Life Goes On

  

March 5, 1921

 

Ginger’s two years of official mourning had ended the previous fall. She was one of many in a community of grievers who’d suffered the loss of a loved one during the war. This fact  resulted in the softening of social expectations when it came to mourning routines. Heavy black veils were exchanged for lighter versions. The time of deep mourning transitioned early to half mourning, with many new widows unable to withstand the financial hardship that came with distancing oneself from society, having to go to work to support themselves and their families.

Ginger had been relieved to say goodbye to the dreary black frocks and the looks of pity that flashed her way when she had ventured outdoors.

Two years since she'd lost her husband, Daniel. She smiled to put other people at ease, but Ginger's heart remained as heavy as the day it happened.

“You seem deep in thought.”

Ginger snapped out of her reverie and pasted on her smile as she looked at her dinner companion.

“Forgive me, Thomas. My mind wanders.”

Ginger picked up her glass of lemonade and took a sip, wishing desperately that the goblet had been filled with a nice merlot instead. The new prohibition law was to be thanked for that.

He handed her a menu.

“I recommend the lobster.”

They were seated at the Café Julien, the signature restaurant in The Hotel Somerset, located in the Back Bay area of Boston. It was a prestigious high ceiling dining room decorated elegantly with chandeliers and fine linens, and known for its tender steaks and fresh seafood.

Ginger pushed a lock of her red hair behind her ear, much shorter now since the end of the great war - cut in a fashionable chin-length bob. “Lobster can be so messy,” she said. “I think I’ll have steak.”

Mr. Wellington placed their orders,  his pale skin looking even whiter under the glare of the electric lighting. Ginger didn’t consider him a handsome man, but he wasn’t homely either. His physique was soft, from hours of sitting behind a desk, and though he’d served in the war, he’d been granted a non-combat role. His approach to life was safe, orderly and logical. Nothing like Daniel.

Though, Ginger did appreciate the change of pace from the chaos and uncertainty she lived through during her time spent in France, which was followed by isolation and the unbearable boredom that came with full mourning. Perhaps it was time to find a life path that ran down the middle.

Mr. Wellington, Thomas, kept the conversation light, as was his norm,  covering topics like the weather, local politics, and reviewing his work agenda that sometimes included trips to New York and Maine.

Ginger had expected the proposal when it came.

“I would be honoured, Georgia,” he said, using her birth name, “if you’d be my wife.”

“Thomas,” Ginger began. Her gaze fell to her hands in her lap, on the skirt of a gown that fell loosely from her shoulders, a broad belt landing below her hip bones, with a hem short enough to expose her ankles. She’d come intending to say yes, but found the words just wouldn’t come. “I know it’s been more than two years since…”

“Since you lost Daniel,” Thomas filled in.

“Yes, and well, would you allow me a bit of time to think about it?”

Thomas hesitated, disappointment flashing behind grey eyes. “Of course. There’s no rush, really, is there?”

By the time Thomas had dropped her off at her father’s brownstone, Ginger had made up her mind. She couldn’t marry Mr. Wellington. Not now, and not later. She just didn’t love him the way she wanted to love a man she’d be calling her husband, and never would.  It was a conversation she would save for later, when she didn’t feel quite so exhausted.

Besides, she had other people to think about. Her father’s illness was of grave concern, and his care was becoming too much for her step-mother Sally to endure, even with the help of her house staff. And Louisa was much too young, and rather spoiled, to be of any real help.

The three story brownstone occupied by the Hartigan family hadn’t changed much over the years. The trees on the common situated across the street had grown, and the curb was lined with more motorcars than before, but the interior had the same design and decor. Sally wanted to bring the style up to date, but was forced to wait as society would frown on such frivolous activity when a widow in mourning was in residence. Then the winter snowfall had kept most of them indoors prohibiting shopping, and now Sally’s concern had to rest on her ailing husband and Ginger’s father, George Hartigan.

Upon entering, Ginger was greeted with her young dog, Boss, a lovely Boston terrier gifted to her by her father on her return from France. He’d been a huge comfort to her, especially in the first months after returning home without her husband, and a general source of ongoing amusement.

“Bossy,” she said warmly as she scooped the little black and white dog into her arms, his tongue licking her neck as his stubby tail wagged in excitement. Ginger laughed. “I’m excited to see you too, but I hadn't been gone that long, silly thing.”

Ginger entered the sitting room, finding Louisa there, long braids snaking over her shoulders, a book in her hand. She stared accusingly. “You said you would take me out to dinner.”

“And I meant it,” Ginger said, “but not tonight. I was with Mr. Wellington.”

Louisa snorted. “He’s so boring. I’d have been more fun.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Ginger placed Boss on the settee beside Louisa, who seemed pacified by the dog’s sweet presence. Boss, seeming to intrinsically understand what Ginger wanted from him, curled into a ball beside Louisa and reset his chin on her lap, bringing a rare smile to Ginger’s young, half-sister’s face.

Ginger left the two of them to look for her father.  She found him in his office, deposited on the wingback chair, no doubt by Sally. He had a hard time moving around on his own, his pride kept him from accepting the aid of a walker or wheelchair.

He didn’t see her in the entrance way, his eyes pinched tight against the pain. He’d gotten worse quickly over the last two years, his muscles atrophying until he was unrecognizably thin, and his breathing was strained.

“Father?”

Slowly her father’s eyes opened, red with tears of despair. “I can’t do it anymore, love.”

Ginger’s heart pinched. She hurried to his side. “Nonsense. You just need a bit more help. Let us hire a nurse, Father. Please. If you don’t, Sally will call an ambulance to take you to the hospital and you’ll never come home again.” She put a hand on his shoulder, no longer large and thick, but thin and bony. She whispered, “Please.”

“All right, love. I’ll do it. For you. Now, I must get upstairs to my bed.”

Ginger took her father’s arm, pushing back at the lump that formed in her throat. If they just got him proper care, he’d be all right. But who should they hire? It would have to be someone competent and intelligent and with a good bedside manner.

Taking slow strides to the staircase, she had her father half-way up the stairs when a name came to her mind.

Yes, she would be perfect.