When Franny Stands Up: A Novel

Copyright © 2022 by Eden Robins

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Cover design and illustration by Vi-An Nguyen

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Robins, Eden, author.

Title: When Franny stands up / Eden Robins.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2022]

Identifiers: LCCN 2022006659 (print) | LCCN 2022006660 (ebook) | (trade paperback) | (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Women comedians--Fiction. | Jewish comedians--Fiction. | Magic realism (Literature) | Chicago (Ill.)--History--20th century--Fiction. | LCGFT: Jewish historical fiction. | Magic realist fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3618.O31765 W44 2022 (print) | LCC PS3618.O31765 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20220331

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022006659

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022006660

For Dad, the thief of bad gags

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Excerpt from Remember You Will Die

Mystery Surrounds Report of Girl Drowned in East River, Multiple Agencies Search for Body

Etymology of Poppy

Poppy (n.)

Lives of the Civil War Dead Series

Mysterious East River Death Discovered to Be Poppy Fletcher, Rumored Offspring of Peregrine

Drought has revealed

Drought has revealed a body

Drought has revealed the body of a missing girl

Carmen Touré: 2045–2095

Etymology of Collapse

Collapse (v.)

Collapse (n.)

Aristotle Williams, Controversial Artist Who Built the AI Body, Dies at 61

Author’s Note

Reading Group Guide

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, 1944

If a doorman wouldn’t open the door, was he still a doorman? It was like one of Papa’s groaners: When is a door not a door? (When it’s ajar.)

Franny Steinberg wouldn’t have let herself into the glitzy Palmer House Hotel either. She looked shifty. Frizzy. Raccooned by mascara. She rubbed her eyes but just made it worse. Feet were numb from running in her awful, too-small boots. Bare, frozen wrists jutted from her ratty old peacoat. Stupid growth spurt couldn’t have waited until after the war?

But Franny had vanquished bigger foes than a measly hotel doorman. She had big plans for this particular Christmas Eve, and she had already twisted the truth in many terrible ways to get here. Lied to her parents about spending all evening downtown with her best friend, Mary Kate Finnegan, and then lied to Mary Kate, saying she had to rush home early for—and Franny was not proud of this—a Jewish thing.

Aren’t Jewish things at sunset? Mary Kate had held her palm out like it was raining. It’s been dark for hours.

Don’t be rude, Mary Kate’s handsome brother, Peter, had said. Not everyone’s religion makes sense.

Two lies didn’t make you a liar, not if the cause was righteous enough. At least that’s what Franny told herself, out of breath and at the mercy of the reluctant doorman.

And this cause was righteous. Tonight and tonight only, comedian Boopsie Baxter was in Chicago to perform at the Empire Room.

Franny had been following Boopsie’s headlines for months—arrested on obscenity charges, arrested for doing comedy in a segregated nightclub, arrested for being obscene, handcuffed in her elegant floor-length mink or her spangled gown, smiling slyly, directly into the camera.

Franny wanted what Boopsie had. A grin in the face of danger. More devil-may-care, less knots-in-the-gut. A belief in winning, even when it looked a heck of a lot like losing. Franny needed to see Boopsie Baxter. Because Boopsie Baxter had a Showstopper. A legendary, famous, secret Showstopper that was too spectacular to talk about in the papers. And that Franny wasn’t even completely sure she believed in.

Through the windows, twinkling lights and bows dangled from the ceiling, bored bellhops displayed themselves over countertops to the front desk girls. Wind and snow stung Franny’s face, and her feet throbbed in her tight boots, thumping a staccato of Showstopper.

Franny just had to know if Showstoppers were real or phony, because if they were real, then magic was real. And if magic was real, she might just be able to bear this endless, dreary war. Dreariness was fine and dandy if it kept her brother, Leon, safe, but it didn’t. Franny got all the safety, and he got bupkis.

The doorman relented. Franny ducked inside, melting gratefully into the entryway, wiggling her toes and trying not to think about sore thumbs. Everything in the Palmer House was gilded, marbled, bejeweled, or furred. The people were furred, anyway. Franny took the marble stairs two at a time, up to the landing, nearly skidding into a sculpture of Romeo and Juliet, forever batting eyelashes at each other. Poor suckers had no idea how their story would end. The stairs split at the landing, each side curving up to the bustling lobby bar.

Pillars, ceiling frescoes, Juliet balconies, sconces, chandeliers, gold, gold, gold. The ceiling had been painted with scenes from ancient Greece, when apparently girls got away with being naked all the time. You could barely see any of it through the fog of cigarette smoke.

Across the way, a towering Christmas tree covered in silver balls and white lights glinted hazily. The elevators to the hotel rooms were down there, and Franny squinted through the smoke, trying to glimpse a celebrity come to take in the famous Randolph Street nightlife on Christmas. It all felt very European. Not that Franny had ever been to Europe. And the way things were going over there right now? No, thank you. She had a bone to pick with that particular continent.

The lobby tinkled with champagne glasses and expensive jewelry. A tuxedoed waiter glided through the room with the hotel’s famous brownie and ice cream, delivering it with a flourish to a woman draped, predictably, in furs. Franny must have stared for too long, because the woman glared back, silver spoon poised over its fudgy prey.

Franny’s stomach rumbled. Mary Kate had promised her hot cocoa, and instead, Franny had run away and come here. Franny, who would have sold off the family silver for a teaspoon of sugar.

Mary Kate had linked arms with Franny as they looked at the Marshall Field’s Christmas windows, rattling off all the desserts they could get Peter to buy for them. Some of which Franny had never even heard of. Pavlova? Like the guy who tricked his own dogs?

You pick, Mary Kate said, patting her hand. Your mother has such trouble finding sugar.

As if there weren’t a sugar ration for everyone, or a war, as if money were plentiful and the neighborhood boys were playing baseball in Greenfield Park instead of shivering on a European battlefield.

Meanwhile, Peter had recently been honorably discharged from his post in Hawaii after losing his pinky finger in an air raid that turned out to be a false alarm. Somehow, he still received a Purple Heart. Which he took every opportunity to remind you of should you so much as mention the war. Or the word purple.

Sure you don’t wish Leon was here instead of me? Franny said. Just saying her brother’s name filled her mouth with bees. I know you’re sweet on him.

Am not. Mary Kate squeezed her tight. Don’t worry, he’ll be back. He could come back tomorrow.

Franny’s grin had felt like a grimace. "He’s probably back now, wondering what happened to us."

Laughter detonated behind Franny. This was no time to think about Leon. Not when a single flight of carpeted stairs led to the Empire Room. Not when a single set of French doors separated her from Boopsie Baxter.

She took a deep breath and tugged open the door, releasing more laughter and smoke. A doorwoman half her height and twice her width blocked the entrance. She wore a black wool suit and Christmassy red tie, her hair slicked back like a mobster. She grinned crookedly.

You got a reservation? she said.

Oh, Franny said, patting her coat pockets blankly. I didn’t know I needed one.

We’re full.

I won’t be a bother, Franny croaked. I don’t even need a seat. You’ll forget I’m even here.

She looked Franny up and down. How old are you, kid?

Eighteen, Franny lied.

The doorwoman sucked on her cigar and contemplated Franny’s face. Finally, she stuck out a free hand. Two bucks. And no crying to Mommy about the show. It’s Christmas.

I’m Jewish, Franny said.

I wouldn’t spread that around.

Franny dug into her purse—two dollars! If she gave the woman two dollars, she would barely have enough to take the train home. Definitely nothing left for a hot drink. Franny wiggled her frozen toes in her boots and handed over the money.

The doorwoman pointed Franny to a tiny round table in the back corner of the room, up a small set of stairs and at the farthest point from the stage. You’ll have to share the table with the cocktail waitresses on break.

I’m good at sharing, Franny said.

I’ll bet, the doorwoman said with a low, manly chuckle that tickled Franny somewhere in her lower gut region. She didn’t understand the joke, but since she seemed to be the butt of it, she wasn’t about to ask.

Women in red lipstick chatted animatedly over starched white tablecloths. Franny squeezed past, apologizing constantly, jostling candles and forcing the women to protect their jewel-colored drinks from sloshing. Heavy velvet draped the stage, and two massive blooming chandeliers flickered from the ceiling. It was cozier than the lobby but just as glittery. Face hot, Franny finally reached her humble, wobbly table.

Her fingers and toes began to thaw, and the quiet murmur of feminine voices, the rustle of satin, and the clink of rings against martini glasses felt oddly…relaxing. In fact, Franny noticed her shoulders weren’t hunched up by her ears, her jaw wasn’t clenched. If this is how Boopsie’s Showstopper feels, she thought drowsily, I could definitely get used to it.

Franny reluctantly removed her ratty coat—the dress underneath was only barely less ratty—and touched the magazine article tucked in her pocket for luck. Boopsie Baxter had been interviewed in Ladies’ Variety, a salacious rag out of Miami that Franny had gone through a lot of trouble to get her hands on. The most information about Showstoppers that Franny had ever found was in this interview, now tucked in her coat pocket as a kind of talisman:

Boopsie: Showstoppers are real as your magazine. But they don’t work on men, so men don’t believe in them. They call them hallucinations if they call them anything at all. If you ask me, that’s for the best.

LV: But what is a Showstopper, really?

Boopsie: If you come to one of our shows, and you laugh? You’ll feel something that only we can give. Comedian Ida Horne makes her room feel love at first sight, NYC’s Lucy Goosey has her room flipping tables and screaming battle cries like Joan of Arc…

LV: So the Showstopper is unique to each comedian.

Boopsie: Exactly right.

LV: But where did Showstoppers come from? Why us, why now?

Boopsie: Let me put it this way. A man pinches your rear and you really want to let him have it, but you pretend to be flattered. Been there, honey?

LV: I’m sure our readers can relate.

Boopsie: You swallow those feelings, and they sink down deep, stick to your ribs. They shake you up like a beer bottle, and that pressure can suffocate you. Comedians are like bottle openers. We relieve the pressure by making you laugh. Pressure can be painful, but it also has power. And potential. The world doesn’t want us girls to have either.

***

The evening had begun with a set by the Palmer House jazz band, broadcast for the hotel’s Christmas radio show. The comedy that followed would not be broadcast. Only those ladies lucky enough to see it in person would know it even happened.

The all-girl band packed up their instruments, chatting animatedly with the stage crew as they tested the spotlight. If it hadn’t been for the war and its insatiable appetite for men—including artists and comedians—would Franny be watching male musicians right now? A man comedian? Impossible to imagine. Emily Post complained in her etiquette book that wartime comedy marked the death of good old-fashioned femininity: Alas, American morals are fraying at the seams even as our boys are fighting—and dying—to preserve them. Franny read the whole book, hoping for some mention of Showstoppers, but Emily Post either didn’t believe in them or didn’t consider them worth mentioning.

A cocktail waitress swooped over to Franny in a stylish but surprisingly skimpy getup and set a glass mug with a lemon wheel floating in it on the table.

But I didn’t order anything. Franny politely tried and failed not to stare at the waitress’s jiggly décolletage.

On the house, the waitress said in a shockingly high-pitched voice. Courtesy of Diane at the door.

Diane’s suit bunched up around her ears as she relit her cigar.

Franny turned back to her drink. What is it?

Hot toddy, said the cocktail waitress, holding out her palm.

I thought you said—

Tip?

Right. Franny dug into her purse and pulled out a nickel. Thanks.

Boopsie’s on next, the cocktail waitress squeaked. I never miss her for anything.

Sorry if I took your seat, Franny said.

I prefer to watch her in private anyway, the waitress said, jiggling away before Franny had a chance to ask what she meant.

A red-haired beauty, probably the singer from the house band, grabbed the microphone. Ladies. Without further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce the girl who started it all, the comedian who needs no introduction, she said. The audience clapped harder. Some cheered and whistled. Franny could barely breathe.

Please welcome to her Empire Room debut—

Franny couldn’t believe she had pulled it off. She was really about to see, with her own two eyes—

Boopsie Baxter!

Chairs scraped the floor, and dozens of elegant ladies hopped to their feet to cheer. Franny stood and cheered too, even though her voice sounded funny in her ears. She froze midclap as Boopsie shimmied onstage. Her red sequined dress hugged her every curve, winking like fish scales, black hair laid close to her scalp, shiny and finger waved. Her neck was drenched in diamonds. She embraced the singer who introduced her—Franny was surprised at how small Boopsie was—then waved demurely at the audience. She was more captivating than even her newspaper photos. She probably smelled terrific. Franny had never had the chance to clap for a Negro woman before and did so with vigor.

All right, all right, Boopsie said in a smoky voice that sounded many years older than she looked. We’re all thrilled about the birth of Jesus, now sit your asses down.

The crowd tittered and sat. Franny felt prissier than Mary Kate, blushing in the dark at the word ass.

Siddown, hissed a voice right below Franny. It was Diane from the door, looking up at her. Franny was the only one still standing. She plopped into her chair. And drink up, it’ll get cold.

Franny took a sip of her drink and coughed. This has alcohol in it! she said.

Diane laughed. No kidding. Merry Christmas, kid.

Two extremely handsome men in tuxedos wheeled out a glossy baby grand while Boopsie ogled them. That’s right, fellas, she said in that husky voice. One of these days, if you’re lucky, these fingers will practice on you. She settled in at the piano. Let’s warm up with a little holiday music, get those juices flowing. The audience clapped their approval.

Franny attempted a second sip. The drink was warming and lemony and vaguely spiced, and now that she was expecting alcohol, it wasn’t too bad.

Boopsie tinkled a few notes on the piano and started to sing.

When you see a pretty fella

With a certain kind of asset

And you wanna get a hold-a

The eggs in his basket

Just remember this one trick

The best way to get his stick

Smash your boobies

Smash ’em together

Squeeze those titties

In any weather!

Franny laughed and blushed at the same time. She took a big gulp of her drink for courage. It warmed her fast, spreading low into her belly. So low, in fact, that if she were being honest, it wasn’t really her belly at all.

Boopsie tinkered on the piano, smiling that sly smile. Thanks so much for coming out on Christmas Eve. Christmas is a special time, a very special time. When else can a respectable woman sneak a strange man into her house, accept gifts, and wiggle around on his lap, asking for more? Oh yes, Santa, I’ve been a very bad girl. That, my friends, is the real Christmas magic.

The room exploded in an atom bomb of laughter. Imagine Mary Kate listening to this! Franny pictured Mary Kate shaken to her core, her sweet, heart-shaped face frozen in an expression of horror. Franny laughed until her ears ached. What was there to worry about again? Life was grand. And hilarious. She relaxed into the laugh, felt it bubbling up from deep inside her.

And then her giggle became a moan. A loud one. The kind of noise Franny would never consider making. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but the moan continued behind her hand. She grabbed her mug for another gulp, but it was empty. Was this what being drunk felt like? She could see why winos existed, if so.

A warmth filled her entire…lower region…but mostly a certain spot between her legs that pulsated like a tiny heart. The physical sensation was irresistibly exciting, and Franny desperately wanted to give in to it. But what if people noticed? What if she ruined everyone’s nice, relaxing evening by yowling like a tomcat? She forced herself to sit painfully still and keep the feeling inside until it passed. But on and on Boopsie went, her words barely comprehensible over the sound of Franny’s own heartbeat. Franny’s breath came ragged, and suddenly she was yelping like the Finnegans’ Yorkshire Terrier, Noodles, and then an explosion rippled upward from her nether regions through her chest and arms and head and down to her tingling toes, and Franny melted into her chair. She had never felt so good. Which felt bad. She wanted to leave. Her limbs were empty fire hoses, and she could barely stand. What had she done?

Immediately after the heat evaporated, it started to build again.

Oh no, Franny said, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. What was this place? They had slipped her a Mickey Finn Special, that was for sure. Franny forced herself to stand and ignored the heat building up again. She stumbled, knocking the chair over on her way to leave.

What did you put in my drink? she said to Diane, whose cheeks were rosy and eyes unfocused. Let me out.

Slow down, sweetheart, Diane said. Remember our deal. I let you in, you be cool.

Cool? I’m sweating through my dress. And I am not your sweetheart.

Diane looked her up and down, and Franny crossed her arms over her chest to hide…what?

I don’t believe it. A Showstopper virgin, Diane said, grinning. "And Boopsie Baxter popped your cherry. If that ain’t the limit. Hey, Dolly—she nudged the cocktail waitress—get a load of this."

But Franny would not be gotten a load of. She pushed past Diane and tugged open the French doors, squinting in the dim lights of the lobby. She oozed down the marble stairs, dashed through the gilded doors so that the doorman had to jump out of her way, until finally she was standing in the middle of Monroe Street in the blistering cold night, letting the snow cool her cheeks, and sucking in the fresh air until it burned her lungs.

Franny shrugged her coat on and refused to cry. Whatever happened in the Empire Room was not magic. Magic was supposed to transport you out of yourself, not sink you deeper into it. Magic was supposed to give you courage, not something else to worry about.

From now on, no more Boopsie Baxter, no more Empire Room, forget all about Showstoppers. But how could Franny forget that? She would make herself forget. Boopsie who?

Mama and Papa would never have to know. Leon would never have to know. It would be so secret that Franny would keep it a secret from herself. What secret?

Franny hustled down State Street to Adams, keeping her coat open as punishment, which was awfully Catholic of her, something Mary Kate would do. But Mary Kate would never allow herself to be…consumed by whatever had consumed Franny. Boy, whatever it was, it sure felt great. Franny wished she had stayed at the Empire Room long enough to ask Diane—what was Boopsie’s Showstopper, exactly? Would it have killed her to ask? Stop thinking about it. Forget it, remember?

Franny hopped up the slick steps to the L platform at Adams and Wabash and gave all her remaining pocket change to some scrawny urchin who couldn’t believe his luck.

What happened happened; forget about it, Papa would say. The future doesn’t care about the past and neither should you.

Franny most definitely did not want to think about Papa right now.

***

The downstairs lights were still on at Steinbergs’ boxy brick foursquare home at 504 North Euclid Avenue. That meant Mama and Papa had waited for her. Franny tried not to look guilty. She would just say she had gone to a dance at the Servicemen’s Center with Mary Kate and lost track of time. Not a punishable offense, surely, since Peter had been there to chaperone?

She took a deep breath and opened the door. There, in the entryway, stood Mama and Papa…and Mary Kate and Peter. Her throat clenched tight. Caught in the crosshairs of a lie she hadn’t even told yet. Why couldn’t she catch a break? They looked grim; Mary Kate and Peter still wore their coats. Franny was in so much trouble.

I can explain, Franny began. But they barely noticed her. They were all huddled around a small yellow square of paper. A Western Union telegram. The house was a scratchy sweater they were all wearing. Papa’s pipe dangled, unpacked, from his fingertips. Franny’s heart stopped dead in her chest.

Leon, she croaked.

Leon’s entire division—the 106th—had been dumped somewhere in Belgium, swapping in for some bored soldiers who had, Leon promised, seen absolutely no action. And true to his word, his last letter was all about the excitement of winning two cigarettes in a chess game against people who called themselves Smitty and Buster.

Papa looked at Franny as though he had never seen her before in his whole life. Mama reached for her, pulled her close. He’s missing, Mama said. He’s been missing for three days.

Franny wanted it to be two hours ago, before she lied and ran away, when Peter suggested they go to the Servicemen’s Center dance.

My buddies will be there, on Christmas furlough, Peter had said. Who knows the next time I’ll get to see them? You don’t get a Purple Heart for turning your back on your brothers.

Yeah, you get it for blowing off your own finger lighting a road flare, Mary Kate had said, rolling her eyes. On a sunny beach in Hawaii.

What did I say about disrespecting—

"Meanwhile, Mary Kate continued, Leon is risking real limbs in Belgium, right now." She slapped a hand over her mouth and looked sidelong at Franny, who felt herself go a little weak in the knees.

Now you’ve done it. Peter had grabbed Franny around the shoulders, and she had been grateful the stinging wind covered her flushed cheeks. Leon’s just fine, Franny, he said, holding her tight. He’s stationed in the absolute dullest part of Europe right now. Snooze fest. I promise. He had smiled his brightest, most trustworthy smile.

Snooze fest. He promised. Stupid, handsome, not-missing Peter who enlisted his way into a tropical vacation because his father played golf with rich people.

But Leon was playing chess. Franny’s voice wobbled. He was supposed to be bored.

Nu, Ruth, you want to lie to the girl, that’s your business, but I won’t. Papa crumpled the telegram, squeezing it tight in his big fist like he could make it a diamond. He’s dead. They lost the body. That’s what this means.

Franny had never heard Papa talk this way. Papa, always quick with a joke, no matter what.

That’s not true, Peter said hoarsely.

Papa turned to Peter with a fierce look. This from the war hero who got a Purple Heart in schtupping Polynesian girls.

Isaac, Mama said. Please.

Tears dribbled down Mary Kate’s cheeks, and Peter’s jaw muscles worked, but he held his tongue. All Franny could think was that if she hadn’t lied, if she had just stayed with Mary Kate and Peter and never set eyes on Boopsie Baxter, somehow this telegram would not have arrived, and Leon would be fine. Winning cigarettes off Smitty and bored out of his skull in Nowheresville, Belgium.

She had only wanted to relieve a little pressure, have a little laugh. Take her mind off the nightmares and the dread, the constant hum of worry about Leon. Just one night off. Just for a moment. But this was what happened when Franny took her mind off things. She lost them.

Chapter Two

June 1951, Seven years later

The Finnegans’ house sprawled across two city lots, kitty-corner from the Steinbergs’ modest brick foursquare. The house had cost Mr. Finnegan almost ten thousand dollars to build—and that was during the Depression, don’t forget. Mr. Finnegan’s memories were the clearest when they were about how much he had paid for something. The lawn was smooth and lush as carpet, uninterrupted by trees, and they still hired a person to do their landscaping, which was just so unfair. The Steinberg lawn was cramped with white oaks, as was the vacant lot next door, and who had to rake those giant leaves? And mow the lawn? Franny.

Don’t fidget, dear, Mrs. Finnegan said. And then, to the tailor, Mr. Epstein, I told you, she’s at least a size larger on the bottom half. She whispered bottom half as though it were a curse word. Franny’s face prickled. That familiar pain gripped her insides, gurgling demonically and earning a glare from Mrs. Finnegan.

Honestly, Franny, she said. "You can’t possibly be hungry again."

It was hot for early June, a stuffy, sticky August-y heat. Even with all of Mary Kate’s bedroom windows open, Franny’s girdle pricked her flesh, sweat trickling maddeningly down her ribs. It was hard to breathe in the thing on a good day, and this was not a good day. She looked like a gelatinous undersea creature in the bridesmaid dress. Its ruffled shoulders and seafoam-green chiffon made Mary Kate’s other bridesmaid, Agnes, look dewy and diaphanous and positively goddess-like but turned Franny’s olive skin moldy.

We take in the bodice, fit the shoulders like so, no problem, Mr. Epstein said around a mouth of straight pins.

Mama says I’m full of hot air, Franny said. Poke me with one of those pins and I’ll pop like a balloon. Problem solved. Mr. Epstein chuckled politely. Mrs. Finnegan grimaced.

Honestly, Franny, this is no time for jokes.

Does she have it on upside down? Agnes cracked.

Nothing we can do about it now, Mrs. Finnegan said. If there’s any…anything you can do about the hips… She threw up her hands and stalked away. Twenty minutes, girls, then we absolutely must leave if we want to have high tea.

Franny suddenly wanted nothing more than to stand on that chair forever. A day with Mrs. Finnegan, on top of everything else, was not her idea of fun. Are you sure you have all the measurements you need, Mr. Epstein? Franny asked. Did I mention the shoulders feel a little loose?

Mr. Epstein helped her off the chair. Don’t worry, shayna maydel, I make sure you look good for the wedding.

I don’t want to rush things, Franny said. These days it’s all hurry hurry, rush rush rush. Whatever happened to taking our time?

Mary Kate smiled sweetly. Franny’s not used to being forced to do what she doesn’t want to do.

Franny’s guts punched her from the inside, and she willed herself not to show it. Mary Kate was just nervous about her wedding. That was probably her idea of a compliment. But she didn’t know the half of it; she didn’t know a tenth of it.

The truth was, Mary Kate had abandoned her right when Franny needed her most, so how could she know anything?

The two of them hadn’t spent more than an hour in the same room since high school, but really, they had drifted apart even before then, when the war ended. Had Mary Kate even wanted Franny to be a bridesmaid, or had Mrs. Finnegan made her do it? Franny said yes because saying no would have required an explanation. Keeping the peace was easier. Of course, it also meant there was no way to avoid crossing paths with Peter.

Nat King Cole crooned from the record player as Franny shimmied out of the dress behind Mary Kate’s Japanese room divider. Franny was always