Perfect Wedding Page 3

  In other words, for years Marjorie had endured. Now she wanted to do something by herself, for herself.

  It had dawned on her in Dr. Hagendorf’s office that one needn’t orate on street corners in order to find more fulfillment in life. One could expand gradually, easing one’s way into the world, as it were. One could jolly well practice.

  Dr. Hagendorf’s idea had been a brilliant one, in her opinion. If she started expanding her horizons by participating in more musical events, she believed she’d be safe. “Safe” was an odd word, but it seemed to fit, and Marjorie didn’t try to find a better one.

  As luck would have it, at the very moment Marjorie needed it, the Columbus Avenue Presbyterian Church had decided to mount a production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance. Marjorie, whose salary as Loretta’s secretary allowed her the luxury of purchasing the sheet music to many of Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s works, aimed to try out for a part. Perhaps she could be one of the Major General’s daughters. It would be fun—and she did have a fine soprano voice. Even Dr. Jason Abernathy, the bane of her existence, had said so more than once.

  Too bad Dr. Abernathy and Dr. Hagendorf couldn’t exchange personalities, Marjorie thought sourly as she walked at a brisk clip along the street. Dr. Abernathy, however, was a childhood chum of Loretta’s, and he seemed forever hanging out at Loretta’s house. He teased Marjorie unmercifully, and Marjorie saw him far too often for her peace of mind.

  # # #

  Jason Abernathy rang the Quarleses’ doorbell with the energy typical of him. He was an enthusiastic fellow, and he lived his life with gusto.

  Chuckling, he decided that was the reason he found his dealings with Marjorie MacTavish so refreshing. She was his antithesis in every respect. While he was outgoing and ebullient, Marjorie was quiet and withdrawn. While he had a raucous sense of humor and laughed as often as he could, poor Marjorie, if she even saw the point of a joke, which was seldom, invariably disapproved of it.

  The door opened, and Jason tipped his hat. “Good evening, Mr. Peavey. Are Mr. and Mrs. Quarles in?”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Derrick Peavey said in a sober voice, saluting. “They’re in the back parlor.”

  “Ah, good. I’ll just go in and bother them.” Jason, who had known Loretta from childhood, was intimately familiar with the Quarleses’ mansion. It had belonged to Loretta alone until her marriage, but Malachai had fitted into it as if it had been made for him.

  Jason deposited his hat and overcoat on the hall rack and strode to the back parlor. When he glanced over his shoulder, he realized Peavey was taking his hat and coat from the rack and replacing them. He shook his head. Once Malachai told Peavey to do something, Peavey did it, even if that meant redoing something someone else had already done. Odd duck, Peavey.

  Loretta saw him first and cried, “Jason! I’m so glad you’re here. I have great news!”

  Pausing at the threshold, Jason’s cheer diminished slightly when he realized Marjorie wasn’t in the room, too. Disappointed, he realized that Loretta was trying to bound up from her chair as she’d always done, and was having a hard time of it, so he hurried over to her.

  “Sit down, Loretta. You can’t jump around like you used to do.” She subsided with a huff, and he said, “Where’s Malachai?” He really didn’t care where Loretta’s husband was, but he knew if he asked about Marjorie, Loretta would rib him.

  “The sweet thing went upstairs to get me a lap robe. I don’t know why he fusses so.” Loretta laughed.

  So did Jason, mainly because it was difficult to feature Malachai Quarles, who was built like a monument and looked like a pirate, as a “sweet thing,” no matter how much he pampered his wife. “He fusses because he loves you and he’s afraid you’ll overdo. You’re carrying a mighty big load there, you know.” He patted Loretta’s bulk.

  Loretta did likewise. “Believe me, I know.”

  Jason wasn’t really worried about Loretta. She was short, being only slightly over five feet tall, but she wasn’t thin or narrow-hipped. He’d balked a trifle when she’d insisted she have her baby—or babies—at home, but he’d given in without too much arguing. For one thing, a man was better off tilting at windmills than arguing with Loretta Quarles, and for another, Jason didn’t perceive any problems as long as the baby—or babies—came out the right way. He subsided into another chair, feeling vaguely dissatisfied.

  “But I have to tell you about Marjorie, Jason!”

  He perked up, understanding that his dissatisfaction owed itself to Marjorie’s absence and his unwillingness to risk being thought to care about her by Loretta. Odd that, since Marjorie had never offered him a single grain of encouragement. “Yes?” he said politely, trying not to sound eager.

  “She went to see William Hagendorf today!” Loretta sat back with a “whuff” that owed more to pregnancy than satisfaction.

  Jason lifted an eyebrow. “How’d you get her to do that? You really oughtn’t browbeat her, you know.”

  “She browbeats everybody,” came a rumbling voice from the doorway.

  Jason rose from his chair and greeted Malachai with a grin and a handshake. “Even you?”

  “How do you think she got me to marry her?”

  All three of them laughed at that, since they all knew—as, probably, did everyone else in San Francisco due to some rather loud arguments—that Malachai had only got Loretta to agree to marry him because she was pregnant. Malachai spread the robe over his wife’s lap, tucking it around the bulge tenderly. He eyed Jason slantways. “Are you sure she’s not going to pop?”

  “I’m sure. Women have been doing this for thousands of years.” Jason cleared his throat. “But you were going to tell me about Miss MacTavish and Dr. Hagendorf.” He didn’t want to sound too keen, but he didn’t want Loretta to become distracted, either.

  So Loretta told him all about Marjorie’s visit with Dr. Hagendorf, ending with, “And she’s gone to the church to try out for a part in the Pirates of Penzance! They’re staging the opera as a fund-raiser for their African missionaries.”

  Flabbergasted by this intelligence, Jason said, “My goodness.” He had a hard time picturing the reserved, quiet Marjorie MacTavish he knew singing on stage, although he knew, from musical evenings at the Quarles’ home, that she had a superb voice.

  Loretta nodded. “She’s got a beautiful voice, you know.”

  “Oh?” He cocked the other eyebrow.

  “You know she does, Jason Abernathy! You’ve sung with her often enough.”

  “True,” he admitted.

  “Yeah, she’s got a great voice,” Malachai confirmed. “Loretta’s been dragging me to church on Sundays. Claims it’ll be good for the kid if his—”

  “Or her,” interrupted Loretta, an ardent feminist.

  Malachai gave an exaggerated sigh. “Or her parents attend church.”

  “The church might be stuffy,” Loretta said pompously, “but the values it teaches are important.”

  “Right.” Jason didn’t laugh and was proud of himself. It occurred to him that he liked to sing, too. And he’d been told more than once that he had a fine baritone voice. And Pirates was one of his favorite light operas. “Um . . . is the church seeking performers only from their own congregation?”

  Loretta’s eyes widened. “Jason! Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  Embarrassed, he shrugged. “Just thought it might be fun to be in an opera, is all.”

  Malachai gave an inelegant snort of derision. He, too, had a nice voice, but it was more suited to barroom ditties than opera.

  With a grin a mile wide on her face, Loretta said, “Actually, Marjorie said the auditions are open.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You sly dog, you, Jason Abernathy.” Loretta tried to wink at him, but she couldn’t shut only one eye at a time.

  Jason got the point, however, and tried to deny its implication. “It might be fun,” he insisted.

  “Of course,” said
Loretta.

  Jason left the Quarles’ residence shortly after that. He fairly ran to the Columbus Avenue Presbyterian Church.

  Chapter Two

  It always amazed Marjorie that she, who generally felt as if she fitted into the world rather like a lamb in a lion’s den, should feel so comfortable singing before people. But she did. Therefore, she had no trouble “projecting to the last seats in the balcony,” as requested by the choir director, Mr. Proctor, when she sang “Poor Wand’ring One.”

  Her heart was lighter than usual. She hoped the condition would last past this evening. Although she’d always been a rather quiet person, she could remember—faintly—being cheerful once. It seemed like a very long time ago.

  It didn’t hurt, of course, that Marjorie had taken particular care with her grooming this evening. Because she wanted to look good and feel comfortable, she’d worn her favorite poplin suit. It was dark green, thereby bringing out the green in her eyes, and it had a single-breasted jacket with military braid and a pleated skirt that ended just at her ankles.

  It also didn’t hurt that she loved Pirates, or that Mr. Proctor and his wife, Julia, had been visibly delighted to see her arrive for the auditions. Mr. Proctor had long begged Marjorie to take on more solos during church services. Marjorie, who had held subservient positions all her life, hated to put herself forward.

  “You’re not putting yourself forward,” Mr. Proctor had told her once. “I’m putting you forward. And I’m the boss.” He’d laughed, but she’d sensed the frustration behind his statement.

  It was true, however. Even though she knew that to admit it was tantamount to the sin of vanity, she had a better voice than anyone else in the soprano section of the choir.

  Therefore, much to Mr. Proctor’s gratification, she’d agreed to perform two solos during the past three months, with Mrs. Proctor accompanying her on the piano: “In the Garden,” a sweet, lilting hymn, and “Crown Him With Many Crowns,” which was quite stirring and dramatic. After the latter, the congregation had actually applauded, thereby embarrassing Marjorie almost to death, and confirming her in the opinion that she’d never, ever, as long as she lived, get used to American manners.

  People applauded her this evening, too, when she concluded “Poor Wand’ring One,” but Marjorie didn’t mind, this being a play and all. She was faintly surprised, however. This was, after all, only an audition. And it was, moreover, taking place in a church.

  “I do believe we’ve found our Mabel,” Mrs. Proctor said, rising from the piano bench and clapping, her smile broad and bright.

  Marjorie felt her face flame, something it did far too often for her comfort. She blamed it on her red-head’s complexion. Mabel was the lead female part in the opera. “But . . . but I only meant to try out for one of Mabel’s sisters.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Proctor firmly. “You’ll be the perfect Mabel, Miss MacTavish. Now we just need to find you a suitable Frederic.” Frederic was the male lead, and Mabel’s love interest.

  “I’ll take a stab at it.”

  The familiar voice coming from the rear of the sanctuary made Marjorie’s heart, which had been floating in happy, if somewhat startled, surprise, drop to earth with a painful thud. Dr. Abernathy! Sweet God in heaven, it couldn’t be!

  But it was. Striding forward as if he went to church every day in his life—and Marjorie doubted that he ever went to church at all—he came, comfortable as only a man sure of himself could be. Spitefully, she wished lightning would strike him for daring to sully God’s house with his presence.

  She was also outraged that he should invade the only safe harbor in her life and said, a little too forcefully, “What are you doing here?”

  As ever, and in spite of his handsome face, he looked like a devil out of hell as he sauntered down the center aisle. He would take the center aisle, Marjorie thought resentfully. Dr. Jason Abernathy, like Loretta, didn’t take a back seat to anyone, even God.

  Mr. Proctor, too, turned to see who had spoken. When he spotted Jason, he smiled. “Dr. Abernathy! How good to see you here!”

  Marjorie watched this phenomenon in horror and exclaimed, “You mean you know him?”

  Mrs. Proctor had left her piano and joined her husband. “Oh, my, yes, dear,” said she. “We’ve known Jason Abernathy since he was a boy. He went to the same school our Georgie did, and they were friends from the cradle.”

  “Oh.” George Proctor, the Proctors’ only son, was attending school back east at the moment, studying for the ministry. Thinking better of saying anything else for fear her feelings about Dr. Abernathy might leak out and shock the choir director’s wife, Marjorie left it at that.

  She watched, though, and not with joy, as Mr. Proctor greeted Jason with a handshake and a pat on his back. If Jason joined the production, her peace and comfort would be destroyed for the duration. And if he got the part of Frederic, her life would become a living hell.

  Naturally, as soon as Jason left off shaking Mr. Proctor’s hand, he turned upon Marjorie. She wasn’t fooled by his big smile or his twinkling blue eyes. She knew he was a devil sent from below to torment her. Sometimes, in her more cynical moments, she wondered why God had believed her so important that He’d gifted her with a devil all her own.

  Also naturally, he walked up to Marjorie as if they were dear friends and as easy with each other as mutton and tatties. Because she couldn’t figure out how not to without seeming rude, she offered him her hand. He shook it cordially and with none of the teasing for which she had braced herself.

  Something encouraging occurred to her. Before she could think better of it, she blurted out, “But you have quite a deep voice, Dr. Abernathy. Frederic must be a tenor.”

  He frowned and turned to Mr. Proctor. “Is that so?”

  Mr. Proctor, whose puzzled gaze went from Marjorie to Jason and back again, shrugged. “Why don’t you sing one of the pieces, and we’ll see.”

  Codswallop. Marjorie knew from experience that Jason had an excellent voice. However, he was more comfortable in the bass-baritone range. And Frederic did have to be a tenor.

  As little as she wanted Jason in the production, she supposed it wouldn’t be too bad if he were one of the pirates. As long as she didn’t have to sing with him or, heaven forbid, kiss him, peace might be maintained.

  Mr. Proctor handed Jason some sheet music and gestured for him to climb onto the platform. As easy as you please, he did so, grinning the while. “I’m familiar with the piece,” he said, “but let me read it through once, will you?”

  “Take your time,” Mr. Proctor said with a conspiratory smile.

  Marjorie told herself to calm down and reclaim her rationality. The music director’s smile wasn’t conspiratory. It was friendly. These people weren’t in a secret plot to destroy her composure and her peace of mind; it only seemed like it now because she hadn’t expected Jason to show up. In fact, in the years during which she’d clung to her church as a refuge from life’s storms, which meant in the years she’d been living in San Francisco, the largest and most violent of those storms had ever been Jason Abernathy.

  Mrs. Proctor returned to her piano, Mr. Proctor scanned his own music, and Marjorie took a seat in the front row of the sanctuary next to Virginia Collins. Miss Collins was a young woman who attended Marjorie’s Sunday-school class, and who called herself Ginger, an affectation Marjorie considered silly, although no sillier than anything else about her. However, although Ginger chatted a bit too much, in Marjorie’s opinion, Marjorie needed the comfort of a friend right then.

  With a smile of intense curiosity, Ginger leaned over and whispered in Marjorie’s ear. “Do you know that young man, Marjorie dear?”

  “Aye,” said Marjorie grimly. “I know him.”

  “He’s ever so handsome.” Ginger tittered softly.

  Marjorie turned to squint at Ginger. “D’ye think so?”

  With another giggle, Ginger said, “Why, of course, I do! He’s terribly handsome. Surely you th
ink so, too.”

  A “hmm,” was all Marjorie could manage in response. She turned her squint upon Jason, though, and tried to fathom what the idiot seated next to her saw in him.

  Perhaps Ginger wasn’t an idiot, exactly. If one didn’t know him to be a fiend incarnate, Jason Abernathy could be considered a fairly good-looking man. Tall and lean, he had thick, dark brown hair that was slightly too long and had a natural curl to it. His eyes were as blue as sapphires and twinkled as brightly, generally in mockery, Marjorie thought sourly. His smile was nice when it wasn’t curled into a cynical twist.

  He appeared serious at the moment, as he scanned the words and music to the song he was going to sing. In Marjorie’s experience, seriousness was an unusual condition for him. The Jason Abernathy she knew didn’t take a single thing in the entire world seriously.

  When she reconsidered her last thought, Marjorie guessed it couldn’t be entirely true. According to Loretta, Jason fought like a madman to help and protect the people who took advantage of his Chinatown clinic. And he also espoused many of Loretta’s radical causes, from women’s suffrage to the elimination of the Chinese Exclusion Act. She supposed he wasn’t entirely frivolous, even if he did tease her constantly and laugh at things Marjorie considered important.

  “What do you suppose he’s going to sing?” Ginger whispered. “I can’t wait to hear him.”

  “You won’t have to wait long,” Marjorie said, a trifle irked with the woman, who all but vibrated in her excitement at being in the room with Jason.

  Truly, Ginger was more of a girl. About twenty-one or twenty-two, Marjorie surmised, Ginger behaved rather like a spoiled debutante. She was pretty, in a crimped-and-curled sort of way. She wore paint on her face every day, which had shocked Marjorie before she realized that the world had changed during the time she’d been trying to hide away from it, and most women wore makeup these days. Only the very prudish or the very poor eschewed face paint in this new century.