Page 107 of Letters From Victor

40

BARBARA

August 1951

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Edith chirped as she slid the newspaper across the table, already folded open to the community announcements.

Evans-Marceau Nuptials Announced

Mr. and Mrs. Claude Marceau of Los Angeles are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter, Giselle Louise Marceau, to Mr. Frank William Evans, son of Mr. and Mrs. George Evans, also of Los Angeles. The couple exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony on August 22, 1951, in Las Vegas, Nevada, with close family in attendance.

The bride, a recent graduate of St. Catherine’s Women’s College, was active in the school’s French Club and student government. Mr. Evans, a Navy veteran who served honorably during World War II, iscurrently employed as a successful insurance agent in Los Angeles.

Following their wedding, the couple departed for a honeymoon in Hawaii. They will make their home in Glendale.

Edith plucked a honeydew melon from the fruit basket and sliced it clean through, the blade thudding against the cutting board.

“It’s been a week since you got back from Mexico.”

“Yes,” I answered absently.

“You’re a free woman.”

“Yes.”

“Geez.” She waved the knife. “It’s easier to find water in the Gobi Desert than to get more than a word out of you.”

I shook my head to clear the fog. “Sorry, Edie.” I closed the newspaper and set it aside. “At least he was decent enough to wait two whole days before rushing to the altar.”

“How gallant.” She gathered the melon cubes into a glass bowl and sprinkled sugar on top. “Have you talked to Victor?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“No…I don’t know.”

Edith set the bowl in front of me, pulled out a chair, and dropped into it with a sigh. She studied me with that perfect mix of concern and curiosity she’d honed over the years.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said, though even I didn’t believe myself. I stared at the closed newspaper, imagining the words bleeding through like an oil stain—quiet ceremony, successful insurance agent, honeymoon in Hawaii. It all sounded so tidy, so planned. Unlike my life at the moment.

Edith nudged the bowl of sugared melon toward me. I picked up a melon cube, syrup slick on my fingers. It melted like cotton candy on my tongue, but I tasted nothing.

“You’ve got a clean slate, you and Frankie,” Edith said. “You can make whatever you want of it. Make your life whatever you want it to be. But whatever you do”—she placed her hand on mine—“do it for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve lived your whole life trying to meet everyone else’s expectations. It’s time to live on your own terms. Take care of Barbara first.”

I pulled my hand away and stood, pacing to the sink. Outside, Edith’s garden bloomed, an explosion of color against the green backdrop.

“Edie, I don’t even know what my terms are,” I admitted, turning back to her. “My whole life has been mapped out by someone else. First Mother and Daddy, then Frank. Now…”

“Now the pen’s in your hand,” she said, rising and crossing the room. “You can write your own story.”

“I appreciate you letting me stay here,” I said, shifting the subject. “Just until I figure out where to go.”

“You can stay as long as you need,” she said with a soft smile. “You know that.”

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