risk TWA firing her.”
“But we’re talking ice cream,” Inga called over her shoulder.
“Girls,” Magda continued, “steer her away from temptation.”
Evelyn turned her face toward Joan with a pout. “I guess we’re heading home.”
Joan shrugged. “I suppose we are.”
“But to what?” Magda asked. “I have no plans.” With a jut of her chin, she added, “Look at them. Somehow they’ve managed to get a good half a block ahead of us.”
Joan smiled at the words. “Oh look . . .” Betty and Inga had begun a shuffle-ball-step. “They think they’re dancing with Gene Kelly now.”
“I wish I had a date tonight,” Evelyn drawled. “But . . .”
“A date?” Magda all but barked. “I wish I had a boyfriend.”
“But I thought —” Evelyn began.
“I mean a real boyfriend,” Magda said, growing more solemn. “Not like . . .” Her voice trailed.
“Oh, yes,” Joan said, determined to lighten the mood again. She pretended to take a note on the palm of her hand. “I can practically read the letter now. Dear Mum and Dad —”
“Mor and Far,” Magda corrected.
Joan cleared her throat. “Dear Mor and Far . . . As it turns out, I can’t marry Hans, whom I’m sure you think a perfect match for me. I have met the man of my dreams right here in Chicago.”
“And that’s not the bad news,” Evelyn added, also taking up the pretense of writing a letter. “The bad news is . . . he’s . . .”
Magda smiled then, adding, “He’s Baptist.”
The three laughed easily, sobering only when they came to where Betty and Inga had stopped in front of one of the colossal, architecturally framed storefront windows of Carson Pirie Scott & Co.
“Would you look at that,” Evelyn breathed.
“I have to say,” Betty said, “that is the prettiest wedding dress I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
“I’d give my eyeteeth to have a gown like that.” Evelyn’s eyes scanned the dress as though she already did.
The young women remained silent for a moment, lost in the folds of the dress, the long, lacy sleeves, and the sweetheart neckline.
“I’ve never seen so much lace in my entire life.” Betty continued in her ogling.
“What do you think?” Joan asked, feeling the eastbound crowd brush against her. She stumbled slightly but managed not to fall as her eyes roamed the cathedral-length veil floating from a headband of pearls crowning the mannequin’s brunette hair. “Two fifty?”
“Two fifty?” Betty cast a glance that inquired if she’d quite possibly lost her mind. “For all that elegance and enchantment? You must still be thinking in quid, Joan. I’d say more like four hundred. Dollars.”
“If I wore that dress on my wedding day,” Evelyn said, once again adjusting her glasses, “I’d feel like Cinderella on her way to the ball.”
Betty crossed her arms as a look of genius settled on her face. “I say let’s do it.”
“Go in.” She tipped her head toward the front doors. “Try it on.”
“Are you serious?” Magda asked, turning to stare at the dress once again.
“Why not? We’re not doing anything else the rest of the day.” She smiled, the fire-engine-red lipstick making her pearly whites look all the more so. “Unless someone wants to go home and dust something . . . or cook something . . .”
“But,” Joan said, “we . . .” She looked around at the faces of her flatmates. “None of us has so much as an engagement ring.”
“So?” Betty asked, her eyes shining with the excitement of it all.
Inga bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’m with Betty. Let’s do it.”
Joan looked to Evelyn. Behind the specs, her blue eyes had grown wide and anxious with anticipation.
Joan nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it,” she said, making a dash toward the door. “Last one in has to clean the loo for the rest of the month.”
Betty pushed through the heavy, bay-shaped revolving doors on the northwest corner of the imposing department store. She looked over her shoulder at the others. Inga stood closest to her heels, Evelyn only steps behind her. Joan and Magda pulled up the rear. She watched their faces as they stood just inside the door. Each of them looked up, then turned slowly, mouths gaping at the splendor and architectural genius of the glittery interior. Their eyes scanned the gold capitals encircling thick supporting columns that stood like Buckingham Palace guards and the chandeliers, as big as boats, hanging from the ceiling, dripping crystal, light, and color.
“Come, come, come,” Betty said. “Bridal wear is on one of the upper levels. Four, I think.”
Opting against the elevator, they darted up stairs with banisters that matched the ornate decor of the store itself, the tap-tapping of their shoes announcing their excitement to the fourth floor, where the plaster ceilings hung much lower than those on the first. Again, they all stopped, clustered together and breathing heavily as they absorbed the grandeur and elegance of the department.
A middle-aged salesclerk with perfectly coiffed hair approached, and she nodded as Betty described the dress in the showcase window along Madison.
“I know the one you mean,” the clerk replied, and she smiled at the cluster of young women wearing their Saturday-go-into-the-city clothes and wide-eyed expressions. “And, if I may inquire, which one of you is the lucky girl?”
Evelyn grabbed Joan’s hand as though they were about to be hauled off to jail for impersonating blushing brides-to-be.
“That would be me,” Betty piped up.
Joan shot Betty her best are-you-joshing? look.
“You’re in luck,” the clerk said. “I believe we have it in your size.” Again, she smiled. “And would these lovely ladies be your bridesmaids?”
Betty smiled knowingly. “Perhaps. For now, we’re interested only in that one dress.”
The woman arched a brow. “Please have a seat and I’ll be right back.”
Velvet settees encircled the bridal showroom’s marble-topped platform. The women perched like real ladies on the edges of five individual sofas, straight-backed with legs crossed at the ankles, lips pressed together. Betty couldn’t help noticing that no one dared to look at the others for fear of breaking into laughter at their own courage to do something so daring.
The salesclerk returned, holding a plump satin-covered hanger high above her head. The dress draped from her right hand over her left arm, sweeping the air in front of her as she walked. “Here we are,” she sang, looking at Betty.
Betty rose from her seat, heart pounding as she glided toward the clerk as though stepping down a wedding aisle. In the window, clothing the inanimate mannequin, the dress had appeared nothing short of lovely. But here, so close to her twitching hands, it became the gown of fairy tales. The kind of dress a girl could only hope to wear on her wedding day. The kind she had always dreamed of . . .
“I don’t believe,” Joan whispered out of a sort of reverence, “that Her Majesty Elizabeth’s dress was any more beautiful than this.” She stood, and the others followed suit, each of them taking a step forward.
Evelyn leaned close to Betty’s ear. “Maybe we shouldn’t —”
Before Betty could shush her, the salesclerk interrupted. “Would you like to have one of our girls model this for you or would you prefer to try it on yourself?”
“Oh, no,” Betty said. “I’ll try it on.” She turned to the others. “And then I want my friends to do the same.”
“Yes, please,” Betty answered, scooping the dress from the clerk’s arms and into her own. The material rustled, sending a shiver of anticipation through Betty that she hadn’t known in months. Not since her father had cut off her allowance and her endless days of compulsive shopping had come to an end. “Point me to the dressing room, if you will be so kind,” Betty said with the same flourish she’d heard in her mother’s voice time and again.
Then to the others, she said, “Girls, I’ll be back momentarily.”
Inga cleared her throat as she returned to her seat. “I suppose we’ll wait here.”
Magda followed. “That Betty has some nerve. Some . . .”
“Moxie. It’s called moxie,” Joan added. She took Evelyn’s hand and squeezed, leaving Inga to wonder if it was for her sake or for the little mouse from Georgia. “And listen, girls. Marriage may be the last thing on my mind, but in its own way, this could actually be fun.”
“I just hope we don’t get in trouble,” Evelyn countered.
Inga shot her a look. “What on earth for? Like Joan just said, we’re only having fun.”
“I’m with Evelyn,” Magda added.
“Of course you are.” Inga straightened her dress’s skirt over her crossed knees. “As for me, this may be more than just window-shopping. This may be my first real try-on.” She closed her eyes, aware of the instrumental music wafting from somewhere overhead. If her years sitting on Mrs. Dexter’s brutal piano bench had taught her anything at all, it was to recognize the finer pieces of music. This was . . . Chopin . . . Nocturne in E flat major?
She waited, listening. Yes. Most definitely Chopin.
She allowed it to relax her. To drown out the strain between herself and her sister and the fear emanating from Evelyn. She imagined herself in the dress, walking down the aisle in her father’s church —she’d give her parents that much. Frank, looking expectant and madly in love, dressed in a tux. No. A morning suit. She’d demand a late-morning wedding. The sooner they said “I do,” the sooner the honeymoon could begin. And where to? She’d always wanted to go to Niagara Falls.
Was that too cliché? What of it. That’s where they’d go. From one end of the country back to the other —Los Angeles, where life with Frank Martindale would finally begin. She sighed, opening her eyes as the name Mrs. Frank Martindale tiptoed through her thoughts.
“Well?” Betty stood on the nearby platform looking as radiant as Inga felt. The salesclerk fluffed the skirt behind her, and then drew the train to its full length. Light from overhead cast a shimmer along the folds of satin and Chantilly lace.
“Oh, Betts,” Joan said, nearly breathless and pressing her hand against her chest. “Just look at you.”
Inga knew she had stopped breathing, but figured she needed to in order to allow her heart to catch up with her head. She had only imagined herself in the dress. But there she stood —Betty Estes —looking more radiant and more bride-like than Inga had considered possible.
“Tell me,” the salesclerk said, “what is the name of your fiancé?”
Betty blinked as if the magic of the moment had been broken. Her eyes shot to Evelyn’s, and Evelyn’s suddenly dropped to the floor.
“Evelyn,” she said, ignoring the woman looking up at her. “Why don’t you try the dress on next?”
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