What would be extracted from her now that she seemed to have won William’s heart?
The rain began to beat down in a deluge, so Dottie turned her headlights on as they slugged along and flipped the lever for windshield wipers that did not seem up to the task. Margaret could see that she was gripping the steering wheel tightly as they tried to avoid sliding around while they made their way toward the final blocks to her house. She must feel especially harried since she hadn’t been driving for very long.
At last, they pulled up and she inched the car into the driveway.
“There’s an umbrella underneath your seat, Margaret. You and Gladys can use that one. I have one near my door here. Hold on tight—I think they could blow away in this wind!”
“Did buying a brand-new car mean that you couldn’t afford a third umbrella?”
Of course, Gladys would have something snappy to say. Margaret reached to the front and poked her in the rib cage. Sometimes she didn’t know when to put the kidding to rest.
They slid out, the wind shutting the doors behind them with a slam, and scurried up the slippery steps to the white house on Shore Road.
Margaret shook the umbrella out on the covered porch, a futile effort since the rain was blowing on them anyway. The house was built on a steep hill, so when she turned around for a quick look back, she could see above the tree line and across the water. The whole sky was draped in darkness, and the waters of the bay beneath it formed agitated whitecaps.
“Hurry! I see lightning.” Dottie pulled Margaret in by the arm just as a bolt hit the manhole cover on the street below and created a magnificent flash.
Dottie closed the door and took their jackets, hanging them on the coatrack in the foyer, and set the umbrellas in a stand made just for that purpose.
It was good to be inside.
Warm. Dry. Heaven.
“I knew you girls would be hungry, so everything is ready.” She led them down the long Oriental rug in the hallway and into the dining room, which was lined with a wall of beveled glass windows. She closed the drapes, no doubt wanting to keep the storm from view.
The table was set for three with salads already plated.
“It’s just us girls tonight,” she announced. “George took a few days off and is in Albany with his dad opening up a new storefront. He wanted to come home when he heard about the storm on the radio, but I begged him to stay so he wouldn’t get caught in it.”
“The Refrigerator King still does work for the family business?” Margaret smiled at John’s old nickname for him.
“More like the Refrigerator Prince, if we’re being accurate,” Gladys chimed in.
Dottie rolled her eyes. “Poke all the fun you want. It might not be as highfalutin as being a Wall Street banker, but before you know it, every household in America will have a dishwasher. Just wait and see.”
Gladys leaned over and kissed her cheek. “If all that truly mattered to me, I wouldn’t be marrying a newspaper reporter.”
“Marrying!” Dottie dropped her salad fork on her plate and a small tomato rolled onto the floor. Her squeal could power any loss that New York would suffer in the storm.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to tell you that I have proposed to Oliver Barnes.”
“I think I’m going to need some wine for this.” Dottie stood up and opened a cabinet that was filled with every kind of liquor one could imagine, amber hues and dark browns, bottles more artistic than what they contained. She pulled out a crystal decanter and scooped up three goblets.
“Here we are, ladies. I don’t know anything about vintages, but George and I like this red one. And there’s more where this came from.” She poured generously for each of them.
A bolt of lightning flashed outside, bright enough to see through the closed curtains. The wind raged and they heard a tree limb crack and fall onto the roof.
Margaret jumped.
Even Dottie looked worried. “I have never seen a storm like this.”
“I ordered it up. You know me, Hurricane Gladys!”
“You know about that?” asked Margaret.
“Don’t worry, love. It’s the perfect nickname. I’m just jealous that I didn’t think of it first.”
Dottie crossed her arms. “You’re stalling.”
Gladys took a cloth napkin from the table and dabbed the corners of her lips.
“All right. Here you go. I proposed to Oliver.” She held out both hands to her friends and they took them, forming a circle.
With a squeeze, Dottie pulled away and leaned back in her chair, taking in that revelation. “Well, I don’t know if I’m surprised or not. I mean, if I’d ever thought that you would be tying the knot, I supposed I would have pictured you being the one to ask.”
“When does our Gladys ever do anything conventionally?” asked Margaret. This would be a good story to tell William. Or not. She’d already gushed about Dottie and George’s wedding.
“I want all the details,” Dottie insisted.
Crack. Another lightning bolt. But the windows seemed safe from fallen branches for the moment.
A uniformed woman came through the swinging door between the rooms and cleared their empty plates.
“You have a cook?” Gladys’s jaw dropped.
“Let’s get it all out in the open, Gladys. And then no more distractions until you have told your story. We have a nanny, a cook, and a housekeeper. Yes, I know that seems extravagant. No, I do not think it’s necessary. But my husband loves to dote on me and as soon as I feel fully settled in, I’m going to follow your lead and learn how to use it all for good. Now—your turn. Go.”
Margaret held a napkin to her mouth to avoid disclosing the huge grin that had spread across her face.
The cook brought out a plate of hot roasted beets with fresh parsley sprigs and Gladys made no comment as she waited for her to leave before continuing.
“Look. I misled you both at the beach.”
Dottie and Margaret glanced at each other and then back at Gladys.
“I told you that Oliver leaves his shavings in the sink in the morning. And I’m sure you extrapolated—there’s a word to share with your boyfriend, Margaret—something that wasn’t entirely true. He has stayed over a few times when a story in Brooklyn kept him out late and he was too tired to go back to the city. But I slept in the bed. And he slept on the couch. Every time.”
Dottie cocked her head. “Are you saying that you haven’t—”
“I’m saying that, believe it or not, Saint Dorothy is the only sullied one among us.”
“And he didn’t try—”
“No! And that’s the part that drives me batty. I told him he didn’t have to stay on the couch. And he told me that he’s old-fashioned about those things. His words exactly.”
Margaret laughed. At first, it was a snicker as she held back something far more guttural out of politeness. But keeping it in was hurting her chest, and at last, she let it out. And then she heard the same from Dottie.
“What? What, you two? You’re finding this funny?”
“Oh my word,” Margaret sputtered between breaths. “If I was a betting woman, I don’t think I ever would have pegged you for dating an old-fashioned gentleman.”