Morning Glory(7)

“But I’m only going around the corner to the café,” I demurred, smoothing my hair. What would Miss Higgins think? Surely it was breaking every finishing school commandment to speak to a strange man, much less to share a cab with one. But the rain was falling harder now, and he’d opened the cab door and was extending his hand to me.

“All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

Inside, the cab felt warm and smelled of a mixture of cologne and cigars. “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing out in this weather?”

“I’m getting coffee,” I said. “For my teacher.”

He looked amused. “Your teacher?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m a student at Miss Higgins Academy.”

His grin turned into a smile. “Finishing school, huh?”

My cheeks burned. I didn’t like the tone of his voice. And if I was completely honest with myself, I didn’t like the whole concept of finishing school. But Mama had insisted I go. She’d said the only way a girl from South Seattle would ever meet a decent husband was to attend Miss Higgins Academy. A husband. I didn’t even want a husband. But Mama wanted things for me that she’d never had. So I went.

“And I suppose today’s lesson required you to walk fifty paces with a book on top of your head?”

I frowned as the cab came to a stop in front of Bette’s Café. “Thank you for the ride,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

“Come, now,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm. Listen, let me buy you coffee.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you, Mr. . . .”

“Wentworth,” he said. “Dexter Wentworth.” Why does the name sound so familiar?

I nodded and stepped out of the cab.

“Wait,” he said, rolling the window down. “You can’t leave without telling me your name.”

I hesitated. What would be the harm? I’d never see him again. “It’s Penny,” I said. “Penny Landry.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Landry.”



I didn’t tell any of the girls about meeting Dexter Wentworth, but they found out when an enormous vase of lilies arrived that afternoon—stargazers, the ones that jump out of a vase and beg to be noticed, admired—with a note that read, “Dinner at the Olympic tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight. Dexter.”

At first I thought it was very presumptuous, if not appallingly conceited, of him to assume I’d say yes. But then the girls huddled around me, oohing and aahing. Miss Higgins, tall and thin with gray hair set in tight curls against her head and perfectly applied red lipstick, read the card herself. Her skeptical expression quickly melted into approval. “You do know who this man is, don’t you, Penny?”

I shook my head.

“Dexter Wentworth,” she said. “The artist. His paintings are in galleries all over the world. He’s the most eligible bachelor in Seattle.” She shook her head as if trying to make sense of how I had managed to lure such a catch.

“I met him this morning,” I said defensively. “He gave me a ride to the café.” The girls’ mouths gaped open. “It was raining,” I added.

“I’m absolutely green with envy,” Sylvia squealed. “And to think, if I had gone out for coffee instead of you. Some girls have all the luck.”

Miss Higgins patted Sylvia on the back. “Let this be a lesson to you all,” she said. “Penny has excelled in her coursework here, and look at how it’s paid off.” I smirked. Of course Miss Higgins would try to take credit. “Sylvia, you’d do well to practice your cosmetic application this afternoon. You’re consistently applying your rouge too high on your cheekbones, and it’s making your face appear much too angular.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, scurrying off to the beauty room.

“And, Vivien,” Miss Higgins said to the youngest girl, who was seventeen and the heaviest at the academy.

“Yes, Miss Higgins,” Vivien replied in a high-pitched voice.

“I see you’ve been eating pastries again,” she said disapprovingly. “I thought we discussed your new diet goals.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“You will do an extra hour of calisthenics this afternoon.”

“Yes, Miss Higgins,” Vivien said, turning to the stairs.

“And you, Penny,” Miss Higgins said, clasping her hands together and smiling at me as if I were a star pupil. “We must spend the rest of the day readying you for this very important occasion.”



When Dexter asked me to marry him three months later, I said yes. What other answer was there, really? If someone dropped a diamond necklace in your palm and said, “Put it on; it will look lovely on you,” of course you’d smile and drape it around your neck, admiring your reflection in the mirror. Yes, I accepted his marriage proposal, maybe even before I knew whether I loved Dexter Wentworth or whether I loved the idea of being in love with Dexter Wentworth. But when the whirlwind of our courtship settled, I saw him for who he was: a sensitive, creative, and deeply caring man, who loved me, and whom I loved in return. We’d tell our love story to our children, and they’d giggle and grin. Ours would be punctuated with a “happily ever after,” or so I thought.