Then the cash would fall. Or so he kept saying. Simon still spent most of his week in Cleveland, and she had long tired of hearing about all the money coming their way. She needed more than the paltry ten- or twenty-dollar bill he’d give her each time he returned, barely enough to restock their side of the pantry and buy a secondhand crib and baby carriage. She walked Greta through campus almost every afternoon with the rickety buggy like she was still in school.
Her roommates were long gone, off planning their weddings or decorating their newlywed homes. Once the best of friends, not one of them sent her a wedding invitation. Like they’d all forgotten her. Or were they still gossiping about her marriage and baby?
She longed for a friend again.
In August, she’d spent a month in Elms, helping her mother the best she could in the hours she wasn’t caring for Greta. Even her mother, who loved her, had said it was time for Izzy to return to her husband.
At least she and Simon weren’t cooped up any longer in the gardener’s shack. He’d moved her and Greta into the main house after a stifling month when she’d begged him for a box fan. He hadn’t insisted that his father relocate yet to the backyard, but she supposed the arrangement worked well enough. They ignored Professor Farrow most of the week and tolerated him during Sunday dinner.
But with the drudgery of each new day, the Farrow house still didn’t feel like home. She longed to do something new. Even step back on a stage, where she could at least pretend to be someone else.
When Simon discovered her parents had no money to support them, he’d said some awfully mean things. Things she was certain he now regretted.
She was equally as sorry and told him in the aftermath that she’d never meant to upset him. She hadn’t thought her parents’ income—or sufficient lack—would matter much, since Simon already owned a fancyhouse and car and all that real estate he bought and sold. Why would he need money from her?
She turned theScreenlandpage, skimming through a story about an actress who’d collapsed on set. Her agent had sent the woman off to someplace dreamy, probably on a private beach to rest and recover with a whole host of servants at her beck and call.All that glitters isn’t gold,her mama liked to say, but it sounded pretty golden to her.
After Simon discovered she had no money to contribute to their marriage, they’d stopped talking about a honeymoon. Even though she could no longer afford to buy the Hollywood rags, she couldn’t stop dreaming about long walks on the beach, staying at a posh hotel, meeting a leading man or lady under the marquee lights.
Lately, the only headlines at the five-and-dime had been about the war, and that’s all people seemed to talk about when she left the house. Why couldn’t they focus on happier things? Germany, England, all those other places were so far away when the theater was just a few blocks from campus. And there was no place happier than the theater.
She leaned toward Simon, lowering her voice so she didn’t wake Greta. “Silver Summeris opening next week.”
“I’m trying to sleep, Izzy.”
“A silver summer on the silver screen.” She could only imagine how romantic that would be.
Silence from his side of the bed.
“Did you hear what I said about the movie?”
“I’ve heard plenty about it.”
From her, of course. Practically every night for the past month, ever since the theater pinned up its release poster with Carole Lombard as the lead, she’d hinted at going. Every time she and Greta strolled by the theater, she stopped to admire the poster, proud that she’d met the author who’d writtenSilver Summerbefore it became a motion picture.
She sighed. “It’s supposed to be a love story.”
“We’ve no money for frivolities.”
“We will after that woman sells your property.”
When he didn’t respond, Izzy switched off her lamp, hoping beyond hope that Simon would have an extra fifty cents by next week. She didn’t need popcorn or a soda pop. She just wanted the housekeeper to watch Greta for three hours so she and Simon could spend an evening on the town.
Or the professor could babysit. He’d taken to Greta, much more than Simon had, often holding her while Izzy ate. Sometimes she even heard the old man cooing over his granddaughter.
Sadly, all the charm Simon had shown Izzy when they first began dating was gone. He no longer tried to impress her with flowers or chocolate drops in fancy tins. Instead of bringing her treats, he told her that she needed to lose the weight she’d gained in the past year.
But no matter how many walks she took, even when she abstained from the breakfast and lunch meals, pounds clung to her waistline like Greta did to her bottle. Simon had said he would bring her something soon that would trim her figure, and when he did, just maybe, he’d start looking at her again like he used to.
Months ago, on a late night after Simon had left for Cleveland and Greta refused to sleep, Professor Farrow told her that she didn’t have to worry about her future.
“I’m not worried,” she’d lied, trying to rock away her daughter’s tears.
“No matter what happens, you and your baby won’t go hungry in my home.”
She didn’t dare ask about his concerns, simply smiled and corrected him. “Ourhome.”
He’d taken Greta from her and paced the entryway for an hour until his granddaughter finally slept. Then he’d laid her into the wooden bassinet and Izzy collapsed for the night, wondering at this man who mistreated her husband. How could he be so kind to Greta and yet socruel to his son? Even though she and Simon had been married for nine months, she still didn’t understand his family.
