The Bridegrooms: A Novel Read online

  “Miss Allenhouse?”

  “Oh, Mr. Johann. You startled me.”

  He was not a tall man, and he seemed always to be assuming some pose to increase his stature. He stood now at the foot of the stairs, his hands locked behind his back as he rocked on his heels. His hair had both the color and appearance of iron as it sprang, thick and straight, from all parts of his head.

  “Did you take the program to the printer?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Johann. I haven’t had a chance to proofread—”

  “Are we to assume that it will walk itself around the corner?”

  “I wanted to be sure there were no errors. I didn’t know if you’d want to make any changes.”

  “Changes in what way, Miss Allenhouse?” He looked down at her, though he had to nearly raise himself to his toes to do so. “Is there something in our current repertoire that you find lacking?”

  “No…no, of course not.” She wanted desperately to bring her kerchief up to wipe the sweat from her brow, lest Herr Johann believe it was his pathetic attempt at authority that had her in such a heated state. But no such indignity could ever take place in the presence of one so highly self-esteemed, so she forced a sweet smile. “If you’ve looked it over—”

  “It is my job, now, to verify the program? I am to be both the musical director, the conductor, and the theater secretary?”

  The insufferable man made himself taller and taller with each word until Vada was tempted to look down to see if his expensive shoes were still attached to the floral carpet.

  She puffed herself up a bit. “I’ll get them to the printer first thing Monday morning.”

  “Which means you can assure me they will be ready by Friday night?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps the printer is still open. I can take them by this evening on my way home.”

  Herr Johann lowered his heels to the floor and gave a curt nod before walking away, his hands still clasped at his back.

  A peek through the thick double doors showed Garrison had made no progress extracting himself from the conversation with Mr. Pennington, so Vada allowed herself a quick foray into the powder room before making her way to the little office at the back of the theater. Here the faint rays of late afternoon sun stretched through the skylight, allowing her to find the large cream-colored envelope in the middle of her desk.

  Four sheets of paper in all—the first proudly announcing the debut of the East Cleveland Terrington Community Orchestra, under the leadership of Bertram Johann. The second listed the five pieces to be performed, beginning with Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 5 and culminating in his “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  It was a far cry from the glorious philharmonic that had filled the city with ambitious, masterful performances for as long as Vada could remember. No, the gathering of musicians on this stage was very much a remnant—some carried over from the philharmonic, but most, like her Garrison, just ordinary men who’d once abandoned their instruments to work in small, cramped offices all over the city. Their names were listed on the final pages, followed by small blocks of advertising.

  After the concert, “Waltz” on into Sherm’s Soda Shoppe, present this program, and receive two chocolate sodas for the price of one!

  Visit the birthplace of the Viennese Waltz! Let D. S. Walters book your voyage today!

  Vada sighed. What she wouldn’t give to take such a journey. To visit all those places she’d dreamed about as a child.

  Someday.

  Now, though, she squinted to make out the time on the wall clock. Four forty-five. If she hurried, leaving right now, she should have time to make it to the printer’s before they closed. She rushed out of the office, nearly colliding with Garrison in the hall.

  “How did we sound?” Behind his spectacles, bright blue eyes searched for her approval.

  “Better,” Vada said after just a breath’s hesitation. “Much better as the rehearsal wore on.”

  He seemed awash in relief and held his violin case up in a gesture of victory. “I thought so too. But it’s hard to tell on stage. What did you think—”

  “Listen.” She held up the envelope. “I need to get this around the corner before five o’clock. Can you walk with me?”

  His face puckered the way it always did before giving her disappointing news. “Sorry, darling. I have to get some briefs prepared to file in court on Monday. And I don’t want to work on the Lord’s day.”

  “Nor should you,” she said, unfazed by his response. “I suppose that is just the price you pay to become a successful lawyer.”

  Garrison smiled, making him look like a little boy about to go visit his father at work. “Lawyer by day and third-chair violinist by night.” He cast his gaze above. “And junior partner by the fall, if, of course, that’s what the Lord has planned for me. His direction has to come first in any plans I make.”

  Vada stood in front of him, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if to remind him of her presence as he made his future plans. “Don’t you ever want more? Does it ever cross your mind to just toss that partnership to the wind—strike out with nothing but the clothes on your back and your violin and listen to the music on every world stage?”

  “You’re right, Vada.” He lowered his gaze. “Sometimes I think I’d go mad if I didn’t have this.” He held up his violin case.

  “Oh.” She made a vague attempt to hide her disappointment. “Well, yes, music is a great release—”

  “And I know I couldn’t make it through a day if not for you.” He turned his head to glance up and down the empty hallway before bending to give her his familiar kiss. Top of the right cheek, his lips soft and dry against her flushed skin.

  Just like that, she was third chair.

  “I have to get to the printer’s,” she said as he drew away.

  “And I have to get to the office.”

  They walked together down the hall and out the theater’s back door, wished each other a good evening, and turned in opposite directions.

  She’d lost at least five minutes.

  With renewed fervor, Vada rushed down the street, clutching the envelope to her like a schoolgirl with her precious homework. The sidewalks were crowded this Saturday afternoon, and she wove in and out of those people whose agendas were certainly less urgent than hers. The printer’s shop was still half a block away, and if she was to make it on time, she’d need to break into a most unladylike run.

  The piercing eyes of Herr Bertram Johann still burned at the back of her head, spurring her on and, finding an opening in the mass of people, she took her first lunging step.

  “Excuse me! Pardon me!” she called out over her shoulder, not once considering slowing her pace to avoid the occasional brush with a stranger. While she was thus turned around, she noticed she wasn’t the only person running up the street.

  “Oh, bother.” Should she slow her steps or attempt a final burst of speed? But in just that brief pause, he’d caught up to her.

  “Miss Allenhouse?” There wasn’t a hint of labor to his breath while she clutched the envelope to disguise her heaving.

  “Mr. Voyant. How…unusual to see you again.”

  They stood in the middle of the sidewalk, impeding the pedestrian traffic, so when he touched the fabric of her sleeve in a most gallant manner, she allowed herself to be led beneath the protective striped awning of Moravek’s bakery.

  “You’re not an easy woman to keep up with.”

  “And you, apparently, are not an easy man to escape.”

  He touched the brim of his cap, drawing her eyes to the fringe of jet black hair beneath it.

  “What can I do for you today, Mr. Voyant?”

  “Well, for starters, you can call me Dave. And then, since we’ll be on friendlier terms…” He reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook and a stub of pencil. “You can fill me in on the big debut.”

  Vada clutched the program even tighter.

  His gaze linge
red on the envelope. “And what would that be?”

  For just a moment Vada wondered if he was more interested in what was within it or behind it. “I’ve told you before, Mister Voyant, Herr Johann won’t allow any press to attend the rehearsals. And as I am merely a secretary, I can hardly be a good source of information.”

  “Oh, I have the feeling you’re more than a secretary—”

  “Nevertheless, if you want a preview of the ‘Harmonic,’ you’ll need to conduct an interview with Herr Johann himself.”

  “Come on, Miss Allenhouse.” He leaned closer, the deep bass of his voice underscoring the sounds of the street. “It is Miss Allenhouse, isn’t it?”

  Vada flashed her best smile, the one she knew would bring out the dimple just above her chin.

  “Don’t try your flattery on me, Mr. Voyant. I really can be of no help. Now, if you would like to speak to Herr Johann—”

  “I’ve tried.” He effectively blocked her exit with one side step. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think that guy thinks I’m an idiot.”

  She wanted to say it wasn’t his imagination at all, that Bertram Johann considered just about everybody to be an idiot, but she didn’t want to hurl an insult into his sincere green eyes. Instead she said, “I’m sorry. Mr. Johann is intent on revealing as little information as possible.”

  “I’m begging you, Miss Allenhouse. Anything you tell me would be helpful.” He held up his little notebook again, clearly revealing the time on his wristwatch.

  “Oh no!” Vada stamped her foot, and the envelope dropped to her side. “Now you’ve made me late for the printer’s, and we’ll never get the program on time.”

  “So that is your precious cargo.” Dave’s eyes traveled the length of her, stopping short of being downright insulting. “What’s on the list for the evening’s entertainment? A little Bach? A little Beethoven?”

  As he spoke, he moved aside to hold the bakery door open, allowing a woman and her two children to pass through. He tipped his cap and wished her a good afternoon, at which time the woman turned and sent an approving smile over her shoulder.

  Vada squared herself in response, preparing to get out of this conversation. Now. After all, Mrs. Moravek, the baker’s wife, had been serving Garrison and her their Sunday morning pastries for nearly a year. What would she think seeing Vada locked in conversation with another man? It was only a matter of time before she would come to the window and see—

  “Maybe a touch of Mozart?”

  “Honestly, Mr. Voyant. Why do I get the impression that your ability to rattle off a list of composers exhausts your vat of musical knowledge?”

  He chuckled and threw his hands up in surrender. “You’ve caught me. I just got into town a couple of months ago, and the first assignment I get is the arts beat. So can you help a fellow out?”

  “I don’t think—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, Dave snatched the envelope from her hand.

  “Give that back to me!”

  “Were you headed for Franklin’s Dream Printing just around the corner?”

  “Yes, until you—”

  “I’ll take it in for you.”

  “They’re closed.”

  “They’ll open for me, Miss Allenhouse. Answer one question, and I promise you’ll have them in a week.”

  “We need them by Thursday.”

  “Answer two, and you’ll have them Wednesday.”

  She studied his face. The smile was still there, but it was void of any flirtation and artifice. How much harm could one question be? Or two? Keeping her nose in the air as high as safety would allow, she walked away from the bakery window, knowing he was following close behind.

  Once she was safely in front of an anonymous tailor’s, she turned, planted her feet, and folded her arms in front of her. “Two questions, then.”

  “Great.” He tucked the envelope under one arm and licked the tip of his pencil. “First, how does this orchestra compare with the philharmonic that disbanded in ’95?”

  Vada’s mind flashed back to the missed beat at the top of the third measure. “It doesn’t.”

  “How so?”

  “Is that your second question?”

  “My darling Miss Allenhouse. Perhaps you should consider a career in politics.”

  “Hardly likely, seeing as I don’t even have the right to vote.”

  Dave tilted his head back, squinted one eye, and gave a studied perusal. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a suffragette.”

  “Oh, I’m not, really. I leave that to my sister Hazel.”

  “Sister? So there are more of you at home?” The leer was back. “Tell me, are any of your sisters as beautiful as you are?”

  “Is that your second question?”

  He had the good grace to look defeated. “Yes. I’m dying to know.”

  “Well, I’m afraid there’s no way for me to answer without seeming immodest, so what a shame that you wasted it. And that, Mr. Voyant, is your cautionary tale for the day.” Invigorated by the exchange, she punctuated her statement with a victorious chuckle.

  Without another word he flipped the cover, closed his little notebook, and returned it to his pocket as he looked at her with new, unabashed admiration. “Will you at least allow me to see you home?”

  Vada wagged a chastising finger in his face. “That would be a third question. Not part of our agreement. But I’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday with the programs.”

  She walked away, replaying the entire conversation in her mind. Each time, her retorts were saucier, his banter more intense. Left to herself, she giggled in a way she hadn’t dared before. What would Garrison think if he had heard this verbal battle with Dave Voyant? For that matter, what was she thinking?

  Little by little, her nose descended from its perch high in the air, and her head bowed to where she could only see the tips of her shoes peeking out from beneath her skirt with each step.

  Forgive me, Lord, for my inconstancy.

  Feeling chastised, Vada tried to make amends by replaying her last conversation with Garrison. But it was another full block before she could recall a single word.

  2

  “Rotten old cow.” Hazel stood on the porch, hands planted on her hips, directing her comment at the last bit of a stiff brown silk skirt disappearing behind their front door. “Some nerve showing up this late in the afternoon. She’d keep Doc down there until seven o’clock. Her and her fainting.”

  “Oh, Hazel, stop it.” Vada paused at the foot of the concrete steps that spilled down the front of the house. As always, the conflicting tug of relief and resignation accompanied her arrival home, and she wished she’d hidden in the alcove under the stairs long enough to avoid this confrontation. “You know Mrs. Thomas doesn’t like to walk down the basement stairs.”

  Hazel made a face. “The widow Thomas, if you please. Seems she makes a point of mentioning that little fact every time she shows up, lest we forget how very marriageable she is.”

  “Well, the widow Thomas is one of the few people who pays Doc with actual money, so we’d better be a little grateful every time she graces the door.”

  “Honestly, Vada. You can steal the fun out of just about anything.” Hazel’s glare lasted just a few seconds before turning into a mischievous grin that produced a dimple identical to Vada’s own.

  As young girls, they’d often been mistaken for twins, but Hazel remained two inches shorter, and at least that much rounder, until only their dark chocolate hair and that dimple remained as a shared feature.

  “So, do you want to see what came in the mail today?” Hazel asked.

  “Not another one?”

  Hazel held up two fingers—the nails bitten to the quick.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Quick. Come inside.” Hazel opened the front door and, after a quick scan of the entryway to be sure the distasteful Mrs. Thomas was out of sight, grabbed Vada’s hand. The two ran giggling up the stairs to the second-floor
landing.

  “Hurry.” Hazel propelled them toward her bedroom door. “I want to show you before the others get home.”

  “That’s right.” Vada crossed the threshold on her sister’s heels. “Where are they? It’s late.”

  Hazel closed the door behind them. “Althea’s still at work, of course. I guess more people send telegrams on Saturdays.”

  “And Lisette?”

  “Who knows with that one.” Distracted, Hazel sorted through piles of paper on the writing desk beneath the white lace curtain-covered window. “Now how could I have lost… They just came today…ah, here!” She picked up two envelopes and studied them closely before handing one over to Vada. “Look at this one first.”

  Vada peered inside. “A picture and a letter.”

  Hazel nodded. “This is the fourth letter I’ve received from him. But the first picture. What do you think?”

  Vada took a deep breath, bracing herself. She pulled out the postcard-sized photograph and studied the image of a man seated on a straight-backed chair. His dark hair, shining with some sort of oil, was combed, as if against its will, straight back from his forehead. Thick, dark brows formed little nests above pale eyes. There was also a nose and, she assumed, lips, although the detail of either feature was left a mystery behind the massive, thick beard. He wore an ill-fitting, rumpled suit and thick-soled boots. Something that had once been a critter or varmint had been converted to a hat that perched on one knee, as if ready to hop up and skitter away.

  “Isn’t he magnificent?” Hazel’s voice was little more than a sigh.

  “Is this the one who can only write three-letter words?”

  “No, meanie. This is Barth, the one who writes the beautiful passages about the mountain pools like smooth silver coins and the thundering of the elk across the plains.”

  “Ah, the poet.” Vada looked deeper into the pale, vacant eyes.

  “But not like Althea. He doesn’t write in verse or anything. He just makes the land come alive.”