* * *
—
A week later I bid farewell to Deenie, who was home from school for the summer but off to spend two weeks with Ned—and, I shuddered to think of it, Dorothy—down at his estate in South Carolina. Though it tortured me to think of my girl away with the pair of them, the one piece of good luck was that I was alone at home in New York City when Joe arrived, fresh from his Atlantic crossing. “Mr. Joseph Davies here to see you, Mrs. Post,” my butler announced that afternoon.
“Thank you. Show him in.” The attendant had the good taste to make a swift retreat from the drawing room before noting my flushed appearance. They all knew about Joe Davies, of course; everyone in my household did—about the flowers, the notes, the telegrams, the phone calls. Surely they had suspected that the day for this meeting would arrive. Only no one in the household, least of all me, knew how it would actually go now that Joe had knocked at my door.
I stood, pulling my shoulders back, fixing a calm expression to my features even as every inch of my skin suddenly pulsed with my hastened heartbeat. And then there he appeared, in my drawing room—Joe Davies. His tall figure and dark-eyed smile were even better than I had remembered. He must have changed before disembarking from the steamer, because his striped suit was crisp and immaculate, his brown hair neatly combed. In his hands was a bouquet of a dozen red roses. Best of all was the way he looked at me as he spoke, with an expression that showed both affection and desire. “Well, my dear. I went all the way to London and back for you. I told Emlen it was over. My lawyers have already completed the documents. Now may I finally tell you that I love you?”
I smiled, feeling as if molten silver rippled through my veins. “I suppose you just did.”
With that, Joe swept me into his arms, for a kiss long overdue and yet worth every moment of the waiting as our lips finally met. Our bodies folded into each other’s as if created for this embrace. But it was over too soon when Joe pulled away, glancing down at me as he said, “But there’s just one more problem.”
Dread pitted my stomach. “What now?”
Joe smiled, a lone brow lifting. “I hurried here in such haste, I’m afraid I forgot to book a hotel.”
I laughed in giddy relief, taking the roses from his grip. “Now, that’s a problem I think I can help you with.”
Then I took his hand in mine and led him to my bedroom suite, blushing at the thought of what the servants would be whispering over their supper that evening. But I didn’t care, not really. And I certainly didn’t think anything more of my own supper that evening—there were other, more pressing appetites that Joe and I had waited entirely long enough to satiate.
* * *
—
Later, in bed, my entire body soft as I lay wrapped in Joe’s arms, I asked him the question that I had been dreading, even though I knew it needed to be addressed. “How did it go?”
He sighed, his finger tracing a line up my back, sending shivers along my skin. “She was angry,” he said. “If it were left to her, we would have gone on as we have for years. Not married, but not divorced, either. She keeps my name while we live our lives apart.”
I nodded. I knew a thing or two about that sort of arrangement. It was what I had grown up with; it was what I had been so adamant to avoid in my own life.
“The hardest thing,” he said, his voice taking on a strained quality, “is the girls. Of course they’re not girls anymore, but you know what I mean. They are taking her side.”
I swallowed, absorbing this. I tried to sound optimistic when I answered: “For now, they are upset. Of course they are taking their mother’s side. It’s natural. And it means you raised loyal girls. But they will come around, Joe, once they see what we share between us. I know they will.”
He drew in a slow breath. “I certainly hope so,” he said, his voice quiet. I turned to face him, tracing the contours of his brow, then his eyes, his perfect nose. When I reached his mouth, I let my lips take over for my fingers, and together we were swept back toward the sort of conversation that required no further words.
We had two weeks together in New York, and we spent them luxuriating in our newfound love. It was the strangest thing with Joe, an intimacy that felt both intoxicating in its newness, in the excitement of discovery and the zeal of untapped ardor, and yet entirely familiar, worn-in and comfortable, as if we’d always known each other, as if our bodies had always sought and loved one another.
Several nights into Joe’s stay, I stood before the mirror and made a suggestion over my shoulder. “Would you like to go out tonight? Perhaps for supper, or a show?”