Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (17 page)

“Nope. Just me.”

“I’m so glad.”

“You sound tired. Are you all right?”

“I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I’m not very good with social things, as you know, and tomorrow—you did get the article I sent you? From the
Times
? Tomorrow’s the reception at the clinic. Well, Cousin Allison is calling it a tea, so it’s less formal. Very Emily Post!”

“It sounds nice,” he said. “Big day for you.”

“For us both, Frank, since you designed the building. The practice is already busy, though. It’s as if they were waiting.”

“Probably were.”

“Yes. I suppose they were.”

“So, your little cousin is handling the party.”

Margot smiled, thinking of Allison’s trips to the clinic, her solemn conferences with Hattie and with Leona, her order to Ruby—who wasn’t a bit happy about it—to put on an apron and serve. “Allison looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. She even eats at meals—not a lot, but she does eat. She’s quite a clever girl, I think. She just needed something to do.”

“Good. I’m sure it will be a big success.”

“I hope so. Some people from the hospital are going to come, which feels odd.”

“Why? How many of them have their own private practice in their own private building?”

Margot laughed. “That’s what Father said.”

“Wise man, your pop.”

“He is that.” She paused, and then said wistfully, “I just wish you could be here.”

“I want to be there.”

“When is Bill Boeing going to let you come home?” She was afraid she sounded a little plaintive, but she couldn’t help it. “You’ve been gone a long time, Frank, and we—” There she did stop herself. She had promised not to bring up their disagreements over the telephone. The calls were too precious for that.

“Too long,” he agreed. “There’s something I want you to do for me, Margot.”

“Do you need something?”

“Sort of. What time does your shindig start tomorrow?”

“Eleven. I have rounds to make, and then I’m going to come home and change.”

“Could you ask Blake to drive you out to Sand Point first? Do you know where that is?”

“I—what? No, I don’t know where it is, but I’m sure Blake will. Why?”

“There’s an airstrip there. It isn’t much, but a Jenny can land. I’m sending you something, but you have to come fetch it yourself, Margot—you need to be there.”

She caught sight of her face in the dressing table mirror, nestled among her white pillows. She looked younger and softer at this distance. She should try to smile more often, she thought. Try not to look so forbidding all the time. On a sleepy laugh, she said, “Frank Parrish, if this is a pony . . .”

He laughed with her. “Not a pony. I hope you like it, though.”

The operator interrupted, saying formally, “I’m sorry, sir, but your time is up. Would you like to arrange another call?”

He said, “Better not. Thanks, operator. Margot, be there tomorrow! Ten o’clock!”

“I will. Good night, Frank.”

The operator said, “Good night, sir,” and added, “Ma’am. Thank you for using the Southern California Telephone Company.”

The final click sounded before Frank could speak again. Reluctantly, Margot replaced the earpiece in its cradle and set the phone on the bedside table. Sand Point Airfield! Now what could that mean?

She put out her lamp, took off her dressing gown, and slipped beneath the coverlet of her bed. Curiosity had vanquished her bout of nerves. She would, she thought, have a good night’s sleep after all. It was lovely to drift off with the sound of Frank’s voice still in her ear.

C
HAPTER
15

The morning dawned under a heavy cloud layer that shrouded the tallest buildings of Seattle in folds of mist. Margot hurried her rounds at the hospital as best she could. She saw a little girl in the children’s ward who had burned her arm on the family’s charcoal stove. She prescribed picric acid and explained carefully to the mother how important it was to keep the burn clean. There was a surgical case, an operation at which she had assisted. She examined the incision and found the patient was healing well. She asked Nurse Cardwell to do a final check that afternoon before she released him to his family. Margot stopped to see a man in the charity ward whose stomach she had pumped the day before. She was concerned that the three-dollar gin he had consumed in such quantities could have neurological implications. She pointed this out to him, but she wasn’t sure he was fit to comprehend her lecture. She left orders for him to stay another day, and for the duty nurse to administer a unit of Dakin fluid. Within the hour, she was hurrying home to change.

She was just unbuttoning her shirtwaist when Ruby knocked on her door. Margot opened it and regarded her quizzically. She didn’t think Ruby had ever been in her bedroom.

Ruby said, “Good morning, Miss Margot. Miss Allison sent me to help you dress.”

“She—she what?”

“Sent me to help you dress,” Ruby said. She sidled past Margot to go straight to the wardrobe, where the wool crepe ensemble hung in its layers of tissue paper. Ruby began unwrapping the tissue with an air of efficiency.

Margot said uncertainly, “Ruby, this is very nice of Miss Allison, but I don’t need—”

Ruby turned to her with a look of utter disinterest. “Miss Allison told me to come.”

Margot’s lips twitched as she began again on her buttons. “Very well,” she said. “Clearly, Miss Allison is in charge today. We’d better do as she says.”

Ruby didn’t seem to find this amusing. She folded away the last of the tissue and laid the skirt and jacket on the bed.

Ramona had persuaded Margot to go to Frederick & Nelson for a fitting. Margot protested that she didn’t have time, but Allison was watching with such bright, hopeful eyes that she gave in. When she arrived, she found the suit already selected. It was a matter of twenty minutes for the saleswoman to take a few measurements, make tailoring marks, and send her on her way.

Even to Margot’s uninformed eye, the ensemble was perfect for this iron-gray day. There was a pleated white silk blouse, and a jacket and skirt made in rose wool crepe, in a color so deep it couldn’t possibly be called pink. It made Margot’s skin glow, and though the hem of the straight skirt rose perilously close to her knees, the long jacket balanced it. She looked, she thought gratefully, appropriately professional, but she was fairly certain she didn’t look the least bit stodgy. She wished Frank could see her in it.

Ruby helped her put on the blouse, then stood behind her to fasten the skirt. As she held the jacket for Margot, Margot said, “I understand you’re going to help out today, Ruby. I appreciate it.”

“Well, ma’am, I suppose a lady’s maid has to do different stuff sometimes.”

Margot raised her eyebrows. “Different stuff indeed,” she said. “This will be a unique event, I believe.”

“I s’pose so.”

Margot slipped her feet into a pair of low-heeled pumps with ankle straps. She couldn’t resist one slight, angled pose to admire herself in the mirror. Really, Ramona was good at this! She said, with satisfaction, “Thank you, Ruby. We’re finished here.”

Ruby said, “Yes, ma’am,” and was gone without another word. Margot wrinkled her nose in the direction of her back and wondered how Allison put up with the girl. Or if she had a choice.

 

By the time Margot and Blake set out for Sand Point, the cloud cover had dissolved under chilly sunshine. Only scattered fluffs remained to float above the city, brilliantly white against the cold blue.

Her father had warned her that the road didn’t go all the way to the airfield. He had been right, she saw, as Blake parked the Essex just at the edge of the Sand Point wilderness. There was going to be a navy airfield here one day, but the work was still in the planning stages. For now, there was nothing but dirt and trees and grass. Airplanes had landed there before. Eddie Hubbard had done it when there was no airfield at all, and three months before, a professor of military tactics at the University had been the first to land on the newly plowed five hundred feet of dirt that made up the landing strip. “Just to prove he could,” Dickson had rumbled, describing it. “But it’s a good location. Visibility, prevailing winds—all the stuff those fliers care about.”

Margot knew nothing about fliers, or flying, but on this vivid day, it was an enchanting spot. Beyond the trees the waters of Lake Washington glittered a deeper blue than the sky. Gray-and-white gulls swooped and squawked overhead, and the traffic noises of the city faded into the distance. She pulled up her fox collar and struck out toward the frozen strip of dirt. Blake, leaning on his cane, followed her.

“You can wait in the Essex, Blake.”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Dr. Margot.”

“I hope we’re not late.”

“I don’t see any airplanes. I don’t think we can be late.”

“Well, then, I hope the pilot isn’t late! Allison has worked so hard. I don’t want to ruin this for her.”

“I’m sure you won’t. And besides, this project has been good for her. Put some roses in those pale cheeks!”

“You’re right. The difference is remarkable. Very good to see.”

They picked their way through the stubble of mown grass and tree stumps, and though it was too cold and dry for mud, Margot was glad of her boots on the rough ground. They had just reached the edge of the airstrip, and Margot was casting about for someplace for Blake to sit down, when she heard the engine. She turned toward the sound, which was coming not from the south, as she had expected, but from the west, flying into the wind. She shaded her eyes with both hands, trying to pick out the airplane against the dazzle of sunshine and the scattered clouds.

“There it is,” Blake said, pointing.

“Where? Oh, yes! Now I see it! Oh, my goodness, Blake, it’s so tiny!”

Indeed, the airplane looked to her like a child’s toy that had been tossed into the air. Its double wings glinted as it swooped above the boats and barges in Lake Union, heading north until it reached the shore, then banking to the east as easily as if it were one of the seagulls slicing the wind with its white wings. The airplane was white, too, and as it came closer she could see the fabric of the wings flex and ripple in the wind. The engine grew louder, drowning out the cries of the birds that flitted out of its path.

Now Margot could make out the figure of the pilot, the dark helmet, the gleam of sunshine on heavy goggles, the dull glow of a leather jacket. There were men in coveralls cutting trees and pulling stumps on the far side of the little airstrip, and they put down their saws and axes and gathered to watch the airplane’s approach.

It buzzed above the plowed strip once. Blake said, “Getting a look at the landing surface, I would judge.”

“Oh. Golly, Blake. I hope it’s safe.”

The airplane rose above the trees at the end of the strip. It turned in the sky at an angle so steep Margot put her hand to her throat, where her pulse raced in anticipation. A moment later the craft leveled off, aimed toward the spot where she and Blake stood, and began to descend.

It looked so light, a ridiculously insubstantial assortment of canvas and rubber and metal. Margot could hardly believe such a fragile construct actually carried a human being. She knew, of course, that airplanes had been widely used in the war, that they flew and fought and crashed. She knew the injuries pilots could suffer. As she watched this airplane touch down, bounce wildly on the uneven ground, and barrel forward, coming to a rough stop just short of the end of the airstrip, she was amazed that the pilots who flew such things ever survived their accidents.

The men watching erupted in excited cheers. Margot found, to her amazement, that she was clutching Blake’s arm. When she released it, they both laughed.

The airplane was no more than a hundred feet from her, the closest she had ever been to a flying machine. This, she reminded herself, was what Frank cared about. What he was studying at the army base in California. What Bill Boeing and the engineers who worked for him believed was going to transform the future. She tried to see the beauty in its ungainly lines, in its wires and wheels and battered propeller, but it wasn’t clear to her at all.

The pilot unbelted his harness and stood up to put first one long leg and then the other over the side of the cockpit. He jumped down, and reached up with his right hand to thrust his goggles onto the top of his helmet. With his left hand—a little stiffly—he waved to the cheering men and then, turning, to Margot and Blake. He strode toward them over the uneven dirt, and Margot breathed, hardly believing her eyes, “Frank! It’s Frank! He—Blake, he
flew the airplane!
”

Blake made some response, but Margot didn’t hear it. Casting all dignity aside, she dashed forward, nearly tripping on the uneven ground, to meet Frank halfway. She stopped an arm’s length away to take in the sight of him. He stopped, too.

His face was grimy, except for where the goggles had protected his eyes. The helmet completely hid his hair. He wore a heavy leather jacket that made his shoulders look bulky as mountaintops, and a pair of military coveralls and heavy boots. He grinned, his teeth showing white in his tanned face.

He said, “Surprise!”

“Oh, my God. Oh, Frank, my darling! A surprise in every way!” She stepped forward and into his arms. He held her tight for a few seconds before he bent his head to kiss her firmly, hungrily. He tasted deliciously of salt and fresh air and dirt, and she thought she might never let him go.

The men on the other side of the airstrip hooted their appreciation of the embrace, but Margot didn’t care.

 

Allison stood behind the desk in Cousin Margot’s reception room, watching people come in and out. A gray-haired, stern-looking woman introduced herself as Alice Cardwell, and marched herself straight back to the examining rooms. Margot smiled, and followed, murmuring to Allison that this was the matron of Seattle General. Other people from the hospital had come and gone, most just to shake Margot’s hand, glance around with their eyebrows raised, and depart. Allison didn’t know if the raised eyebrows were surprise or disapproval, or perhaps—the more likely, she thought—envy.

Surely no one in Seattle possessed a clinic that was more up-to-date, more modern, than this one. Everything was the best that could be found. Uncle Dickson had seen to that. He and Dick, with Ramona and Aunt Edith in tow, had been some of the first to appear. In a rare demonstration, Uncle Dickson had actually kissed Cousin Margot’s cheek before he left, and murmured something to her that made her smile. Aunt Edith had said nothing, but Ramona had cooed over all the fine details, the curtains, the furniture, Cousin Margot’s tidy office and elegant desk. Cousin Dick said, “Good work, Margot,” in a gruff voice that made him sound a lot like his father, and they had smiled at each other.

The hospital matron emerged from the back with a restrained smile on her rather craggy face. She nodded to Allison and shook hands with Cousin Margot. She stopped long enough to sip a cup of tea, which seemed to please Margot, before she, too, departed.

Allison had gone in person to each of the businesses on Post Street to deliver special invitations to the tea. She was gratified that every one of them came: the Italian grocer, the cobbler, the owner of the diner two doors down. They stepped gingerly into the reception room as if afraid their boots would dirty the floor. They held their caps in their hands as they greeted her politely, nodded to Nurse Rossi, and shyly congratulated “Doc Benedict” on her handsome new building. They ate Hattie’s cookies and drank cups of coffee. They declined seeing the examination rooms, but they inspected the windows and floors with critical eyes before taking their leave.

The guest who really mattered, of course, Cousin Margot’s great surprise of the day, was Major Parrish. He looked very much as Allison remembered from her debutante party, tall and lean and dashing, except now he had an artificial arm and hand that really worked. He held a coffee cup with it, which seemed a marvel. He didn’t say much, but his vivid blue eyes sparkled with what Allison assumed was pride. Pride in the new building, she thought, but also pride in Cousin Margot. Allison couldn’t think why they weren’t already married. The connection between them was nearly tangible. They were so bound together she was surprised they could walk in different directions!

Allison knew she must also glow with pride. The party was a quiet success, not flashy, like the debutante parties had been, but welcoming to all sorts of people. If it had been too fancy, the cobbler wouldn’t have been comfortable. If it had been too simple, the doctors and nurses and the man from the
Times
might have thought it dull. It was just right. The reception room bloomed with the flowers people had sent, including an enormous bouquet from Uncle Dickson and Cousin Dick’s office. The trays of refreshments had to be refilled several times. People were quiet at first, but then they relaxed, talking and laughing. Ruby was the only person who didn’t seem to enjoy herself. She poured coffee and tea, but she hadn’t smiled once, and she spoke to no one.

When three o’clock arrived, the hour when the tea was to end, there were still three people in the reception room, a trio of Chinese women in bright cotton jackets and straight wide pants. One of them, the oldest, tottered on improbably tiny feet, and Allison winced as she realized they were bound to half their normal size, fitted into embroidered silk shoes. The youngest woman translated for the others as they stood in the very center of the reception room, delicately sipping tea.