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  The china bride and groom teetered.

  “Omigawd,” Caroline muttered, hastily grabbing to save it. She mangled a wire arch of flowers and crushed two rosettes. Glaring at the damage, she leaned forward, searching the garden for Beverly. Seventy guests with insects swarming above them. She scanned the view beyond the screen door. Attended by their crew-cut boyfriends were her dowdy Omega Delta sisters. (She had been bid by good houses, Tri Delt and Theta, but it never had entered Caroline’s loyal head to pledge a different house from Em.)

  Caroline hurried through the square kitchen, opening the back door. Garbage cans overflowed with torn silver wrapping, ribbons, and excelsior. She saw Beverly.

  “Ahhah!” Caroline cried. “Caught you!”

  Party noises funneled down the narrow drive. Beverly didn’t hear. Purse under her arm, head bent on long, slender neck, she lit a Tareyton. She really is unique, Caroline thought. Why must she be so antisocial?

  Though totally dissimilar, the two had been best friends since a cold, clear afternoon when Miss Marron, the gray-haired witch who ruled third grade, had dispatched them with a note to the principal. Making a disturbance, Miss Marron had written. Belching, she meant. Beverly hadn’t. Caroline had. As they walked, Beverly murmured her admiration of Caroline, surely the world’s champeen ventriloquist belcher, and Caroline praised Beverly’s heroism, not snitching. When they reached the slotted shade of the pergola, Caroline said, “Let’s be best friends.” “You mean that?” Beverly’s soft voice raised in surprise. “Sure.” “Honestly and truly?” “Forever and ever,” Caroline vowed. Surprisingly, they had remained a joint force during the wars of adolescence. And unknown to Beverly, Caroline had gotten her pledged to Omega Delta in an epic chapter-room session. “I don’t give a damn about the alums and their tacky prejudices! She’s witty and talented and better than anyone else we’re bidding and she’s my best friend!” Small Em, always striving to be fair-minded, had risen from her president’s desk to agree with Caroline. This past year Caroline hadn’t seen quite so much of Beverly. Nothing planned. She still felt as warm, but the best-friend season was past. They were growing up. So, Caroline wondered as she watched Beverly take that first drag, why should she feel this sense of loss? Well, who else knew how unguarded Beverly was?

  Beverly realized she was being watched. “Sneaking one,” she said, holding up the hand with the cigarette. “You know Mother.”

  “I know you.” Caroline deepened her voice. “I vant to be alone.” She decided her Garbo was definitely lesser Wynan. She remembered something. “Lloyd’s here.”

  “He is? But he said after five.”

  “A tall V-12 paying his ree-spects to your parents. Anyone else fit the description?” Caroline shook her head. “A real hardship case you’ve got there.”

  Beverly stubbed out the fresh cigarette, starting for the garden.

  “Hold on! I need you.”

  “But Lloyd—he must be ready for a transfusion.” Beverly’s soft voice trembled.

  Lloyd was shy, true, but the depth of Beverly’s sensitivity got to Caroline. “Your fine artistic hand, luv, is unique,” she asserted. “And the cake’s a horror.”

  So Beverly, the art major, loosened cloth flowers with slender, deft fingers while listening to Caroline’s gossip about the guests, joining in the infectious laughter.

  “Interested in the destination?” Caroline asked.

  Beverly looked up, her mouth opening a little. Surprised. Em had kept everyone, including her sister and parents, in the dark about the location of her honeymoon.

  Caroline smiled tantalizingly, holding a long Fire and Ice fingernail to her matching magenta lips. “Don’t breathe a word. Sequoia. Keep working. Sheridan’s bought a double sleeping bag from the Sears catalog.” Caroline winced. “Imagine. Sears! Em’s going to lose it under the open sky.”

  “Like Olie de Havilland and Charlie Boyer in Hold Back the Dawn.” Beverly’s tone was properly sophisticated, yet a sigh escaped.

  “It means no, N-O bathroom. That Sheridan! He didn’t even ask her.”

  After a moment Beverly asked, “Caroline, don’t you, well, need a bathroom for, uhh, junk?”

  They looked at one another, bewildered. Neck they did, plenty, Caroline and Beverly. Neither, though, took part in those mungy little chats at the Omega Delta house—Caroline felt considerably more worldwise than anyone there. Mrs. Wynan and Mrs. Linde, thank God, weren’t the sort to have comfy talks. When the time came, the two girls agreed, the man would know.

  “Em saw Dr. Porter,” Caroline said finally. “She must be fully equipped and informed.”

  “Ca-a-aroline,” called a male voice outside the screen door. “Where you hiding?”

  “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.” Caroline bent to retrieve her maid of honor hat, smiling into the sunlight. From this angle the young man must have quite a view. Black hair spilling over pink cheeks and firm breast tops. She said to Beverly, “That’s good enough. I’ll get Lucidda to wheel out the monstrosity. Go rescue Lloyd.”

  She ran into the baking heat of the patio.

  Beverly went the long way around, moving dreamily through the kitchen. Outside, she saw Lloyd, shifting his weight from one long bell-bottomed leg to the other as he faced her parents. Beverly hurried, her high heels sinking in grass, around clusters of laughing guests.

  Lloyd: a quiet, mathematically inclined Catholic boy who played Bach on his oboe, smelled of peppermint, and came from St. Paul, a leftover from Caltech’s Navy officer-training program. He was wearing his whites.

  Lloyd saw her first. His smile showed lower teeth. Mr. Linde turned. His smile showed dentures that Dr. Wynan had fiddled over endlessly.

  Mrs. Linde said, “We’ve been wondering where you were, dear.” Her voice was firm, assured.

  “Helping Caroline fix the cake.”

  “Daddy and I have to leave before she cuts it.” Mrs. Linde glanced at her small gold Bulova. “You’ll stay, won’t you? It’s the correct thing to do.”

  “I want to.” Beverly glanced at Lloyd.

  He flushed happily, saying, “I’ll walk you home.”

  Mrs. Linde said, “We’ve already made our apologies to the Wynans and”—she smiled—“the Reeds. There’s fried chicken in the refrigerator for you—and Lloyd, too.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Linde,” Lloyd said.

  “We’re eating at the Los Feliz Brown Derby,” said Mr. Linde. Invariably, he told his daughter where he could be reached. “We’re playing bridge after. At the Marcuses’.”

  At this possibly Jewish-sounding name Beverly tensed, aching (1) to fly, (2) to murder this desire, and (3) to sneak a look in her compact to make sure her face wasn’t betraying her. Without realizing, she moved closer to Lloyd. She didn’t notice the gathering of fine wrinkles around her mother’s mouth or the deepening of worry lines above the bridge of her father’s spectacles.

  The Lindes’ concern was unnecessary. They could have asked Beverly how interested she was in Lloyd, and most likely she would have replied that she enjoyed his quiet company, and no more. But the Lindes didn’t ask. They prided themselves on being circumspect, noninterfering (and therefore non-Jewish) parents. Assimilated. Yet, at the moment that Beverly took a step toward Lloyd—long, skinny, Catholic Lloyd—Mr. and Mrs. Linde glanced at one another. Each saw fear reflected.

  4

  Lucidda, an invited guest and also the Wynans’ daily maid (Glendale police made life intolerable for any Negro servant who stayed overnight) bumped the cloth-draped kitchen cart across the worn wood doorstep. A boy shouted, “The cake!” and champagne-lubricated young throats took up his chant. “The bride cuts the cake, the bride cuts the cake.” Em and Sheridan made their way to the patio, followed by Dr. and Mrs. Wynan. Sheridan’s parents had remained in Wichita, unable to waste money on fares and new clothes. Three mousy bridesmaids appeared, as did the roseate Caroline. The photographer posed the bridal party behind the tiered cake. Everyone crowded up
three patio steps, the Family making a phalanx, protecting Mrs. Van Vliet, the only surviving grandparent.

  “A lovely boy,” Mrs. Van Vliet pronounced in a voice as light and clear as ringing crystal. “He and Em make a fine couple.”

  Em slid the first piece of cake onto a plate, and glancing anxiously up at her husband, tiptoed to fork feed him. “No more pictures,” he said, closing his mouth on spongy whiteness.

  Old Mrs. Van Vliet, next to Caroline, raised her smart flowered hat toward her granddaughter’s ear, murmuring, “The Christian feeds the lion.”

  “Well, well,” Caroline whispered back.

  “Did you ever see such an expression?”

  “You said he was a lovely boy.”

  “An appropriate remark for Glendale.”

  Caroline reached out for borrowed china with its cube of cake. “Here, ancestress,” she said loudly.

  “At my oldest grandchild’s wedding,” Mrs. Van Vliet said in her normal, clear tone, “I don’t need reminders of the aging process. And I prefer to eat sitting down. Come inside, Caroline.” She handed Caroline back the plate. Someone opened the French doors to the living room and Mrs. Van Vliet proceeded like one used to having doors opened. Regally.

  Caroline shouldered the doors closed, wondering, as did everyone, how old was her grandmother? Mrs. Van Vliet kept her age secret, but she must be well into her seventies. Not that she looked younger. Her face was tapestried with amused wrinkles, her beautifully waved hair completely white, yet she gave off an indefinable scent, the odor of youth. She made you think of a young girl dressed in a trim old body. She was vain of her appearance, and under plucked white brows her eyes snapped with wit. Caroline admired her grandmother almost as much as she loved her. She didn’t realize how alike they were. Mrs. Van Vliet did, which was why Caroline was her favorite grandchild.

  “Blessed cool,” Mrs. Van Vliet breathed, sitting straight-backed on one of the pair of dun tweed couches that flanked the mantel. She gazed at puppy-stained hooked rugs, crocheted afghans, purplish needlepoint footstools, creweled pillows, the results of her daughter’s thick, industrious fingers and total lack of taste, smiling when she came to the jarring note of elegance, a gilt-framed, life-size portrait of herself holding a single white camellia, painted during her first pregnancy. For this reason alone she had given it to Mrs. Wynan. Mrs. Van Vliet did not part easily with possessions.

  Still smiling, she drew off one French kid glove. The great diamond flashed light in the dim room. Caroline handed her the cake plate.

  “He is attractive.” Mrs. Van Vliet nibbled, made a moue, set down her fork. “Common but attractive.”

  “Em is crazy about Sheridan, Sheridan is wild for her.”

  “Don’t get on your high horse with me.”

  “I’m—”

  “You’re loyal,” Mrs. Van Vliet said. “You are, Caroline. Just look how you stand by the little Linde girl—stop frowning. Do you want wrinkles? You know I’m no bigot. A snob, certainly, but not a bigot. Frankly, I’ve always seen Em with someone like herself.”

  “From a richer family, you mean?”

  “Money isn’t what we’re talking about. Though I daresay he’s impressed.”

  “With what? This?” It was Caroline’s turn to glance around the comfortable, ugly room. “Our fort-yoon.” She and Em received an annual income of $712.50 from Van Vliet’s preferred stock.

  “Coming from good people doesn’t mean much to those who do. I hope he won’t take it out on Em. But, Caroline, it’s you we’re talking about.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grandmama,” Caroline sighed, accenting—as always—Grandmama in the French manner.

  “Listen to me. The most important quality in a husband is that he’s good to you.”

  “Words of wisdom, I’m sure, old luv. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “You girls are marrying younger and younger.”

  “For love.”

  “That’s a bonus.”

  “And how is this wondrous good quality apparent?”

  “There are ways.”

  “That only you know? I promise I’ll bring over any prospect.”

  “Do that little thing,” her grandmother said, the small, ringed hand closing on Caroline’s large, well-shaped hand. “Is there one?”

  “Not as far as human eye can see.”

  “I want you to be happy.” Veined fingers tightened. “You must be happy.”

  “That sounds like an order.”

  “It is. You’re my reincarnation. Didn’t you know?”

  5

  Beverly watched Caroline undo the tiny satin-covered buttons in back of Em’s wedding gown.

  Caroline said, “You’ve got a stain, Mrs. Reed.”

  “How? Back there?” neat little Em wondered. And at the same minute Beverly said, “I can’t get used to it. Mrs. Reed.” And Caroline cried, “Mrs. Reed, Mrs. Reed!”

  Mrs. Reed stepped out of ivory satin and stiff, hooped underskirt. “My room’s so bare.” The beds and dresser already had been moved to the apartment. Boxes were stacked along one wall.

  “It’s jammed with loot,” Caroline pointed out.

  “But the room’s not mine,” Em said earnestly. “This isn’t my home, not anymore.”

  “Yes,” Caroline exclaimed. “No,” Beverly murmured. They meant the same thing. Em shook talc on her shoulders and under her arms, smoothing with a big puff. Beverly picked up the heavy gown.

  “A wedding,” Em went on in the same sober tone, “is an end to something.”

  “It sure is, luv!” Caroline laughed.

  Beverly laughed, too. Em didn’t. And Beverly noticed her expression as the small, cruelly frizzed blonde head emerged between the straps of a new slip.

  “Em,” Beverly said, softly, “you’re a whole new person. Think on it.”

  Caroline said, “I bet Lloyd asks you.”

  “You kill me.” Beverly.

  “He will. But me, I’ll be stuck forever. An old maid.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Beverly said, twisting the top of the quilted hanger, attaching it to the top of the closet door, high, so the train wouldn’t touch the floorboards.

  Caroline reached out, one well-shaped arm about her sister, the other circling her best friend, and then the three of them were hugging one another in a fierce embrace. Beverly was Caroline’s friend, not Em’s, yet Beverly felt a welling of tears. This moment, she thought, is an hourglass, endings sifting to become beginnings, this moment is a deep, endless seal on our three lives. This moment is crucial to our future. Later, Beverly would look back and wonder whether she had been given some precognition, whether she had somehow blundered into future knowledge of the Laocoön twinings of an unborn generation. But at the moment her ideas were soaring and growing until she could no longer decipher them.

  The square little room was filled with girl odors, light sweat, Camay, various colognes. Atoms of talc hung in warm air. Party chatter came through crisscross-curtained windows and a glass crashed on patio tiles. The three girls kept hugging one another wordlessly. Caroline, Em, Beverly. They were close, close.

  Em and Sheridan, rice pelting around them, ran to Dr. and Mrs. Wynan’s wedding gift, a 1941 Ford coupe, the newest-model car anyone could buy in Glendale. Late models had just started off Detroit’s reconverted assembly lines but these were being sold in communities more able to pay huge under-the-counter bonuses. Em, blushing and anxiously flicking rice from her tan going-away suit, moved to the middle of the seat. Sheridan slammed into reverse. Down the hedged drive jerked the Ford, crushing empty cans tied to the rear bumper. Guests were overflowing the front yard onto the street. A few ladies, Mrs. Wynan among them, dabbled at tears. Omega Deltas clutched tiny white boxes of cake—they dwelt in an age beyond superstition, yet this sliver of wedding cake was something on which to dream up a husband. Caroline’s high color was intensified by excitement. Beverly stood a little apart.
Sheridan inched the Ford through the crowd, moving into blue shadows of eucalyptus. Good-bye, good luck, good-bye, God bless you.

  “Live happily always,” Beverly called. “Be happy forever and ever.”

  Chapter Two

  1

  That night, after eating their cold fried chicken, Beverly and Lloyd sat on the couch, which smelled of upholstery shampoo. On the Atwater Kent console was one of Lloyd’s records, a Bach fugue.

  “Yesterday,” Lloyd said, “a man from du Pont was on campus.”

  He rarely spoke during Bach. Beverly pulled away. She saw herself twinned in his pupils.

  “About when the Navy’s through with us.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re big on research.”

  “Du Pont?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is that in New Jersey?”

  “Delaware,” Lloyd said. “They’re interested in me.”

  “Lloyd, that’s wonderful.”

  “I’m not in them.”

  “But didn’t you want research?”

  “Here,” he said. “In California.”

  The light from the floor lamp shone through his hair. He’s going thin in front, Beverly thought. The idea rather pleased her. Mr. Linde was bald. She smiled.

  “It’s quite a place to live, Los Angeles,” he said. His sun-chapped lips remained expectantly parted. Woodwinds rose in orderly progression. She felt her smile turn rigid. He swallowed, drawing her head back to his shoulder.

  “Good,” Lloyd admired behind her.

  She jumped. It was the following Monday afternoon, and she hadn’t heard him enter the backyard. She clutched her charcoal, hunching protectively over her pad. She’d been sketching the wisteria, and to have anyone look at her work, unfinished or not, made her squirm. She would have preferred to turn over the big pad, but mightn’t that hurt Lloyd’s feelings?

  “Have you resigned from the US Navy?” she asked.