“Oh, sweetie.” Mary Margaret rubbed my back gently. “Just let it all out now.”
Maybe she was right, that I had to let it out. I hadn’t been able to cry at the funeral because nothing around me had felt quite real then. The casket had been closed, and in my mind it hadn’t felt like Daddy inside at all. The only tears I’d had since Daddy’s death were the ones that came to me in the middle of the night in fits of dreams. But now, here, in the dark, out on the golf course with Mary Margaret, I just couldn’t stop the tears.
It hit me. It really hit me. Daddy was gone forever, and Daisy was married now. I only vaguely knew Aunt Sigourney from a few visits to see her in New York City when I was younger, back when Daddy was still in prime health. “I have no one,” I choked out through my tears. “I’m all alone.”
“Stop it.” Mary Margaret’s voice was soft, but stern. She stood in front of me and held my shoulders in her hands. “Stop it right now, Jordan Baker. You are not all alone. I’m right here. You have me.”
I looked up at her, and my tears stopped as suddenly as they’d come on, like a late July thunderstorm. Mary Margaret’s face was close to mine now. The full moon illuminated all her features, her tiny button nose, and her sweet plump cheeks. She opened her mouth a little to say something more, then closed it again. Her lips were mere inches from mine. And I suddenly had the strangest thought. All I had to do was take one step closer. One more step, and our lips would touch.
My eyes met her eyes, and it was like she was thinking what I was, feeling what I was. She moved her hand from my shoulder, traced her thumb across my cheekbone, gently wiping away one last tear.
“We should play night golf,” she whispered, her breath hitting my lips as she spoke. But neither one of us moved.
“I… I’ve never done this before,” I said.
Her thumb moved from my cheek down slowly, until she touched my top lip softly. And I knew she understood I wasn’t really talking about the night golf. Her touch made it feel like she was giving me permission.
A few inches more. One more tiny step.
I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to stop myself.
I took that step. And I touched my lips to her lips, slowly, softly.
Daisy August 1919
SANTA BARBARA
“DAISE!” JORDAN PRACTICALLY SCREAMED MY name and grabbed me in a big fat hug when she saw me standing out in front of the restaurant.
It was the end of August, and Tom and I had extended our honeymoon by stopping in Santa Barbara for a stay at the Santa Barbara Hotel on our way back east from Hawaii. Jordan had written me a few weeks ago, said she’d be out here for a practice tournament. And Tom said he knew of a good polo game he could join. After two months away, he was aching to go back to his ponies. I was aching for Jordan.
I clung to Jordan now, breathing in the warm familiar lilac scent of her. They were apparently under very strict rules in the golf tournament, practice, practice, practice hitting balls, or whatever it was they did all day. But Jordan had managed to sneak away to meet me this afternoon for lunch.
“Where’s Tom?” Jordan asked, pulling back a little, looking around.
Tom was supposed to come along for lunch, too, but then he’d gotten them to make him a mint julep at the hotel and had just settled into a chair with his drink and the papers as I was ready to leave. He claimed he was too comfortable to get up. You girls should catch up without me anyway, he’d said, and I’d laughed at the careless way he referred to me and Jordan as girls. But the truth was, Santa Barbara wasn’t the South Seas, and Tom and I had begun to spend time apart here. He’d already been off with his ponies all morning, and I was a little disappointed that he’d chosen to stay behind for lunch, too.
“Oh, I thought it was better if it was just us,” I lied to Jordan now. I wasn’t sure why I lied, even as the words came out of my mouth. But I couldn’t stop them.
“Oh, Daise.” She enveloped me in another hug. “I’ve missed you so.”
Jordan looked and felt and smelled as she always had—small and trim with her short fashionable hair. But when I took a step back and examined her face, she had new lines around her eyes. Worry? Sadness? Maybe Tom was right. It would be better for us to be alone so we could really catch up.
“I’m so sorry about your daddy,” I said, taking her hand as we walked inside and were led by the ma?tre d’ to our lunch table. It was up a flight of stairs, and outside on the rooftop, overlooking the ocean. He pulled out our chairs and handed us menus—Tom had told me to order a feast and put it on his tab—but I wasn’t even hungry for food, and I put my menu down on the table without looking as soon as the ma?tre d’ walked away. I was hungry for my Jordie, for her stories, and her laughter and companionship.