She leaned into him, too overwhelmed to speak.
Lydia, seeing them, dashed the last few yards and threw herself into Beatrix’s arms. “We did it,” she whispered. “We did it, Bee!”
Beatrix swallowed and got control of her throat. “I’m soproudof you.”
Then she realized Rosemarie had stepped back, as if she didn’t think she ought to be interrupting this moment. Beatrix reached out to draw her in for a three-woman hug.
“This wouldn’t have happened without you,” she said.
“Well, now,” Rosemarie said, gruff as always at any show of affection, for all that Beatrix now realized how much she liked it. “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t bet against either of you, and that’s a fact.”
The afternoon was lovely, and no one seemed in a hurry to leave the reception. Beatrix, wandering around, said hello to League leaders she hadn’t talked to for months—the treasurer of the Los Angeles chapter, the vice president of the Florida chapter, the Class of ’19 valedictorian who headed the group in Boston. All were staying in town until the march, just seven days out.
God, the march. She didn’t want to think about it. Knowing intellectually that Lydia was in no danger did not quiet her nerves, though she suspected—hoped—that when the day came, sheer busyness would stave off anxiety.
“How’s the legislative effort going?” she asked the Boston leader, Carrie Kane, out of a genuine desire to know and a deep wish to veer the conversation to non-march topics.
Kane offered a conspiratorial smile. “All the representatives who changed their votes at the last minute are up for election in November, and their constituents areangry.You know, I don’t think it’s going to go the wizards’ way next session.”
Beatrix nodded, thinking the last comment referred only to Massachusetts, the state that had seemed so safe. But Kane added, “We just need twelve more states, and Rosemarie is getting all sorts of encouraging reports. We’ve already landed sponsors in four states that didn’t even have bills last time, and a petition drive to put it on the ballot for California voters just got certified, and there’s momentum in Texas to call a special session, not to mention—” Kane stopped and laughed. “Wait, youknowall this already, don’t you.”
Actually, she didn’t. Rosemarie and Lydia really had tried to avoid talking shop with her to give her a break. And it wasn’t as if they could discuss anything important over the dinner table when they had each other over.
“You really think we’ll win next time?” she asked. “With the magiocracy pulling out all the stops?”
Kane raised her eyebrows. “Tricks can take you only so far. Oh! I think my old faculty advisor is about to leave, and I’d better say hello before I miss my chance …”
Beatrix, turning away, caught sight of Joan Hamilton, standing alone beside the tall stone wall that marked the northern edge of the quad. Her Plan B guilt, so often suppressed, lurched back to life. She struggled for a moment, then made herself walk toward her, intent onoffering a better apology than she’d managed while Vow-bound to force the woman to reverse course.
“Joan,” she said, “I—” She stopped, rattled. Joan wasn’t by herself after all. Dot Yamaguchi and Marilyn Zuckerman—two of the three other Plan B lieutenants, just as deserving of an apology—were standing behind the wall. She took a deep breath, trying to leap into it but feeling tongue-tied and anxious in a way she could not entirely account for.
Dot, in her graduation gown and cap, smiled as if there were no awkward history between them, though her heart didn’t seem to be in it. “We were just about to raise a glass to my future grand success. Do join in—every well-wisher helps.”
Beatrix lifted her champagne flute and intoned “to Dot’s grand success” with the others. The words she knew she should say burned in her throat. Instead, she asked, “What will you do next?”
Dot’s smile flickered. “I don’t quite know, to be honest. My parents want me to go home and take over the accounting for the family business.”
“That’s not what you want?” Marilyn suggested.
“Well—the fact of the matter is, I’d like to run the business someday, but I’ve got a brother, so …” Dot shrugged. She hardly needed to finish the thought. They all knew where it ended. Beatrix had heard a similar story from Joan a year earlier, except that instead of a job offer, she was sent off with a pat on the head and a trust fund.
“My parents believe in women’s rights—they do,” Dot added almost apologetically. “I mean, they’ve never once suggested that I should be getting married instead of putting my degree to work. But they’ve been grooming my brother to take over since the moment he was born. ‘Look at him in his little suit and tie! Quite the executive! Smile for the camera and say “chairman of the board!”’ You know,” Dot added, “the saddest part of it is that he’d much rather be a concert violinist, but he doesn’t have the heart to let them down.”
No one said anything for a moment. Beatrix bit her lip, thinking of Ella and her brother—a far more extreme case of parental mismanagement.
“Well, this is depressing.” Dot gave a bright not-really-smile. “Everybody tell me what’s new with you. Quick, quick. Marilyn?”
“Oh! Um … I’m moving. Just across the street, though. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“That’s fine, it counts. Beatrix?”
“I’m ecstatic that Roger Rydell hasn’t written about me or Peter once in the past week.”
Dot snorted. “I can imagine. Joan?”
“Well, since you asked: I’m thinking of running for Congress.”
Dot and Marilyn looked just as astonished as Beatrix felt.
