in the middle of an equally expansive dining room. Even her grandmother’s home in Savannah—the one where her Aunt Dovalou still lived—paled in the shadow of this one. Until today, she’d thought it the grandest house ever with its family heirloom table, hutch and cabinet filled with crystal and china, wool carpets warming the heart-pine floorboards. But this—
“Evelyn,” George said, drawing her away from the memory.
“Hmm?” She turned to the man sitting to her left.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, then gave her a tender smile. “Mother asked you a question, dear. Did you not hear her?”
Evelyn clasped her hand into a fist, her bare nails digging into the pad. “I’m sorry, no.” She glanced down the table to where the dark-haired beauty George called Mother sat in a velvet-covered seat, much like her own but with high, stately arms. “I apologize.” Her hand relaxed; she felt proud of her choice of words. George had previously taught her the inappropriateness of “I’m sorry.”
“I asked, dear, if you went to Christmas Eve Mass with George.”
“Ah—no. I’m—ah—Methodist. I went to the Methodist church near where I live.” Evelyn noted the disapproval on Vivian Volbrecht’s face. “Where I live with Betty Estes,” she added, hoping to ease her displeasure.
“I see.”
Sandra, who insisted Evelyn call her Sandie, laughed lightly from her place directly across from George. “Mother, the entire world is not Catholic, despite what you might think.”
“Perhaps they should be,” Mr. Volbrecht said, smiling.
Evelyn smiled back at him, which wasn’t difficult. Lawrence Volbrecht’s looks were soothing. Inviting. And it wasn’t difficult to see where George— and Sandie —had received their good looks. Both parents reminded Evelyn of a couple inside the pages of a glossy movie magazine. Or like something she’d only witnessed on the silver screen at the Lucas Theatre.
“I’ve been Methodist all my life,” Evelyn told him. “My parents were. My grandparents.” She looked from one family member to another, including Sandie’s husband, Philip, whose handsomeness didn’t quite match George’s but wasn’t far behind. “My great-grandpa Doyle was a Methodist preacher, as a matter of fact.”
George cleared his throat as he brought the linen napkin to his lips and wiped them. “Mother, please let Katherine know how delicious this dinner is.”
“Doyle,” his mother said. “Is that Irish?”
Evelyn pushed her glasses up her nose. “It is.”
“The Volbrecht name is German,” his father added.
“My grandma—my grandmother’s family—my father’s mother—was of German descent.”
“Tell me,” Vivian spoke up from her end of the table, “what it is your father does.”
Evelyn glanced at George, hoping she didn’t embarrass him. His father worked day in and day out as a fancy lawyer in a swanky office, just as George did. Not that she had seen his office, but she’d imagined it dozens of times.
“My father is . . .” She struggled.
“A farmer” sounded dirt-poor. Growing up, she’d seen him in overalls more than in any other form of dress. For church, of course, he wore his Sunday best. But even at night, after a hard day in the heat, working often-unyielding earth, he changed from one pair of overalls into another. She pictured him sitting in the front-porch rocker, talking to her, his words filled with gentleness. Kindness. Godliness. She thought of him slipping money into her hand, money she knew he could hardly spare, and then sending her on her way to Chicago. To this land of tall buildings and fancy houses and people who spoke strangely.
Evelyn swallowed the fear of answering and said, “My father is a farmer.” She glanced at George, who turned red as his jaw muscles flexed. He picked up both fork and knife, holding them the way she’d learned to do, and made a show of cutting the meat on his plate.
“Agriculture,”
“Evelyn,” George said, drawing her away from the memory.
“Hmm?” She turned to the man sitting to her left.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, then gave her a tender smile. “Mother asked you a question, dear. Did you not hear her?”
Evelyn clasped her hand into a fist, her bare nails digging into the pad. “I’m sorry, no.” She glanced down the table to where the dark-haired beauty George called Mother sat in a velvet-covered seat, much like her own but with high, stately arms. “I apologize.” Her hand relaxed; she felt proud of her choice of words. George had previously taught her the inappropriateness of “I’m sorry.”
“I asked, dear, if you went to Christmas Eve Mass with George.”
“Ah—no. I’m—ah—Methodist. I went to the Methodist church near where I live.” Evelyn noted the disapproval on Vivian Volbrecht’s face. “Where I live with Betty Estes,” she added, hoping to ease her displeasure.
“I see.”
Sandra, who insisted Evelyn call her Sandie, laughed lightly from her place directly across from George. “Mother, the entire world is not Catholic, despite what you might think.”
“Perhaps they should be,” Mr. Volbrecht said, smiling.
Evelyn smiled back at him, which wasn’t difficult. Lawrence Volbrecht’s looks were soothing. Inviting. And it wasn’t difficult to see where George— and Sandie —had received their good looks. Both parents reminded Evelyn of a couple inside the pages of a glossy movie magazine. Or like something she’d only witnessed on the silver screen at the Lucas Theatre.
“I’ve been Methodist all my life,” Evelyn told him. “My parents were. My grandparents.” She looked from one family member to another, including Sandie’s husband, Philip, whose handsomeness didn’t quite match George’s but wasn’t far behind. “My great-grandpa Doyle was a Methodist preacher, as a matter of fact.”
George cleared his throat as he brought the linen napkin to his lips and wiped them. “Mother, please let Katherine know how delicious this dinner is.”
“Doyle,” his mother said. “Is that Irish?”
Evelyn pushed her glasses up her nose. “It is.”
“The Volbrecht name is German,” his father added.
“My grandma—my grandmother’s family—my father’s mother—was of German descent.”
“Tell me,” Vivian spoke up from her end of the table, “what it is your father does.”
Evelyn glanced at George, hoping she didn’t embarrass him. His father worked day in and day out as a fancy lawyer in a swanky office, just as George did. Not that she had seen his office, but she’d imagined it dozens of times.
“My father is . . .” She struggled.
“A farmer” sounded dirt-poor. Growing up, she’d seen him in overalls more than in any other form of dress. For church, of course, he wore his Sunday best. But even at night, after a hard day in the heat, working often-unyielding earth, he changed from one pair of overalls into another. She pictured him sitting in the front-porch rocker, talking to her, his words filled with gentleness. Kindness. Godliness. She thought of him slipping money into her hand, money she knew he could hardly spare, and then sending her on her way to Chicago. To this land of tall buildings and fancy houses and people who spoke strangely.
Evelyn swallowed the fear of answering and said, “My father is a farmer.” She glanced at George, who turned red as his jaw muscles flexed. He picked up both fork and knife, holding them the way she’d learned to do, and made a show of cutting the meat on his plate.
“Agriculture,”
Similar Books
