Chapter Thirty-One
“Where do you live, Art?” My body is folded into his, both of us lying beneath the canopy of fireflies and, beyond that, the stars.
It’s in this moment of sweet repose that I’ve realized how little I know of the details of his life.
An inevitability, I suppose, given the fact that our entire acquaintance has extended little more than the length of a week.
But now I have questions. “I know you live in Manhattan, but where?”
His finger traces a slow circle around my bare shoulder. “I have rooms in the Algonquin.”
I laugh at this, propping myself up on my elbow.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“I also live in a hotel.”
“Yes, you do. Now you live at the Algonquin. With me.”
I place a soft kiss on his earnest face as a tendril of my dark hair slides over my shoulder.
Art takes it in his fingers. His touch is so tender, so gentle, and that, combined with the immense relief I feel as I realize that I can leave my suite at the Audubon—with the daily visits from Stan—is enough to make me break out in a full peal of laughter.
But I don’t. Because just then another pressing question pops into my mind.
“What will we do? When we are back in the city?”
“We will do whatever it is you want, Evie. I’ll continue to work for Mr. Hearst. You’ll continue to sing and dance.
But that’s only work. What will we do—in life?
We’ll do everything and anything. We will walk the streets of Chinatown.
Or eat bowls of red pasta on Mulberry Street. Drink flagons of red wine.”
“I prefer champagne.”
“Champagne? All right. Then you shall have it. We can fill our entire bathtub with it.”
But the thought of the hotel suite has planted an unsettling thought in my mind: Mamma.
She may not have noticed I slipped out this evening, if she retreated to her own bedroom for the night in a sulk.
But surely she will notice by the morning.
And how would Aunt Alice feel if she knew I was spending the night here?
But I push those worries from my mind, sliding closer to Art and nuzzling my head into the crook of his neck.
The scent of him is intoxicating. For now, the night is dark, and we are protected. For just a few more hours.
I find my lover’s face, and I give him a long kiss, which leads to his hands seeking out the soft curves of my back and pulling me closer to his own body. I sigh in willing and delicious delight, happily yielding to his roving touch.
As the night hours stretch on, we do not spare a thought for sleep.
The noises of the darkness continue all around us, so many living creatures calling out in high summer for mates and companionship, and we, too, offer up our own cries to the chorus.
And when the sun begins to send its first hints of pale purple through the dark, I am still in Art’s arms. Sated and yet still eager for more of his touch, I smile with giddy joy, knowing that it’s to be a new day for me.
—
But we can’t remain. Not at Aunt Alice’s and certainly not with Mamma in the castle. The papers have already scented our trail, but if and when it comes out that we are engaged, it will be a full-blown frenzy.
While I’m used to being photographed and written about in my life in Manhattan, I do feel the prick of guilt for bringing my chaotic life to Aunt Alice’s private, peaceful idyll. Nevertheless, I know we must face her. We owe her that courtesy at least.
Art and I find her at the breakfast table.
We walk in, arms linked, and I see from her wide eyes that Aunt Alice is stunned, wondering what I am doing in her home.
Art explains, as matter-of-factly as if he were describing the balmy summer weather, that I arrived last night, and that we have decided to marry.
“You…you spent the night here?” Aunt Alice asks me, her toast slipping from her fingers onto the table.
“I did,” I answer.
“And…your mother, dear girl?”
“She’s up at Stonetop,” I answer.
A heavy sigh, and then the old woman’s quiet, almost mournful words: “I see.” But Aunt Alice still has many questions, as is evident from her strained expression.
And she appears now to be wrestling with her own propriety in determining whether or not to ask them.
Arthur preempts her, declaring for a second time that we wish to marry.
“Well, then, that’s that.” Aunt Alice clears her throat.
For as lovely and welcoming as she’s been to me, I doubt a stage girl and artists’ model is the bride she envisioned for her beloved nephew, but she does not say that.
Instead she asks, “Have you secured your mother’s blessing? ” She looks to me and then her nephew.
I answer, “Not yet.” I shift on my feet, but Art’s hand holding mine gives me a jolt of much-needed confidence. “She may need some convincing. But…the decision is mine.”
Aunt Alice takes the handle of her teacup in her fingers, turning it slowly in the saucer, but doesn’t take a sip.
“Well, if your mother still needs some convincing, I suggest you get to work. And quickly. The quicker the better. One likes to have these things buttoned up before they become a scandal.”
I throw Art a sideways look and see that he feels the same relief I do—Aunt Alice, though clearly caught by surprise, is not withholding her blessing.
She is not going to dress us down for our indecent or backward way of going about our courtship.
Nor will she disown her nephew. That’s one less obstacle in our way.
But neither Art nor I has any illusions—the next steps shall be far more complicated.
We make a decision that morning: the best plan, at this point, is to climb like scolded children into Alice’s coach and ride back to New York City.
I’ll collect everything I can from the Audubon and move into Art’s suite at the Algonquin.
Before going, I’ll write to Mamma, a long and thorough letter explaining everything that’s happened.
Requesting her blessing for our marriage, asking for her attendance at our wedding, the details of which we have not yet settled.
First, I must bring her around to this reality.
I don’t know precisely how the next few days or months will look, but I know that, as long as I’m with Art, all will be well.
And so that night, as we roll back into Manhattan, keeping our heads down as we alight from the coach and skitter quickly into Art’s hotel, we hold hands and can’t help but laugh like giddy youngsters evading a censorious chaperone.
We feel excited and optimistic; we are at the outset of a grand adventure, a life together.
Art leads me up the stairs and hoists me into his arms as we trundle across the threshold of his suite.
Our suite. Our new home. There, alone, we decide to christen our shared space the best way we know how, by collapsing into each other’s arms and landing on the bed, falling together into the all-consuming pleasures that push all worries away.