Chapter Twenty-Two
I ARRIVED HOME just past five that chilly evening, though it was already dark as midnight.
My father’s Cadillac quietly gleamed in the driveway.
Pushing my glove aside, I checked my watch just to be sure.
No, he really was home early. Usually he stayed at work until six, or even later.
He only came home early when Mother invited company for dinner.
My heart sank as I opened the front door and hung my coat in the foyer.
Sure enough, our maid, Flora, had put in another long day.
The house was even more spotless than normal.
A picture-perfect fire crackled in the fireplace, and the huge Christmas tree in the corner cast flickering light over the grand piano.
Our formal dining room, which we hardly ever used, was polished to a sheen and set with our best china.
I suppressed a groan. Not only were we having company, we were having company whom Mother wanted to impress. That meant an evening of boring conversation and constant needling from Mother to be charming and social and all the things she wanted me to be. All the things I was not.
Mother burst through the doorway, bearing a large ceramic Christmas tree.
She wore a green dress I’d never seen before, and her dark hair was coiffed to perfection as always.
Flora was at her heels, a professional, pleasant expression on her face and a tray of appetizers in her arms. Flora had worked for our family for as long as I could remember, and sometimes I thought my parents liked her better than they liked me.
Why can’t you smile like Flora, Iris? Why can’t you stand up straight like Flora does, Iris?
Why can’t you be exactly who we want you to be, just like Flora is?
In fact, once I heard my mother refer to Flora as the daughter she never had.
And then there was me. The daughter she actually had.
“Iris Jean Wallingford. Why are you home so late?” Mother eyed me with a steely glare as Flora slipped into the living room.
“I . . . I went to the library.” Not entirely untrue, since I began my day in the library. But after school Victor and I had found a practice room, and . . . well . . . we had not practiced music. I could still taste his kisses. Best not think about that too much, though, or I’d blush.
Mother heaved a gusty sigh and moved toward the buffet, where the tree’s light-bulb base sat. “I could’ve used your help this afternoon. The Stuarts are coming over for dinner.”
“The Stuarts?”
“From church? Surely you remember their son, Robert.” She set the tree on its base and switched it on. The little bulbs on the branches lit up in a dazzling multicolored array.
Yes, I remembered Robert. He graduated a couple of years ago and was now attending Northwestern. He’d been class president, homecoming king, and all the other inane high school status symbols that made people like my mother salivate.
“I told you just this morning.” Mother turned toward me, her voice tight with exasperation. “Honestly, Iris. You’ve always got your head in the clouds. Go upstairs and change. Wear your nice red floral blouse. Red is a good color for you.”
Of course she wanted me to wear my red floral blouse. I hated that blouse. So stiff and scratchy.
“Oh, but don’t wear the white skirt. It’s much too short.” She checked her hair in the mirror behind the buffet. “Wear the navy jumper instead. And put on some rouge for once. You look like a ghost.”
Maybe I should’ve allowed myself to blush. “Mother, I have an English exam tomorrow, and—”
“Now, Iris.” Mother turned a fiery glare on me. “The Stuarts will be here in ten minutes.”
I waited until she turned back toward the mirror, then rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Why is this such a big deal?”
“Because Robert Stuart is a wonderful young man, and last time I talked with his mother, she told me he was interested in you.”
Robert Stuart? Interested in me? Not possible. We had nothing in common. I wasn’t even sure he knew I existed. He’d certainly never spoken to me or even acknowledged my existen—
Wait. Mr. Stuart was the president of First National Bank downtown.
Mrs. Stuart was related to the Roebucks of Chicago.
The Stuarts were the richest family in Peterson, and I knew my mother and Glenda Stuart played bridge together.
Those two must’ve been matchmaking. Planning a family alliance.
That was literally the only reason Robert Stuart would have any interest in me whatsoever.
“Robert intends to become a lawyer, then go into politics. Run for governor someday. Maybe even president.” She turned to me, her eyes sparkling like a teenage girl with a crush. “Just think of it, Iris. First Lady Iris Stuart.”
The name landed with a decidedly unmusical thud. Nothing like Iris Nelson in lights on a marquee.
“Mother, I—”
The doorbell chimed, and my mother jumped. “Oh! They’re early. Go upstairs and change right now.” She gave me a gentle shove toward the stairs. “Join us in the living room for hors d’oeuvres.”
“Fine.” I started up the stairs. Dinner smelled delicious, but I’d lost my appetite. I had a sneaking suspicion that before the evening ended, I’d have to come clean with some secrets.
That sort of thing usually didn’t end well.
Flora slid a plate of beef Wellington before me. I murmured my thanks as she moved to my left, where Robert was sitting. His aftershave was so strong that I could barely smell the beef, and that irritated me. Flora’s beef Wellington was delicious. Anything that covered up its aroma was a crime.
Robert hadn’t changed much since high school: blond, blue-eyed, and so impossibly handsome he may as well have been made of plastic.
He looked like a human Ken doll, and he’d obviously been well programmed.
He smiled at the exact time and to the exact degree that he was supposed to, no matter the situation.
He made conversation with ease, as though he were born doing it.
There was not an ounce of awkwardness in this man, but there wasn’t an ounce of realness either.
Maybe the Stuarts had ordered him from a lab. They’d certainly have been able to afford it.
Robert turned to me, and his smile notched up to a 6.5. Flirtatious but Still Family Friendly seemed to be his current setting. “I forgot how quiet you are, Iris.”
“She’s always been a shy one,” Father commented from the head of the table.
Beside me, opposite him, my mother gently nudged my ankle with the toe of her pump, her socially acceptable way of ordering me to say something witty and charming.
Even when I was with someone I wanted to impress, witty and charming didn’t come naturally.
And I had no desire to impress Robert Stuart, or charm him, or do anything whatsoever with him except endure this forced dinner.
Because he wasn’t Victor.
“It’s fine, Mr. Wallingford.” Robert turned his smile up to a 7.2. “I don’t mind, I assure you. Lots of girls, you can’t get a word in edgewise. Iris here is a breath of fresh air.”
As if a conductor had just cued them, all the adults at the table laughed that light, humorless laugh the wealthy had perfected: What you said wasn’t funny, but you’re a high-status individual, so I shall reward you with an expression of humor and delight.
I only laughed when something was genuinely funny. So I didn’t laugh.
Mother leaned over. Her expression was perfectly pleasant, but her teeth were clenched. “Would it kill you to smile?”
I met her gaze. “I fear it just might.”
“So, Iris.” Robert speared a bite of sautéed asparagus. “What do you like to do for fun? I hear there’s a new Bond film coming out in a couple of weeks. Are you excited to see that one?”
“No, I . . . I don’t go to the movies much.” I took a bite of beef to have a ready-made excuse for not making further conversation.
Another nudge on my ankle from Mother. “Iris is much more interested in music than movies.”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember now.” Robert’s manufactured smile was at a level 8. “And that’s wonderful, because so do I. Tell me, Iris. Who’s your favorite Beatle?”
I swallowed. None of them, honestly. “Well, I—”
“Wait, I’ll bet you’re more of a Rolling Stones girl, aren’t you?”
“Actually, Robert, I like Chopin.”
The smile faded to a 7.5. “Show . . . who?”
“Frédéric Chopin. A Polish-born French composer most famous for his piano works. Of course, I also love Bach and Beethoven, but who doesn’t?”
I sensed Mother getting ready to kick me again, so I moved my right foot out of the way. Sure enough, there came a gentle tap against the table leg as her toe connected with wood. She shot me a brief glare.
“Oh, of course.” Robert’s smile had dimmed to a 7. “Obviously Bach and Beethoven. I meant besides them.”
A devilish idea seized me. Putting my fork down, I turned to Robert and batted my eyelashes. “I could listen to Bach all day long. Especially his seventh Brandenburg Concerto.”
“Ah, yes. The seventh.” He dug his knife into the Christmas tree– shaped pat of butter on his plate and buttered his dinner roll. “That’s my favorite one, Iris. Especially the beginning.”
“The beginning of which movement?”
Robert still wore that manufactured smile. Did anything deter this man? “The first one, of course.”
For the first time all evening, my own smile turned genuine. “Trick question, Robert. There is no seventh Brandenburg. Bach only wrote six.”
Mother set her fork down on the table with enough force to slosh water over the edge of my glass. “Iris. May I please speak with you in the kitchen? Now?”
“With pleasure, Mother.” I tossed my napkin aside and charged into the kitchen. Flora glanced up, startled, and bustled around the corner toward the laundry room.
Mother whirled to face me, hands on her hips. “You will apologize to the Stuarts immediately.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Iris? Men don’t appreciate it when women one-up them.”
“Then men should be smarter,” I retorted. “Honestly, who doesn’t know there are only six Brandenburgs? Victor’s probably known that since kindergarten.”
It wasn’t until Mother’s penciled brows inched together that I realized what I’d said. I never meant for the name to slip out, but it had, and now it hovered between us.
“Victor?” Her mouth twisted uncertainly around the word. “And who on earth is Victor?”
“Victor Nelson. The drum major.” I lifted my chin. “We’ve been seeing each other.”
“Seeing each other,” Mother scoffed. “Well. The least you could’ve done is bring him to meet us. Is he of the Chicago Nelsons?”
“No.” My lips curved. “He’s of the Second Street Nelsons.”
“Second Street?” Mother drew back as if she’d been branded. “Oh, Iris. No. Absolutely not. You can do better than Second Street. What kind of life can this boy give you? Don’t you want better for yourself?”
“What I want is Victor,” I snapped. “Because he loves me. He understands me, which is something no one has ever done.”
“Oh, please, Iris.” Mother folded her arms across her chest.
“Everyone thinks I’m weird, Mother. I don’t like loud noises or scratchy fabrics.
I don’t like movies or rock bands or crowds or parties.
I like music, because it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m singing it or playing it or writing my own.
And Victor is the only person I’ve ever met who has the same talents. Who loves music the same way I do.”
Mother reached out to touch my arm, but I backed away.
“Well, of course, Iris.” She offered a smile. “Music is wonderful. There’s nothing wrong with it. But, darling, it’s simply not a sensible career. For you or for him.”
“Victor’s going to make it one.” An idea crystallized in the center of my chest. “And so am I.”
Mother arched a brow. “I see. And how are you planning to make this happen?”
“We’re applying to the Whitehall Conservatory in Chicago.” Never mind that I just gave Victor my audition piece. I could write another one. I still had almost twenty-four hours before the postmark deadline. “It’s very exclusive, and tuition-free for those who are accepted.”
“Mmm. Then they must not accept many.”
Courage hummed through my veins. “They don’t. But we’ll both get in. And we’ll soak up all the knowledge we can, and then we’ll go on to graduate school. Maybe we’ll even get doctorates. Become university professors. Well-known composers.”
Mother patted her hairdo. “You think this is the life you want, Iris? Then go make it happen. But you’d better get into that conservatory, because if this is the direction you’re choosing to take your life, you’ll not get a penny from us.”
I’d already started up the back stairs. “I don’t need your money, Mother. I’ll make it in music with or without your support.”
“And just where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Mother demanded.
“Upstairs.” For the first time all day, something felt right. “Give the Stuarts my regards. I have an audition piece to write.”