Was this a strain on his heart? If he was concerned, he didn’t let on.
Hats off to them.
The brilliant sun shined through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the room with depictions of saints whose names and stories were unknown to her. The painted ceiling atop gothic arches looked like something that belonged in Europe. And the organ pipes seemed as if they could reach the sky. It was impressive for a little redbricked church in the heart of Brooklyn, and Margaret’s chest swelled at the beauty of it.
At least it was a distraction from the heat.
That and the constant page-turning of the leather-bound missal that translated the Latin being spoken at the altar and the English printed on sheets as thin as an air mail letter.
Margaret looked back at the bride and groom. This was the day she and Dottie had playacted so many times as little girls. Taking turns wearing a white pillow sheet as the gown. Embellishing it with ribbons and scraps from their mothers’ stashes. And later, when it was known beyond doubt that John would be the one to greet her at the end of the aisle, they would cut pictures from magazines and collect them in boxes.
They dreamed about the day when they’d officially become sisters. And now it would never be quite like what they’d imagined. Margaret tightened her lips and held a handkerchief to her eye.
This was a happy day. But it didn’t look like what it was supposed to. George, dear as he was to them all, was not the one they ever thought they’d see here.
Dottie looked back, perhaps with that intuition that had been enriched through most of their lives. She caught Margaret’s eye and smiled.
That was all Margaret needed. Life didn’t always turn out as one expected it to. But that didn’t mean it isn’t wonderful.
“How are you holding up, Mom?” Margaret whispered as the bride and groom spoke their vows. She hoped her mother wasn’t too uncomfortable. The sweater that went with her best dress was unseasonable, but she didn’t think it seemly to show bare arms in a church.
Mrs. Beck held a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed them.
“It’s bittersweet,” she said, understanding a different meaning. Then she sighed. “But Dottie looks so happy.”
They squeezed each other’s hands and didn’t let go.
Mrs. Troutwine looked back at them and frowned, extending a finger over her mouth and shushing them.
Surely, Dottie’s mother must be rejoicing, though. John had not been a Catholic. He’d mentioned the need for him and Dottie to apply for a dispensation from the bishop because of it, but he was shipped off before they could even begin the process.
Not so with George. In fact, his uncle was a deacon at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. Practically Catholic royalty.
So Mrs. Troutwine could take her pucker-faced expression and…
No. They were in a church. Margaret needed to temper such thoughts.
But this one she allowed—how on earth had this woman borne sweet Dottie?
To Margaret, it had always been one of the world’s greatest mysteries.
It all evaporated, though, when Dottie—resplendent in her white satin gown—exchanged her vows with George. Not a dry eye was had.
The reception was held at the Algonquin. Though the appliance business came through George’s paternal side—dating back to the first modern iterations of iceboxes and the like—his mother was a relative of a city newspaper editor and she had connections at the hotel long known for its literary round table. Writers for Vanity Fair had once met there daily and feasted on free celery and popcorn as they discussed news and politics and literature, eventually turning their endeavor into an entirely new publication—the New Yorker magazine.
All of this Margaret learned from Oliver, who had heard of the Algonquin all the way over in England. Still attached to Gladys despite all odds, he was accompanying her to the reception and regaling them all with stories of the legendary place on the drive.
“We’ll have to keep an eye out for the cat, of course,” he said with the enthusiasm of a young boy.
“The cat?” Gladys huffed. She had never had an affection for pets, thinking it preposterous that one would voluntarily bring an animal into their home.
“Hamlet,” he continued. “The owner of the hotel once took in a stray cat and named it Rusty. But John Barrymore thought it needed a more refined name and suggested Hamlet instead. Ever since then, there is always a hotel cat. If it’s male, it’s Hamlet. A female is Matilda.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” Gladys answered.
Margaret racked her brain and finally remembered why this sounded familiar. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about! They hold the annual feline fashion show. I just came across an article about it in the newspaper saying that applications can be turned in to participate next month.”
“A feline fashion show?” Gladys shook her head. “Now I’ve heard the most ridiculous thing ever.”
Oliver grinned and caught Margaret’s eye. She grinned back. Despite Gladys’s protestations, they knew she couldn’t resist going to something so unusual.
“Well, that’s too bad,” he said with exaggerated disappointment. “I was planning to do a story on it for the London Times and thought you would have liked to come with me.”
Gladys shrugged. “With all that is happening in the world, why on earth would your readers pay two cents—or two pence as it may be—about that?”
Margaret answered for him. “Because we need to read good news. Silly news. And—correct me if I’m wrong, Oliver—but my guess is that you Brits enjoy the opportunity to have a laugh at our expense.”
“Ding, ding, ding! You’ve won the prize, Margaret Beck. Since Gladys refused me, you can come along.”
Gladys sat up straight, just as the driver hit a bump in the road. She gripped the edge of the upholstered seat and then smoothed her skirt as if nothing had happened. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go.”
Oliver and Margaret once again exchanged conspiratorial looks.
“Okay. If you really want to,” he conceded.
And it was settled.
They arrived at the entrance on 44th, and a doorman in a tall felt hat opened the car door. Twelves stories of white stone and brown brick cast their imposing shadow onto the sidewalk, and olive-green awnings looked like half umbrellas over the gold-cased windows. Margaret felt like a princess, basking in the generosity of George’s family to include her in such indulgences.
So this is how the rich live. But she surprised herself with her lack of envy. The excitement was in the novelty of it. And novelty always proved to be a short-lived siren. Though Dottie’s financial status had just been elevated tremendously, she shared George’s penchant for simplicity. In fact, they planned to buy a house in Brooklyn rather than purchase a Park Avenue Manhattan apartment so George could continue working at the Navy Yard while Dottie stayed home with Joanna. And any future children that would come.
The elegance continued as they entered the hotel. Marble floors sparkled and black pillars surprisingly reflected the light of the many crystal chandeliers. It was not a large room, but it had a grand coziness that she hadn’t expected.
Eight at a time, the guests entered the elevators for the one-story ride up to the ballroom while others ascended the staircase. However they arrived, they were welcomed by a beautiful sight. Everything was draped in white—flowers, tablecloths, plates. Even the waiters’ uniforms were white. Margaret considered the impracticality of it, imagining the bleach that would need to be used on the laundry later. But her mind was not supposed to be concerned. Tonight was to be one of no concerns.