One outfit choice wouldn’t change that, no matter who sent it.
Betty’s best friends walked out of the main house behind her. It wasn’t a house in the ordinary sense, because no one lived there. Zaide had bought it in the twenties when it was a hotel. It stood two stories tall with white wood siding and a green pitched roof, green shutters to match, each showcasing a window box that would overflow with impatiens and honeysuckles as soon as there was no longer the fear of frost. A stoop led to the oversize front door with a brass knocker no one used. Once inside the lobby, the vast dining room was off to the left, with its chandeliers and brocade wallpaper and windows overlooking the beach and resort grounds. The social hall and smaller activity rooms sat to the right. The kitchen lived behind it all, sizzling and buzzing and transmitting mouthwatering aromas about eighteen hours a day. The upstairs rooms once housed guests in luxury, but now were used for storage.
Georgia and Doris bopped down the green painted steps, skittered and skipped toward Betty, and stood by her like sentry guards.
“Your grandmother asked us to make sure everything was set in the dining room,” Georgia said. “Since you were late. And I see why.”
“I wasn’t late,” Betty said. “I had to get ready.” She turned to Georgia. “Zaide said he hired a few new rising seniors. I just couldn’t wear a dress from high school.”
“Heavens no!” Doris laughed. She wore a madras shirtwaist Betty had seen a hundred times. It didn’t matter, though. Doris didn’t have plans for her summer other than a sensible suntan.
“You already look like a fashion writer, Betty!” Doris said.
“Fashion editor,” Betty said.
“Here, Miss Editor.” Doris handed Betty a paper name tag and a straight pin. Betty attached the name tag over her heart, as did the other girls. It was true. Her heart belonged to South Haven, at least for one more summer.
“This is going to be a blast,” Betty said.
Georgia laughed. “You say that every year. And working here every year is pretty much the same.”
Doris raised her arms over her head, faking jumping jacks. “And a-one, and a-two . . .”
“This year is going to be different,” Betty said.
“How so?” Doris asked. She was the little sister neither of the other girls had, even though she was the same age. Doris was four foot eleven and effervescent and a little naive, always finding the bright side of things and people. She was friends with everyone, and she truly liked everyone. Betty found Doris darling, but exhausting, with her romantic notions of Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. Betty liked boys—she really liked boys—but she was a little more practical.
“Boy-crazy Betty is looking for her summer love.” Georgia drew out the last word in a breathy voice.
“I’m sure you’ll have your pick,” Doris said.
“I am not looking for love. I just know a handsome boy when I see one. And I want to have fun.” What Betty wanted was to head to New York and not stick out like a country bumpkin.
“I don’t know why you’re thinking about the boys here anyhow,” Doris said. “You’re going to meet a boy when you go to Barnard. A Columbia student. Maybe someone studying to be a doctor or a dentist. Or a lawyer.”
“You sound like Nannie,” Betty said. She shook her head. “I just want to have a marvelous summer, and what could be more marvelous than a summer romance?” Betty asked. She turned to Georgia. “I’d say I’m looking for a fling, but it sounds so crude,” Betty whispered.
Georgia nodded, and Betty shivered from the breeze. Or anticipation.
“I’ll meet my husband in Chicago,” Doris said. She had a job lined up as a salesgirl at Marshall Field’s and was going to live in a rooming house in September. “It doesn’t matter that you’ll be in New York. We’ll still be each other’s bridesmaids, of course.”
“Life isn’t all about boys and marriage,” Georgia said.
Doris dropped open her mouth, and if Betty had had a peach, she could have popped one in.
Georgia was right, of course. She was heading to Northwestern University as a premed. She wanted to be a doctor, and Betty knew she would be. That’s why Georgia understood Betty’s dream of working at a glossy fashion magazine the way her other friends did not. Doris wanted an office job and an engagement ring, like most of the girls Betty knew.
Betty’s life would be about first earning her English degree and then landing a job as a fashion writer at one of the magazines she’d read until she’d worn out the pages. Seventeen. Mademoiselle. Vanity Fair. Compact. Then she’d work her way up to editor. That’s when she’d have a say about fashion and beauty trends and what women read about them. It would be her way of having an impact.
Secondary to that was the idea of meeting boys. Men, really, and to be fair, it was a close second.
Nannie and Zaide wanted “their girl” to be educated and to achieve, even if that meant leaving South Haven. Betty couldn’t have asked for kinder and more generous grandparents.
Georgia stood taller, checked her watch, and smiled at Betty, who felt small in a protected sort of way. Georgia was five foot nine and her presence commanded attention. Her ginger hair tumbled halfway down her back and a genuine tortoiseshell headband held it off her face. Freckles swept from one cheek to the other, and her eyes were emerald green, not a murky hazel. She wore tennis whites because she was the resort’s only tennis coach and she didn’t want any of the coeds to think they were taking her place.
Betty had tried to coax Georgia into wearing red lipstick today since she wouldn’t really be playing tennis.
