Chapter Thirty-Two
I always thought it was an odd term, lovemaking.
I didn’t understand what it was getting at.
With Stanley, the physical act was a one-way transaction in which nothing new was made; something was only taken: he longed to consume me, to take from me to slake his own rapacious desire.
After the first few times it was no longer outright unpleasant, but it was never pleasurable, either.
It was something for him to enjoy and for me to bear.
But now I understand why it’s called lovemaking. Each time Art pulls me into his arms, we fall further in love, and we make more of the love that exists between us. We leap together and find that we can fly.
Our first days together back in New York City, it really does feel as though we are flying high.
Tucked away in a place all our own, with the world still unaware of our secret, we have interest in little other than exploring each other’s bodies.
Savoring our private vows. Giving and receiving pleasure with generosity and tenderness.
We are young, and we are strong, and we are enraptured—and every time we come together, it is a further proof of the fact that our bodies were made for each other.
When our physical frames occasionally exhaust themselves, there are plenty of other entertainments just for us in our private little bliss.
Art sketches me, or I sing for him. He reads aloud from magazines as I luxuriate in the bathtub.
We laze in bed and order in food. We doze and we talk.
We talk about life, and the plans for our future.
We play with the question of whether we ought to move to Newport or perhaps even California.
After a week passes in this isolated and deliciously indulgent way, even we begin to realize that we must soon face reality. I posted a letter to Mamma my first day back in Manhattan, and I know she must have received it by now, but she’s sent me no response.
I am still on hiatus with the Wildflowers company and not expected back at work just yet, but Art will soon have to return to Mr. Hearst’s offices.
Our sweet summer idyll must inevitably come to an end.
But I’m excited for our life together. I can’t remember ever feeling this excited for all that is to come, except for maybe the times when I was a little girl and Daddy promised me we could run away to see the world.
But that was never reality; I see that now. This, what Art and I have, is real.
My fiancé and I are returning from an afternoon stroll in Central Park, discussing where we ought to get married.
My first choice is Aunt Alice’s—an exchange of vows at the small stone church just up the lane and then an intimate luncheon at Water’s Edge.
It’s where we started our courtship. It’s where I’d like us to start our married life together.
Art promises he will write to Aunt Alice and ask her if that would be all right.
He suspects that, as long as I have Mamma’s blessing and Mamma is in attendance, Aunt Alice would be happy to oblige.
But as we turn the corner onto Forty-fourth Street and I see the familiar limestone facade of the Algonquin, I notice before it another familiar—and in this case most unwelcome—sight. The cranberry-red auto. And Mamma, standing beneath the hotel awning, with Stan at her side.
In the same instant I see the pair of them, they see us, and Stanny’s eyes take in the sight of my arm woven through Art’s. I stop walking, but I do not lower my arm. In fact, I edge even closer to my lover, so our bodies meld together.
Mamma turns away, staring off toward the busy street with a look of disgust. But Stan says: “You’re not taking much care to be discreet, are you?” Nothing else. He does not say hello to me or to Art. He merely looks at us as if we ought to be ashamed of ourselves.
But why should we feel any shame, any need to hide? No, he’s the one who has long had to be discreet, because what he does is illicit and sinful. Art and I are in love and engaged to be married. Why must we hide?
We do not take another step toward them, nor do I answer Stan. Instead, I say only: “Hello, Mamma.” I haven’t seen her since the night I left the castle, the night Art and I spent together under the stars. “Did you receive my letter?”
Mamma looks to Stan but doesn’t meet my eyes. Infuriatingly, it’s Stan who speaks again. “What are your intentions, lad?” He’s looking at Art like a piece of debris he’s just peeled off the sole of his shoe.
But Art is defiant as he stands a bit taller at my side, his tone unapologetic. “I’ve asked Evie to marry me.”
Stanny and Mamma exchange a glance, as Mamma’s face goes a shade paler. But Stanny looks back to Art and offers a derisive smirk. “And what did she say?”
“I said yes, of course,” I interject. I’ve had enough of this, of Stan speaking about me but not to me. “Mamma, I wrote you. We are engaged to be married.” Still she won’t meet my eyes.
Stan appears relaxed, even a bit amused as his lips curl into a smile beneath his mustache. “How do you plan to pay for the wedding?”
This is a preposterous question, and I let Stan know that I think so. “It’s not a concern. We don’t want anything lavish.”
“Oh, but after that?” Stan arcs an eyebrow, briefly glances toward me before fixing his cool stare back on Art. “How are you going to afford all this, boy? You know this girl expects oysters and pearls. What will the two of you live on?”
“We will live on love,” Art answers, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. I feel how his skin has gone clammy, but I pull back my shoulders, meeting Stanny’s eyes dead-on. He is silent for a moment before his gaze slides back toward Art. “Have you been prudent?”
This catches me a bit back on my heels as I’m not entirely sure what he’s asking. Is he asking whether we have been intimate? It’s none of his business.
Neither Art nor I says a thing, and then Stan, for the first time in this exchange, appears to lose his equanimity, and he practically growls, “You’re both idiots, is what you are! Damned fools, the pair of you!”
His ire only serves to chill the blood in my veins, and I summon that same iciness to my voice as I say, “Stan, I really don’t feel it’s your place to—”
But he ignores me entirely, taking a step closer to us and practically spitting into Art’s face as he carries on.
“You very well may have just ruined her entire career, her life, and you know it.” Then Stan cuts his angry eyes toward me and holds me in his gaze, but I resist the urge to withdraw, or wince.
Ours is a wordless but deafening face-off, and I hope he sees the steel of my will.
No one says a thing. After a long moment, it is Stan who looks away, to Mamma, and he says: “She needs to be seen by a doctor.”
Mamma winces. “A doctor?” I ask, confused by this abrupt turn. A moment ago we were speaking about the wedding. I’m standing here before them full of health and vim. In love. Feeling better than I can ever remember feeling.
“I can assure you, I feel just fine,” I answer, taking care to keep my voice low as I say it, for by now a small crowd has begun to gather around us.
We are in a busy part of town, and I’d venture a guess that Stan, Art, and I are three of the most recognizable faces in the city, as the papers have been swirling lately with gossip and speculation as to my location and my standing in relation to my famous benefactor and my rumored young lover.
The fact that people are watching us now puts me on edge.
Stan is staring in silent fury at Art, and he says only, “You’re a cad.”
Art responds quietly, “She’s accepted my proposal. We’ve already begun to consider arrangements for the wedding.”
“It’s true,” I say, stepping between them but looking to Mamma. “I wrote you immediately. I left word at your hotel, too. I’m not doing anything shameful. I only wish for you to—”
“My hotel?” Mamma speaks to me for the first time.
“Yes,” I reply, shifting on my feet, pointing toward the building behind her. “I live here now, with Art.”
“Oh, Florence, what have you done?” Mamma’s face crumples. “Why must you ruin us all?”
But I don’t understand why she sees this as ruination. I’m happy. Art is a wonderful man; he’s offering me a beautiful life. Why would my mother not see this as a happy development?
Nor do I understand what she means when she goes on, repeating what Stan said: “We must get you to a doctor.”
“Why?” I ask.
Stan steps toward me and whispers as he closes his grip around the top of my arm, “Do you really want to discuss this here, with so many people looking on?”
“Discuss what?” I look between the three of them, and in my frustration, I feel the tears beginning to burn my eyes.
Stan is muttering to Mamma, loud enough for me to hear: “She needs to be seen, sooner rather than later. I have a fellow who will be quiet about it.”
To my surprise, Art does not voice any disagreement, but I see how his face has gone unnaturally pale. Stan tosses his chin toward the street. There waits his gleaming car, as always, with his driver.
Now the folks all around us are whispering—I see the interest building, along with the size of the crowd.
I don’t want a scene here. Another article, a gossipy column outlining this street-side showdown between my lovers past and present.
A scandal that could further upset Aunt Alice or perhaps even scare the Broadway theaters off from working with me in the future.
I look from Stan toward Art, then toward my weeping mother, and something cracks in me.
I don’t know why Mamma feels this way, but I don’t want to speak with her here, not on the crowded street like this.
Perhaps I should simply see their senseless doctor, who will undoubtedly tell Mamma that I am fine.
More than fine—happy, for the first time since I can remember.
And then I can return here to be with Art, whether Mamma gives her blessing or not.
So, with an exhale that sounds like surrender, I agree.
I throw my lover an apologetic look and walk like a prisoner into Stan’s car, where I’m wedged in between Mamma and Stan.
As we drive away, I see through the back window that Art is running after the car.
I raise my hand toward him, press my palm to the rear glass, and I hear his voice follow us down the street: “Evie, we’ll be married! When you come back, we’ll marry!”