Julia, page 2
She’d thought a break had come when she’d been hired for an entry-level job at W. & J. Sloane—a high-end furnishings company in New York City. She was the “girl Friday” and divided her days between secretarial work, scheduling photo shoots, and writing press releases. At a salary of eighteen dollars a month, she had to tap into her $100 a month allowance from her parents in order to afford living expenses, but she loved rooming with two friends Julie Chapman and Lib Payson in a brownstone on East Fifty-Ninth Street and First Avenue. It was her first taste of true freedom, a real chance to be an adult woman who made her own decisions and schedules. So when she’d run into Tom Johnston at a mixer, she’d decided to get to know him better.
Oh, they’d crossed paths several times before since he was a Princeton guy. His size always commanded attention, as a football player and boxer, and he had a charm and confidence that she couldn’t look away from.
Besides, he seemed to like her too.
Or at least, she thought that as they attended dinner parties together, browsed bookstores on Fifth Avenue, talked for hours at a time, laughed until their stomachs hurt . . .
It had all been a ruse. Julia still remembered the day she’d received a letter from Tom: September 6, 1936. He’d left New York City for Detroit—where his real girlfriend had lived. He’d been a two-timer, and to make matters worse, Julia had known the other woman. Izzy McMullen had graduated from Smith a couple of years ahead of Julia. And if there had been anyone who Julia had felt inferior to, it had been beautiful and petite Izzy. Julia was the complete opposite in everything.
And to add insult to major injury, Julia had written to Tom in a desperate attempt to change his mind. Or turn his heart toward her? No matter. It was foolish and rash and did nothing but fill her with mortification as she’d waited and waited for his response. Nothing had come for months, until she’d received his marriage announcement in early 1937. He’d been married on New Year’s Day.
It was over.
One would think that four years would be enough time to heal a heart. One would think that she could look at Harrison Chandler with clear, unaffected eyes . . . but the image of the larger-than-life Tom Johnston still haunted her most quiet moments. She couldn’t trust her own heart. So, yes, Harrison was right in one thing: there was no rush. They could take their time—she planned on taking her time. Her parents had known each other for years before her mother, Caro, had agreed to marry. And that was only because her invalid sister had become engaged, freeing up Caro from caretaking.
Julia helped herself to the cherry pie. She felt Harrison’s gaze on her—it seemed to always be on her. But it was only now making her aware that his thoughts had leap-frogged far above a casual friendship. Julia wanted more though; she wanted to be in love. Would she hold out for it? Or would she settle for the easy way, the easy answer? The one who would make her father happy?
After a handful of goodbyes and a long questioning look from Katy, Julia headed into the dormered house, which the family affectionately referred to as Ye-Old-English house. Katy would probably check on her later, but for now, Julia was going to enjoy the quiet.
She settled onto her designated bed, slid between the cool cotton sheets, and pulled out her faithful diary that contained all her grievances. She flipped through several entries and paused at the ones surrounding the death of her mother three years before, in 1937. Her mother had had what the family called the “Weston curse” and had suffered from uremia, which had eventually shut down her kidneys.
Regrets stacked themselves in Julia’s heart. She could have spent more time with her mother, been more attentive, kinder, more loving. Julia took after her mother in many ways: her height, her strawberry-red hair, her swooping voice that spanned two octaves.
Was there a right way to say goodbye to your own mother? Tears pricking her eyes, Julia wondered what Mother would have thought of Julia’s recent aimlessness—working at the start-up magazine Coast, being fired from the Beverly Hills branch of Sloane’s for not making advertising copy corrections mandated by the higher ups—and now holding a lackluster marriage option.
Julia puffed out a breath and turned to a blank page to write the date at the top, then detailed the proposal from Harrison Chandler, finishing with the statement, “I have an idea I may succumb.”
Chapter 2
Pasadena, California
September–December 1941
“Of course, no one ever studied, so we got 100 percent. Julia was the center of attention and activity; when we were all together she was always the focus, always the funny one, always the clown (of course, she had her serious side); when she was little she was always the first one throwing butter at the ceiling, the ringleader. . . . Always the kind of person people follow because she had great magnetism.”
—Gay Bradley
“Do you still have that list of marriage requirements?” Dort asked.
Julia chortled a laugh at her younger sister’s question as they lounged on the back porch of their father’s Pasadena home. The porch was screened in but let in the warm, fragrant breeze coming off the patio gardens. They’d slept on this porch as children since their parents firmly believed in J. C. Elliott’s philosophy of children sleeping outdoors to cut back on disease.
“You’re talking about the list I made after Tom Johnston jilted me?”
Dort’s smile widened, making her freckles dance. The sisters were nearly five years apart, but they both had strawberry-red hair, hazel eyes, and their fair share of freckles. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“It’s buried deep in my diary somewhere.” Julia stubbed out her cigarette. Then she took a sip of the cold lemonade that she’d poured after returning from a golf outing at the Midwick Country Club with her father about an hour ago. He’d stayed at the club with his cohorts, discussing politics and smoking cigars.
If there was one thing to be said about John McWilliams Jr., it was that he loved conversation—as long as the person agreed with him. And plenty of his old-time friends did just that. But secretly, Julia knew that he was also chatting with the ladies. A wealthy, ultra-right-winged widower was quite the catch in Pasadena.
Julia had mixed feelings about her father possibly remarrying someday. It would certainly let her off the hook of watching over him. Although now her sister, Dorothy, had graduated from Bennington College and returned home. She’d spent a year before that working at the Cambridge School in Waltham, Massachusetts, and stage managing for operas in New York City. Julia’s little sister had grown up, and they’d finally become close friends.
“I’m sure that Harrison Chandler meets at least a few of your requirements,” Dort teased, stretching her long legs in front of her.
Dort was taller than Julia by a few inches. At six five, Dort had gone through more than one identity crisis that Julia had talked her down from. Julia probably hadn’t helped much with her sister’s self-confidence since Julia had been a merciless tease as a child, going as far as to give away Dort’s favorite doll to a neighbor.
“Well, I’m not going to dig up my diary right now, but I do remember putting ‘fun’ on the list as well as ‘complete mutual understanding and respect.’”
“Hmm.” Dort grimaced. “Fun doesn’t describe Harrison at all. Although I’m sure he respects you, there’s not much mutual understanding between your viewpoints.”
“True.” Julia heaved a sigh.
“And John agrees.” Dort held up a letter from their brother, waving it.
“What? You told him about the proposal?”
Dort laughed. “How could I not? It was too delicious to hold back. Besides, John is the only married one out of us, and I hoped for some sound advice.”
“Oh, hand it over.” Julia swiped for the letter, and Dort released it with another laugh.
Julia opened the single page and scanned through her brother’s words. John McWilliams III lived in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, with his wife, Josephine. They’d married last June, and he worked for the Weston Paper Company, a legacy from their mother’s side of the family. He was also the financial manager over her and Dort’s inheritance from their mother.
“Well, it appears that John is perfectly happy if I wait to marry,” she said. “I don’t need to settle for Harrison, even though he does come with a long pedigree and financial security.” Julia felt grateful for the support from her brother. Maybe it was because of her father’s continual comments about what a fine young man Harrison was.
Julia folded the letter and handed it back to Dort. “I know that not everyone has the instant falling in love that John had with Jo, but it sure would be nice.” She moved to her feet, then released a soft groan.
“Your knee?” Dort said, turning her head, concern in her eyes.
“I might have overdone it today on the golf course.” Julia rotated her leg, then rubbed at her knee. She’d had painful knee surgery that March, and although most days she was fine, the odd pain crept back in once in a while. “Well, I’m off to call Harrison and cancel on him for tonight’s dinner party.”
Dort joined her at the back door. “What? Are you turning him down once and for all?”
Julia had explained to Dort that although she hadn’t given Harrison a yes or no answer yet, they’d agreed to keep spending time together.
“Only for tonight,” Julia said. “I’m going to a volunteer meeting for the American Red Cross of Pasadena. They have some openings in the organization, and I’m tired of lazing about.”
Dort walked into the house with her. “You’re the most busy and active person I know. If you’re not golfing, playing tennis, or organizing a social outing, you’re volunteering for something. Sounds like the Red Cross is just another step.”
Julia paused and turned to her sister, her tone growing serious. “I want to do something that truly matters. There’s a war going on in the rest of the world, and there’s a major refugee crisis on top of that. All I’ve done the past few years is act the part of the proverbial social butterfly. What’s the point of that? Cheering up a few people, keeping friendships alive, following Pop around? I mean, I know Mother’s motto was Personality Is Everything, but she also told us to do more things, and don’t be a nobody.”
Dort set her hands on her hips. “Maybe I’ll come tonight too.”
In spite of her sister’s enthusiasm, Julia ended up attending the Red Cross meeting alone because Dort’s friends pulled her away to attend a theatrical performance sponsored by the Junior League at the civic auditorium.
Julia walked away from the Red Cross meeting with a firm resolve to help in the war effort where possible. She’d become the newest appointed head of the Department of Stenographic Services, typing and mimeographing.
Over the next weeks, Julia devoted most of her days to working in the Red Cross office, doing the grunt work of typing, filing, and copying. She sent out information to collect supplies for emergency kits to send overseas, then typed up more fundraising letters.
The weeks turned into months, and Harrison had come over for family Thanksgiving dinner. It had been a swell day, but Julia hadn’t felt any significant pull toward him. Pop had sure enjoyed the visit though.
Julia continued to focus on the Red Cross work, recruiting a few of her friends along the way. She’d return home each evening, feeling exhausted but exhilarated. On some nights, she’d go out with friends, but mostly she stayed in, scrounging around in the kitchen for something extra to eat that Pop’s cook had left after hours or listening to the radio or enduring her father’s opinions on the incoming news, which consisted of criticizing anything on the Democratic agenda. Her father also employed a gardener, a laundress, a butler, and a part-time seamstress, so there wasn’t much opportunity for Julia to busy herself with homemaking tasks.
And she had never been a cook, by any means, likely due to the fact that her mother hadn’t cooked—save for three items—baking powder biscuits, codfish balls, and Welsh rabbit. Those were the menu items when their cook had the day off. Grandmother McWilliams’s cooking had been excellent—her donuts had been divine and her broiled chicken perfection. Mother had told Julia it was because Grandmother had grown up on a farm in Illinois, and at one point, the family had had a French cook. Not that Julia ever had much to do with French food. Her father found anything French—or foreign, for that matter, which included “East Coast liberals”—abhorrent. And it was better to avoid entertaining one of his rants and never even suggest that they eat at a French restaurant.
On one such quiet evening, after the news radio programs had switched over to music and a light rain battled against the windows, Julia dug out the recipe book Joy of Cooking. She’d used it a few times in New York but hadn’t touched it since returning to Pasadena. As she leafed through it, she admired the approach author Irma Rombauer took with cooking meals, but Julia couldn’t get her mother’s recipes out of her mind. She knew them by heart—they were easy to remember.
So when Dort returned from an evening out, Julia was wrist deep in all-purpose flour.
“What in the world has gotten into you?” Dort asked.
Julia glanced up with a start. She’d been so focused on cutting the shortening into small pieces, with the radio music featuring Jimmy Dorsey and his orchestra as background noise. “I’m making Mom’s biscuits.”
“Oh.” Dort’s brows lifted. She set down her black leather handbag on the far side of the counter. “Can I help?”
“Apron’s over there.” Julia nodded toward the pantry door.
In moments, Dort joined her at the counter, and after Julia blended the dry ingredients with the wet ingredients, she turned out the dough onto a floured board, and Dort set to kneading. Then, after patting her portion into a half-inch layer, Julia used a glass to cut out the rounds.
“How did you remember the ingredients?” Dort asked.
“Had them in my head.” Julia shrugged. Things like recipes were easy to remember.
“You have a gift, you know,” Dort said.
Julia looked up. “What? Making a mess?”
“No.” Dort laughed. “Remembering things. I wish I were half as smart as you are.”
Julia had to scoff at this. “Your college grades outshone mine.”
“That’s not as hard to do in theater subjects,” Dort said. “You just have to be sincere and creative. Dig deep.”
“Still, I was a B student in the best of times,” Julia said. “Smith College was a great time but not as academically inspiring as I’m sure Mother wanted it to be for me.”
Dort paused as she set the dough rounds on a cooking sheet. “Is that why you’re baking tonight? You miss her?”
Julia couldn’t deny it. “Yes, I miss her. I mostly regret not appreciating her as much as I should have. I mean, I was kind of a terrible kid. My pranks went too far—stealing cigars, sneaking into vacant houses, and throwing mud pies at passing cars.” She frowned and shook her head at her own stupidity.
Dort slipped an arm about Julia’s shoulders. “Mom knew we cared about her and loved her. She was the loveliest woman. She loved life—her dogs, her children, her tennis. Maybe in that order?”
Julia smiled through her brimming tears.
“You remind me of her, you know,” Dort said.
This surprised Julia. “What? How?”
Dort leaned against the counter, folding her arms. “Your spontaneity. How you can make friends with everyone you meet within minutes. You’re funny and full of life. Mom was always playful, keeping us from being too stuffy and serious—especially Pop. She spoke her mind and her opinions without hesitation.”
“That’s definitely true,” Julia mused. “I suppose I do that, too, for better or for worse.”
Dort winked. “Remember when Mother would tell us to open the windows in the middle of dinnertime? She’d say, ‘Oh, hot flash, hot flash, open the window,’ and Pop’s face would turn red.”
“I do remember that.” Julia laughed, or maybe it was a small cry too. She dragged in a deep breath. “It’s only fitting we eat these biscuits tonight, then sort out the Christmas decorations. Christmas will be here in a few weeks, and we need to start decorating soon.” It was Mother’s favorite holiday after all.
“It’s a deal.” Dort continued loading the cooking sheet, and Julia popped the first tray of biscuits into the oven.
Soon, she pulled out the lightly browned biscuits and drenched them with butter that promptly melted down the sides.
Julia and Dort stayed up way too late sorting through boxes of Christmas decorations, but at least the next day was Sunday, and Julia planned to sleep in a little.
But the morning came too early anyway, and for some reason, Pop had the radio on screeching loud. Julia climbed out of bed, bleary-eyed, and reached for a robe. Gone were the days when Mother would prepare a Sunday brunch for the family, and then they’d haul off to church. Walking into the kitchen, Julia was about to reach for the radio knob to turn the thing down when she stopped dead.
Pop was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone receiver gripped in his hand. He wasn’t speaking to anyone, just staring into nothingness. At sixty, he was still a handsome man, well-spoken and decisive. But right now, he looked as if he’d aged ten years. His skin was gray, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his face. Julia hadn’t seen him look this deflated since Mother’s funeral.
Her mind raced with terrible possibilities—had something happened to her brother, John? Or another relative? Why was the radio volume so loud? Then her mind shifted to the words coming from the newscaster. Words like: Pearl Harbor. Oahu. Bombed by Japanese war planes. Harbor in flames. Ships and planes destroyed. Hundreds dead, maybe thousands.
Julia sank to the chair opposite her father as she tried to piece together what the news report was saying.
