The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

After all, he was the inspiration for it.

She had no idea what time the wedding started. If Nick didn’t show up soon, chances were, he wouldn’t come by until after the wedding. She’d walk around the city, go to the bus and train stations, and check prices and schedules. At the very least, she’d not have to stare at the walls of this dreary room.

She meandered the streets under misty, clotted skies, gazed out on the blustery bay waters, and stopped to copy down bus and train schedules. When she got hungry, she plucked two apples from a tree at a boarded-up house. After three hours of wandering, she headed back to her room, chilled from the dampness penetrating her shoes and clothes.

She rounded the corner of Cumberland Street. There was Nick, sitting on the front steps of her boarding house, dressed in a blue suit and clutching a colorful bouquet. When he spotted her, he stood and bounded toward her.

Her heart leaped, but she steadied her step and summoned an expression of stern calm.

“My darling Barbara.” He stopped before her on the sidewalk and held out the cluster of bright-faced zinnias. “Can we talk?”

She took the flowers, nonchalantly, as if accepting change from a grocer, and held herself still. “About what?”

“I want to talk privately.”

Barbara gazed across the street at a couple wholly absorbed in each other. She’d settle for nothing less than a promise from Nick to never again see Cynthia. “I can see if the parlor’s free.”

They walked up the front steps and into the boarding house. She checked the parlor and, finding it vacant, invited him in. She sat on the sofa, placed the bouquet on the side table, and looked up at Nick.

He knelt in front of her. “My fearless explorer, my beautiful Barbara, you have more courage and spirit than all the people I know rolled together. I can’t imagine life without you.”

Barbara’s stomach fluttered. It was true: He couldn’t live without her, either. But such torment he’d put her through. “Why tell me this now?”

“All during the wedding, I kept looking around at the church full of stuffy people, including Cynthia, and I could think only of you.” He held out his hand. “Marry me, Barbara. Please.”

The knot of torment inside her broke loose. “You do love me, then?”

“With all my heart.”

He sprang to his feet, sat down beside her, and kissed her cheek. “I’m so sorry. So sorry I hurt you. I’ve been unfair, and you’ve been nothing but patient.”

Her cheeks tingled and flushed. “Because I love you.”

“Then, you’ll marry me?”

Marriage. They’d spoken of it with disdain for so long. Did she want to be married? She did want him—all to herself. She placed her hand in his. “Yes.”

“Let’s not wait. Let’s get the certificate on Monday. Get married right away.”

“So soon?”

He caressed her hand. “Unless you’d like a big wedding. Or want to go to New York and invite your mother. It’s all up to you.”

Married. She’d not have to justify herself to her mother anymore. “No, let’s not wait. I don’t want a church wedding. It’s all pomp and pretend.”

“I don’t either. I can live without the church. Just like you.”

“A justice of the peace will do.”

“We can take an apartment. Someplace near my work.”

“A place all our own.” She could almost picture it. “With a writing desk and a big bookcase. And a proper kitchen.”

“And you can find a job,” he said. “We can save for our future.”

She understood she’d need to work. But he must accept some of her terms, too. “And take vacations to the country as often as we can.”

“Yes, my darling. Whatever you want.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she surrendered to his sure grip. She buzzed with buoyancy as if lifted on the wings of a thousand butterflies.

“I can’t sit still,” she said, pulling out of his embrace and taking his hand. She tugged him across the room, out the front door, and down the steps. Releasing his hand, she dashed into the empty street, spread her arms, and ran, paying no mind to August’s thick humidity.

His footsteps beat on the bricks behind her. He laughed and cried out, “Wait.”

“Catch me if you can,” she called, darting down the street.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

BARBARA AT TWENTY-ONE

Boston, January 1936

January 21, 1936

Dear Alice,

It’s simply marvelous that your book will be published, and by Harper no less. I knew it would be. It’s the best thing you’ve written, and I’m terribly happy for you. Helen has started sending out Third-Class Ticket to Heaven. One editor told her he preferred not to consider a book set in Germany, which is quite ridiculous since it’s only about the simple villagers and farmers of the Black Forest. Determined as she is, I’m confident she’ll eventually land a publisher. And sales of Stars to Steer By are bumping along nicely. I like to think that her and your successes make up for my failures. I can’t get my novel or any of my stories published. Worse still, I’ve not written a lick in ages. Mother says I oughtn’t let work and marriage get in the way, but then she’s not married, so it’s easy for her to lecture.

Nick is dreadfully busy these days. Between his job and mine, we’ve had a hard time getting away, which is what I live for. You know how the drudgery of city life saps my spirit. Lately, we’ve both had to work on Saturday mornings, and that has rendered even short holidays impossible. I’ve begged Nick to quit this beastly nonstop work so we can get in a few ski trips this winter, and he promises he’ll try. At least we still get out some weekends. Last Saturday, a couple of friends drove us up to the dance hall at Revere Beach. Between the Lindy and Jitterbug, Nick and I really got some steam going on the dance floor.

I shouldn’t grumble about the lack of holidays since married life is not all that