“This isn’t a beauty contest, Betty.” Georgia pointed to Betty’s feet.
“I’m just practicing for Miss South Haven. You know I’m entering this year.”
Doris giggled. “You’ve told us a hundred times.”
Betty circled her hands and clasped them behind her back and stood straight, shoulders back. She knew what good posture did for her bustline, even when she was all buttoned up.
“You’re blushing!” Doris said. “Your grandmother is not going to be happy you’re flirting with staff.”
“Get over yourself, Doris,” Georgia said. “Betty’s just having fun. He’s not even looking this way.”
And then he was, but just as quickly he turned back toward the street and to the girls who weren’t Betty. He stood close enough for the girls to look, but not touch. Betty’s shoulders relaxed, and she dragged her arms around front, skimming the bandage covering her burn against her hip, which sent a shock wave not nearly as painful as being ignored. Or worse, not even noticed.
Turn around, turn around, turn around.
Nothing happened.
Turn around, turn around, turn around.
Then he did just that. Not only did he turn around, he saw her, and he smiled so wide that the girls nearby turned to see what, or who, he was looking at.
Goose bumps started at Betty’s neck and shot down her body like ice pellets.
“He’s looking at you,” Georgia said.
“He’s not even pretending that he’s not looking at you, you lucky duck,” Doris said.
Betty looked right back at him, or as right at him as she could from the other side of the lawn. Then she reached up with both hands and untied the knot in her scarf, releasing the fabric down her neck. It brushed across her shoulders, and Betty shook with shivers she didn’t even try to hide. She tipped her neck from side to side, releasing her cascade of curls in slow motion.
Georgia grabbed the scarf and pounded it into a ball, tucking it as much inside her hands as she could. “Don’t be a drama queen, Betty. Everyone knows who you are.”
“Not everyone,” she said.
Chapter 4
BETTY
The first weekend of summer passed in a frenzy of welcome activities. The resort had filled to capacity, of course, and Betty resumed her summer routine as if it had never ended.
Late Tuesday afternoon, she closed the front door of her family’s home and skipped down the patio’s cement steps, the skirt of her white broadcloth dress bouncing against her shins. The sun kissed the apples of her cheeks, already rosy from a dab of rouge. It was going to be a great night.
Georgia and Doris waited by the curb, both gussied up like Betty, wearing dresses they’d once saved for a high school dance. Georgia’s two-piece lavender-and-purple number with its modest V-neck and a princess waist, cinched tight with a thin white patent-leather belt, made her look as if she’d stepped out of a Seventeen magazine spread. Doris’s blue eyes sparkled, whether from the sun or her yellow taffeta dress, Betty didn’t know. The girls had taken her advice and worn lipsticks in shades that complemented their dresses, Georgia a deep russet, and Doris a bubblegum pink. Betty just had to know the colors and brands! Her friends looked so grown-up. Is that how she looked to them with her pink lips and her dress with its matching sweater that she’d buttoned just at her neck to show off her décolletage?
“No one will recognize us,” Georgia said.
“I think that’s the point,” Doris said. “These boys and their families will be the upper crust. We don’t want them to see us as part of the staff, but as possibilities.”
Georgia tapped Doris’s shoulder. “You mean as potential wives.”
“So what if I do?”
Betty set her hands on her hips. Nannie had asked Betty and her friends to act as hostesses for the first cocktail party of the summer and that’s where they were headed. The girls had done this before, chatting with the guests, talking up the resort activities and upcoming entertainment, listening for any special requests. The event was a delicious combination of socializing and spying.
“You’ll have to limit the flirting tonight, girls; we have to talk to everyone.” Betty sashayed ahead and looked back at her friends. “That means husbands, wives, and the children. Not just the boys our age.”
Her grandparents threw this cocktail party every Tuesday at five-thirty and then served dinner to the guests at six-thirty, as usual. The kitchen prepared the expected four-course meal. Soup, salad, a choice of four entrées—have as many as you wish—each with two sides, and the dessert plate for sharing at the table. And this was all before the midnight buffet, composed of breads, cakes, and fruit salads piled into watermelon boats, for the women who pretended to be watching their waistlines. This late-night indulgence was set out by the kitchen staff for guests to serve to themselves, many of them wrapping sweets in linen napkins and tucking the parcels into their handbags for the trip back to their cabins.
Stern’s serves three meals plus. Emphasis on the plus.
As they stepped onto the lawn, Betty stopped. “Before we get there, let’s make a pact. If one of us likes a boy, he’s off-limits, just like always.”
“You’re just calling dibs on the one with the dimple,” Doris said. “What if I like him too?”
“I keep seeing him in the dining room, but I haven’t met him yet. Not really. I can’t ask my grandparents to introduce me, or ask anything about him, or they’ll want to know why. According to them, this summer is about pitching in around the resort and getting to know my Barnard roommate. I got the assignment last week. She’s Italian. From New Jersey.”
“Ooh, exotic,” Doris said.
“Forget about exotic roommates,” Georgia said. “I’ve met your William Holden.”
Betty clasped her hands.
“His
