Chapter Seven
“There you are!” Cynthia Forsythe exclaimed, popping her head into Melody’s dorm room. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The lovely dormered room Melody had previously shared with Elsie Von Harmon, now Stockel, in Philomena Hall was already occupied by two new girls, so Melody had been given a smaller private room at the end of the hall.
It had granted to her as a kindness, but Melody wasn’t quite sure she liked being alone.
She twisted in her desk chair as Cynthia waltzed in and shut the door behind her. “Hi, Cyn,” Melody responded and then turned back to the open books on the desk, propping her chin on her fists.
“What are you doing up here?” Cynthia peered over her friend’s shoulder. “You aren’t actually studying, are you?”
In truth, Melody was studying. Or trying to study.
She was, however, finding it very difficult.
She should have never listened to Freddy and returned mid-term.
She was horribly behind, even though Sr. Bernard had mercifully placed her in somewhat easy classes, namely Shorthand, World Geography, and two gymnasium courses—Swimming and Equestrian Studies.
Still, none of these appealed very much.
Swimming in the beautiful art deco pool hidden beneath the Mundelein skyscraper was pleasant enough, but horseback riding through Lincoln Park in February was not ideal.
Likewise, she was discovering, she had neither the aptitude nor the interest in either geography or shorthand, and, worse, it was impossible to see how any of these subjects might be of use in the real world.
She certainly didn’t see herself as a teacher or a secretary.
Then again, she had never seen herself as the manager of a shop, either.
But she wasn’t the manager anymore, she reminded herself; Fred was.
Perhaps it had been better to begin now, she considered, as otherwise she would have had to endure that many more months of Fred lording it over her, not to mention Bunny complaining and Mrs. Haufbrau snipping and the Merc losing money and her mother crying and .
. . and . . . Cal critiquing her every move.
She turned a page of her geography book, and the map of the Orient gave way to one of Africa.
Why was he always making it out that she was the one acting the superior, when it was really him?
It infuriated her! He hadn’t even said goodbye.
Not really. Just a smug (was it smug? Or was it perturbed?
Who could tell? And who cared?) wave from behind the counter when she had walked through the Merc for the last time just over three weeks ago now.
Like Cal, Mrs. Haufbrau did not seem upset in the least that she was leaving, merely wished her well and had then gone back to her receipt book.
Harriet, on the other hand, had actually shed a tear and promised to write.
Her family had likewise been oddly unemotional.
Bunny had given her a perfunctory hug, though her dark expression seemed to indicate annoyance, or maybe resentment.
Helenka, too, had seemed out of sorts when she wished Melody good luck—perhaps because she knew that the brunt of caring for her mother would now fall entirely on her?
Melody had tried the night before her departure to encourage Bunny to help more with Mums while she was gone, but Bunny had only rolled her eyes and walked out of the room.
Only Mums seemed sad that Melody was leaving and had cried accordingly, though she quickly recovered herself, saying that it was only for a few weeks and that time would pass quickly.
Melody had been about to correct her but then thought better of it, deciding to let her believe the delusion.
As for Fred, he had been unusually quiet on the drive to the train station.
Melody had been tempted to go over yet again the list she had left in the office regarding the Merc’s daily and weekly requirements, but she had not the heart.
He wouldn’t listen anyway. When they finally reached the station and Melody’s luggage and trunks had been carted to the platform by porters, Fred’s mood finally improved.
When the train finally chugged into the station, he slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hands and wished her luck, reminding her to look for a rich husband.
She was pretty sure he was teasing, but his words stung.
Well, fine. If that was the way they all wanted it, she was happy to go. Happy to get away. If the Merc failed, it wasn’t her fault.
She had remained morose and melancholy for the better part of an hour, but as the train picked up speed, hurtling her closer and closer to Chicago, her attitude began to shift.
A lightness came over her as she left the cornfields and woods behind, as if she were shrugging off a heavy burden.
Mile by mile, she became more and more excited to get back to her old life.
And it had been wonderful—at first, anyway—to be back.
Melody had missed Mundelein more than she thought.
It was a tiny campus, consisting only of the magnificent skyscraper with a whopping thirty floors and two mansions-turned-dormitories—Piper and Philomena Halls.
These staid old homes, with their dark wood, Tiffany stained glass, converted gas light fixtures and inlaid Dutch tiles around the fireplaces provided a perfect contrast to the sleek art deco design of the modern skyscraper, successfully marrying the old and the new.
The Skyscraper, as it was called, was divided into several floors of classrooms, a dining hall, a hidden greenhouse on the sixth floor, a library, a chapel, and even a subterranean swimming pool.
The upper floors served as a convent for the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the order of nuns assigned to the administration of the school by Cardinal Mundelein.
It was an institution where the daughters of the city’s wealthy elite were schooled in proper etiquette and decorum—as well as academics for the few who actually desired some sort of profession.
Though the campus was small, it seemed larger due to its close proximity to Loyola’s sprawling campus. The all-women’s and the all-men’s schools fit perfectly together, like brother and sister, with the students often attending each other’s social and philanthropic events.
Sr. Bernard, Mundelein’s president, had warmly welcomed Melody back despite Melody’s hijinks the previous year, the most egregious being her masquerade as a nun to help her friend Elsie elope, which, in retrospect, felt like a hundred years ago now.
Sr. Bernard had mercifully not mentioned this or any of her other pranks during her interview and was instead overwhelmingly kind and sympathetic regarding her recent loss.
When she shared that she and the sisters had been praying for the repose of her father’s soul, Melody had nearly broken down.
Without Melody even having to ask, Sr. Bernard had offered a reduced tuition because of family financial hardship, the only expectation being that Melody would work in the library a few hours a week whenever she felt up to it.
Melody had of course agreed, but wondered how she was going to have time, especially since she still intended to procure a weekend job at a candy store or a soda shop to pay Douglas back . . .
She had not immediately seen Douglas upon her return, for which she was grateful, but when she had, he had acted startled and confused. His face had gone all red, and he had—
“Melody!”
Melody jumped.
“Have you been listening to me?” Cynthia complained. “You’re a million miles away!”
Melody turned from her books to attend her friend, who was now perched on her bed, her long legs crossed, the dangling foot rocking impatiently. “I asked you what you’re wearing tonight!”
Melody’s brow creased. What was tonight?
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” Cynthia uncrossed her legs. “Loyola’s Winter Ball?”
Ah, yes. The ball. She had nearly forgotten, which was more than a little upsetting.
It was the social event of the year and the thing that Melody had most despaired missing when originally called back to Merriweather.
And now, by a strange twist of fate, she was back in time to attend, but, sadly, it no longer held the significance it once had.
She was finding this to be the case with any number of things, actually.
A sort of apathy concerning things that had once been of the utmost importance.
After running the Merc for almost half a year, starting a cider-making business to fend off her father’s debtors, managing her ragtag band of employees, mitigating a fire, and ultimately losing her father, she was used to bigger problems than, say, a particularly onerous math assignment, a dull essay topic, or some boy failing to turn up for a study date as arranged.
She tried to care about all of the gossipy goings-on, but she found it hard.
More often than not, her mind instead wandered to whether or not Fred had ordered enough cider bottles for the upcoming season, as she had instructed, or if he had remembered to pay the Schneiders for their last two months of eggs.
Knowing Tom Schneider, John’s father, he wouldn’t speak up and ask for it. He would simply wait patiently for—
“Melody!”
She jumped again. “Yes!” she blurted. “I mean, what was the question?”
“What are you wearing tonight?” Cynthia’s tone was one of exasperation.
“Oh.” Melody tried to think. “Probably my green Chanel. How about you?”
“I haven’t decided.” Cynthia flopped back on Melody’s pillows, evidently convinced now that Melody was finally firmly in the conversation. She put her hands behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. “Probably the red. But maybe the white Vionnet. Oh, what do you think?”
Melody sighed internally. “The white, I think.” In truth, she didn’t think it mattered.