Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse. Faith Sullivan
Lundeen, Mrs. Edward Barnstable Jr.,” and so forth.
“The weather continuing mild, tea was poured in the garden beneath the grape arbor, asters and sedum lending a riotous setting for the conviviality.”
Elvira, who followed news of Cora Lundeen with feverish devotion, had begun a “George and Cora” scrapbook. Clipping social items from the Standard Ledger, and picking up orts of hearsay from the store—“They have a telephone now. In the kitchen. And a hot-water heater. Imagine. Everything so up to date”—slavishly she entered these into the growing scrapbook. The white rose from the wedding reception was pressed in amongst the other Lundeen miscellanea.
Nell wondered at Elvira’s hero-worship of George; still, she smiled at Elvira’s devotion. It did no harm to have models. And young Cora was a proper model: visiting shut-ins with her mother-in-law, serving as hostess at Ladies Aid gatherings, and spearheading a Christmas toy drive for children living south of the railroad tracks.
In a village, however, the gears of social converse are oiled by gossip, so, in spite of good works, Cora was bound to be a topic of back-fence talk. So lovely, so well dressed, so well educated, so social: “Yes, of course she’s good natured, but wouldn’t we all be, if we had her money?”
Nevertheless, one Saturday night after work, Elvira stomped up the outside stairs, slammed the apartment door, and stood in the living room shaking her fist. “I can’t believe some people!”
Pulling a nightshirt over Hilly’s head, Nell asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Aunt Martha!”
“What’s she done now?”
“She came into the store to return a corset she’d ordered from St. Paul. She’s had it two months and I’m sure she’s worn it, but today she said it was too big and we’d have to take it back. What could possibly be too big for Aunt Martha?”
Suppressing a smile, Nell rocked Hilly and waited.
“I went up to the office and asked Mr. George—really the finest gentleman you’ll ever meet—what I should do. He said to give her the money, it wasn’t worth fighting about. I told him I didn’t mind fighting with her, but he said no, he didn’t want to put me in that position.”
“You wouldn’t want to create a scene in the store,” Nell said.
“I wouldn’t mind creating a scene with her. But I gave her the money. Then what does she say? How do I like working for a high-hat who’s too good to marry a local girl?”
“That was uncalled for.”
“Well, I gave her a piece of my mind. I said Mr. George was a prince and Cora Lundeen was a perfect angel and anybody who said otherwise was a jealous troublemaker.”
Nell laughed despite herself.
“That got her goat,” Elvira continued. “‘Jealous of a snip who’s too good to buy clothes in her husband’s store?’ she said. I was so embarrassed. It was a blessing no one was close by, but they could’ve been. Poor Mrs. George, if it got back to her . . .”
Nell carried the sleeping Hilly into his bedroom. When she returned, she said, “It’s admirable to stand up for friends, but there’s always going to be gossip in a whistle-stop like Harvester. Don’t take it seriously.”
Elvira flopped onto the daybed. “What should I have said?”
Nell considered. “When you’re in a public place, you have to be discreet, or you may generate more gossip. Let’s see. You might have given Aunt Martha a sharp look and said, ‘I think highly of the Lundeens, and what they do is none of my business.’”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re still a girl. But you’re a quick study. You’re becoming a lady.”
Elvira clapped her hands. “You really think so?”
Nell loved the warm semidark of Lundeen’s, the sense of possibilities. Standing there, she drank in the crisp perfume of fabric bolts and new-minted overalls, the serious and promising smell of work boots, the dreamy waft of women’s soft leather shoes.
In yard goods, she searched through the fabric remnants for a dark, heavy piece to sew short pants for Hilly. The boy stood at her side, watching customers come and go, listening to the palaver as they jawed with each other and with Elvira, behind the counter.
“And Hilly will need a pair of kneesocks,” Nell told Elvira.
After some minutes, Hilly wandered from Nell’s side—at first only a few steps; then a bit further; finally, crossing what seemed a great expanse of store, turning again and again to be certain that his mother hadn’t left without him. Did mothers ever do that? He didn’t think she would, but maybe she would forget that he was there.
Most of these tables, piled with merchandise, were taller than he was. If she didn’t see him, maybe she’d think that she hadn’t brought him. What if she went home and they closed the store and he was still in it? And he hadn’t had his supper?
And shouldn’t there be someone working on this side of the store? Hadn’t there been a man when Elvira had brought him here once, a man who’d bent to shake Hilly’s hand and call him “little man”? Now, beyond the reach of women’s voices, it was too quiet.
There, ahead of him, mounted against tall shelving, was a pair of men’s long underwear. He himself had never worn anything like them. They were huge and pale and headless. And weren’t they moving, just a little? Yes, yes, the arm—he was pretty sure—had moved a tiny bit, reaching out.
Eyes wide, heart pounding, he backed away, bumping into table after table but backing still, until at last he was near the front door and someone was coming through it and he could see his mother, over by Elvira. He finally breathed and ran to Nell, grabbing her skirt, and she said, “What on earth . . . ?” And he was safe.
Elvira was on a ladder, fetching down boxes of gloves for a customer who seemed determined to try on most of the stock. The woman finally shook her head and turned away just as Cora Lundeen hurried up.
“Elvira, you’re the very one I want.”
The girl blushed and clasped her hands at her waist—cap in hand, so to speak.
Cora hurried on. “Mother and Father Lundeen think you’re a corker. And George, well, you should hear him carry on.” She smiled, drew a breath, and continued, “I’m planning a Christmas party at our house for everyone from the store, the bank, and the lumberyard. Mother Lundeen will help, of course, but I need your thoughts—what people here like to eat and drink, what kind of music they like, all that sort of thing.”
Reaching across the counter, she placed a hand on Elvira’s arm. “Please say you’ll help?” She tipped her head to the side imploringly. “Could you come to my house tomorrow after church? George will be duck hunting. You and I can have a cozy lunch and make our plans.”
She turned to Nell. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Mrs. Stillman, if Elvira had lunch with me?” Both Cora and Elvira looked at Nell.
“Of course not.” Who could refuse such a creature?
“I’m awful to take advantage of Elvira, but I love to plan parties. Isn’t it fun to see people enjoying themselves?”
“You have a good heart,” Nell told her.
“Maybe I’m just indulging myself. There’s nothing I love better than dancing. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t dance.” She laughed, casting a brief glance heavenward, petitioning for an endless waltz. Then she smoothed the fingers of a glove, adjusted her little fur hat, and started for the door, calling over her shoulder, “My house at noon, Elvira?”
Adoration lit Elvira’s features, lending the pale oval a seraphic