“I wonder why he hasn’t written to you,” Doris said, leaning to gather crumpled paper from Betty’s bedroom floor.
Betty dropped her hairbrush onto the vanity table as she leaped from her chair. “What makes you think he hasn’t?” She snatched the wads of ink-flecked paper from Doris’s hands.
“I wouldn’t read them.” Doris clasped her hands in front and pivoted away, as if offended. She sat sideways on the window seat. The light outside was fading from crisp to muted. “It was just a question.”
“His brother died, you know. I don’t want him worrying about me.”
“We don’t want you to get hurt,” Georgia said as she stepped into view in the doorway. Too late. “Betty, it’s been two weeks.”
Georgia’s unspoken meaning settled onto Betty. She didn’t want Betty’s heart strewn aside the way her and Abe’s clothes had been on the Fourth of July.
Betty remained on the vanity stool, turned toward the mirror, and resumed brushing her hair. One. Two. Three. Four. The bristles massaged her scalp and then scratched her shoulder. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. “I don’t want to hear anything negative. It upsets my stomach.” Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. “His brother died serving our country. Abe had a memorial service to plan, and then they sat shiva, and now he’s the man of the house . . .” Betty clamped her lips. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. She’d said too much. Abe’s home and family were private. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Doris gasped. “He doesn’t have a father?”
“His father is a louse. Abe is a mensch.”
Betty opened the middle drawer and placed her silver-plated brush inside. She pushed the drawer shut with a thud. “I’ll thank you not to go spreading rumors. And he has sent two postcards, I’ll have you know.”
Georgia and Doris looked at one another and shrugged.
“If I can’t have the support of my two best friends, then what’s this world coming to?” Betty’s throat burned. Tears threatened to belie her confidence. “He loves me.” A solid statement, but her voice was on the verge of cracking.
“I should hope so,” Georgia said.
“I thought you might be in love,” Doris said, tapping her temple with her forefinger. “I have a sixth sense about these things.”
Betty wished Doris would go so she could talk about everything to Georgia. Sure, Georgia knew what happened on the Fourth of July—she’d practically walked in on them—but Betty hadn’t told anyone their plans for New York and marriage and children, and right then she thought she might burst if she didn’t.
“As a matter of fact,” Betty said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here in time for Miss South Haven.” The contest was next Sunday.
Doris placed her arm around Betty’s shoulders. “If you love him, then we love him.” Doris tittered. “You know what I mean.”
Georgia peeked out the bedroom window. “Everyone’s starting to gather by the pier. Let’s go watch the sunset like the summer people. C’mon, it’ll be a blast. Get your mind off things.”
Georgia was right—focusing on her friends would get Betty’s mind off herself for now. In just a few days she’d be preparing for Miss South Haven in earnest, and she’d make her grandparents proud.
The girls bopped down the stairs, Doris yammering about her perfect boy. Everything from temperament and favorite food to eye color. Too many musts for Betty to keep track. On her way out the door to the porch, Georgia said, “I want someone intellectual and sophisticated.”
“Is that so?” Betty elbowed Georgia in the ribs.
“Knock it off,” she said.
“Well, I think that happens after you marry them.” Doris laughed; her romanticism, it seemed, was mixed with traces of realism.
The girls skittered down Lakeshore Drive, skirts swaying, hair bouncing. For a few hundred yards they chattered over and around one another; then they intentionally linked arms and fell in step. Comfort and safety enveloped Betty. It was a feeling warmer than the midsummer breeze, and more reliable than the beacon on the lighthouse. She’d felt it so many times before. This, too, was a type of love. Love from two people who didn’t have to love her. They’d chosen her—with her penchant for theatrics, her attention on Abe for the past month, her impatience the past two weeks. And she’d chosen them right back.
Though they’d said it many times, it was that night’s sky casting her friends in a majestic purple glow, when Betty knew for sure—in well beyond a pinkie-swear or cross-your-heart kind of way—they’d be friends forever.
“We won’t make it to the pier,” Betty said. “Let’s just sit on the beach right here so we don’t miss it. We can look for boys later.” She leaned to Georgia. “Though I don’t really think you want to.”
Georgia looked as if she were about to speak, but she didn’t. Betty watched the movement in her throat as she swallowed hard.
Then Georgia reached for Betty’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry about before,” she whispered. “If Abe loves you, he’ll be back.”
The only word Betty heard was if.
Betty convinced herself that even though Abe’s next postcard didn’t mention Miss South Haven, he would be back for it. She didn’t want him to shirk his duties at home, and she didn’t want to be bossy or needy—but oh! How she wanted him to be there.
She flipped a curl behind her shoulder and sucked in her breath one more time. She held it and inhaled again, but no matter how hard Nannie tugged at Betty’s waist, that zipper was not sliding up the back. Across the room, Betty’s friends’ lips sealed in tight lines, their cheeks puffed like chipmunks.
Betty set her hands together as if in prayer. “Please breathe. If you die, I’ll have lost part of my cheering section.”
The girls exhaled, their concern settling around Betty. She shrugged it off.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged you to eat
