Read Online Five Brides by Eva Marie Everson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eva Marie Everson
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said, sitting at one end of the table, “but nothing like this.”
Betty folded the newspaper and adjusted her posture for a better view of the timid woman-child she shared a home with. “Tell me something, Evelyn.” She reached over and touched Evelyn’s hair. “Have you ever thought of having your hair professionally styled?”
Evelyn blushed furiously as she swallowed her first sip of coffee. “My mama always cut my hair.”
“With what ?” Betty locked eyes with Evelyn. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, but sweetheart, you’ve got such lovely hair color, it’s a shame not to . . .” She allowed the idea to trail off.
Evelyn shook her head. “You mean, I have practically no hair color.”
“I would call it the color of honey.” Betty turned her coffee cup 360 degrees before looping her index finger into the handle. “Do you know how many women pay the big bucks to have hair that color?” Her mother, for one . . .
Evelyn smiled in appreciation. “I don’t have the kind of money to do anything fancy. I’m barely making ends meet now.”
Betty sighed as she stood. “Stay right there.”
She walked into the living room, grabbed the latest copy of Vogue she’d purchased at the drugstore on Saturday, and returned to the kitchen, stopping at the Philco long enough to flip it on. “Fools Rush In” played tenderly from the big band station out of Indiana. The station came in clear only after five o’clock in the evenings, and became all the more clear after nine.
Betty dropped the magazine on the table. “Study this, Evelyn. I’ll bet we can figure out the best hairstyle for you, and I’d be willing to bet we can pull together the right look for you from the clothes you already have in your closet.”
But Evelyn shook her head, already in defeat. “No, I—”
The front door opened and Magda called, “Anyone here?”
“In the kitchen,” Betty sang out, sitting in her chair again.
Magda pulled a scarf from her rich auburn hair as she entered. “Do I smell coffee?”
Betty jutted her thumb in the direction of the counter. “Knock yourself out. I’ll get up in a little bit and see if I can’t rustle us up something to call dinner.”
Magda smiled as she reached into the cabinet and pulled outa cup and saucer, one that matched the pattern Betty and Evelyn drank from. One of the eight-piece set Betty had talked her mother into buying her when she first moved into the apartment.
Betty couldn’t help but notice the expression; Magda rarely showed happiness. “Is that a smile I see on your face?”
Magda practically twirled as she turned and sat at the opposite end of the table from Evelyn. Her full skirt fanned out around her petite frame, and once her coffee had been placed on the table, she dropped her chin into the cup of her hand.
Betty looked at Evelyn. “She’s met someone. Dollars to doughnuts, she’s met someone.” Then, to Magda, “Dish it out, sister.”
“Maybe,” Magda said.
Evelyn slapped her hands down on the table, rattling the dishes and sloshing a little of the coffee into the saucers. “Tell us!”
“He’s a writer, but he hasn’t even remotely noticed me yet.”
“Name please,” Betty said.
Magda sighed. “Harlan.” She waved a hand in the air. “Harlan Procter. It’s an odd name, I know, but, girls . . . he has an absolutely brilliant way with words.”
Evelyn leaned over. “What’s he said?”
Magda rested her fingertips over the cup as though allowing it to warm her hands. “Well, nothing to me . Not really, anyway. What I mean to say is that he writes short stories for one of our magazines and I’ve always enjoyed them. And then today I met him face-to-face. He had a meeting with my boss.” Again, she sighed. “So, other than ‘Harlan Procter for Mr. Cole,’ he hasn’t said a peep to me. I doubt he could even tell you what I look like.”
Betty took a long swallow of coffee. “Well, then. Let’s not go out and buy a
Betty folded the newspaper and adjusted her posture for a better view of the timid woman-child she shared a home with. “Tell me something, Evelyn.” She reached over and touched Evelyn’s hair. “Have you ever thought of having your hair professionally styled?”
Evelyn blushed furiously as she swallowed her first sip of coffee. “My mama always cut my hair.”
“With what ?” Betty locked eyes with Evelyn. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, but sweetheart, you’ve got such lovely hair color, it’s a shame not to . . .” She allowed the idea to trail off.
Evelyn shook her head. “You mean, I have practically no hair color.”
“I would call it the color of honey.” Betty turned her coffee cup 360 degrees before looping her index finger into the handle. “Do you know how many women pay the big bucks to have hair that color?” Her mother, for one . . .
Evelyn smiled in appreciation. “I don’t have the kind of money to do anything fancy. I’m barely making ends meet now.”
Betty sighed as she stood. “Stay right there.”
She walked into the living room, grabbed the latest copy of Vogue she’d purchased at the drugstore on Saturday, and returned to the kitchen, stopping at the Philco long enough to flip it on. “Fools Rush In” played tenderly from the big band station out of Indiana. The station came in clear only after five o’clock in the evenings, and became all the more clear after nine.
Betty dropped the magazine on the table. “Study this, Evelyn. I’ll bet we can figure out the best hairstyle for you, and I’d be willing to bet we can pull together the right look for you from the clothes you already have in your closet.”
But Evelyn shook her head, already in defeat. “No, I—”
The front door opened and Magda called, “Anyone here?”
“In the kitchen,” Betty sang out, sitting in her chair again.
Magda pulled a scarf from her rich auburn hair as she entered. “Do I smell coffee?”
Betty jutted her thumb in the direction of the counter. “Knock yourself out. I’ll get up in a little bit and see if I can’t rustle us up something to call dinner.”
Magda smiled as she reached into the cabinet and pulled outa cup and saucer, one that matched the pattern Betty and Evelyn drank from. One of the eight-piece set Betty had talked her mother into buying her when she first moved into the apartment.
Betty couldn’t help but notice the expression; Magda rarely showed happiness. “Is that a smile I see on your face?”
Magda practically twirled as she turned and sat at the opposite end of the table from Evelyn. Her full skirt fanned out around her petite frame, and once her coffee had been placed on the table, she dropped her chin into the cup of her hand.
Betty looked at Evelyn. “She’s met someone. Dollars to doughnuts, she’s met someone.” Then, to Magda, “Dish it out, sister.”
“Maybe,” Magda said.
Evelyn slapped her hands down on the table, rattling the dishes and sloshing a little of the coffee into the saucers. “Tell us!”
“He’s a writer, but he hasn’t even remotely noticed me yet.”
“Name please,” Betty said.
Magda sighed. “Harlan.” She waved a hand in the air. “Harlan Procter. It’s an odd name, I know, but, girls . . . he has an absolutely brilliant way with words.”
Evelyn leaned over. “What’s he said?”
Magda rested her fingertips over the cup as though allowing it to warm her hands. “Well, nothing to me . Not really, anyway. What I mean to say is that he writes short stories for one of our magazines and I’ve always enjoyed them. And then today I met him face-to-face. He had a meeting with my boss.” Again, she sighed. “So, other than ‘Harlan Procter for Mr. Cole,’ he hasn’t said a peep to me. I doubt he could even tell you what I look like.”
Betty took a long swallow of coffee. “Well, then. Let’s not go out and buy a
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