* * *
I stood with Dina outside of Trinity Church, just a short drive from Hillwood, where, at that very minute, a fleet of servants was putting the finishing touches on the splendid banquet that would follow the ceremony. The day was clear and beautiful, but nowhere near as beautiful as my happy girl. “You look lovely, my Deenie,” I said. And she did. My daughter was the image of all that a joyful bride should be: Cheeks flushed with excitement and youthful health, slender figure sheathed in a custom gown of creamy white satin woven with crystals and pearls. Golden hair pulled back beneath a long veil of delicate lace. And, of course, my favorite diamonds brightening her ears and neck and wrists.
Looking at my girl, nervous but hopeful as she stood there outside the doors through which her groom awaited, I couldn’t help but think back to three previous days of my life. Thrice I’d been a bride—and married for long enough to know that it was not always an easy state. Why, just that very morning, Joe had refused to speak to me, so furious was he at the thought of having to see Ned. Would Deenie have more luck as a wife? God, I hoped she would. I prayed that this would be her only trip up the aisle.
When Ned and Dorothy arrived at the church—late, I noted with a grinding of my teeth—I handed my baby off with a cool but cordial nod and then made my way inside the church. My small mother-of-the-bride nosegay of white roses quivered in my hands; in fact, my whole body felt shaky. I did not like being in the presence of Ned, even after these many years. There Joe sat in our front pew, frowning; he’d been in a lather for days, ever since I’d agreed to include Ned. But today wasn’t about Joe. Nor was it about Ned Hutton or Dorothy. Or me and my hurts, past or present. Today was about my Deenie.
As the music signaled her appearance at the top of the aisle, I turned. I kept my eyes off of Joe at my side, off of Dorothy in the pew opposite us, off of Ned at Dina’s side, fixing my gaze only on my darling girl. Please, dear God. Let Stan be the man we all hope he is. And please let my daughter find happiness in this marriage.
* * *
I had hoped that the end of the war might mean peace in my own household as well. I was wrong. For me, things should have been swell. General Foods was soaring; American families were growing, and they were hungry. That first year of peace saw sales of almost $400 million. “Your Birds Eye bet proves more brilliant with every passing year, Marjorie,” Colby told me at the conclusion of our board meeting. “It’s one of our best earners.” I beamed at this.
And there was more good news. Ned Hutton may have been off the mark when it came to the Birds Eye investment, but Ed Close had been equally wrong about the value of our Texas land, where, just recently, ranchers had uncovered vast swaths of rich, untapped oil, which meant that liquid profit was daily spewing from the earth as quickly as we could catch it.
To my great relief, Dina was blissfully happy in her new married life—but I could not say the same for myself, and so I proposed, in the aftermath of Dina’s wedding, that Joe and I take a vacation for ourselves. A second honeymoon on the water. It was at that time that my beloved Sea Cloud was returned to me, decommissioned from the navy after her proud tour of duty. I was so flush with cash that I was able to remodel her from battleship back to the luxury yacht she’d been before the war. Since we finally had our beautiful boat back, why not use it to take some time together, for rest and fun and healing? To my relief, Joe agreed.
* * *
—
There we sat aboard the Sea Cloud on a breezy, white-capped day, the Caribbean beaches of St. John rising lush and green in the near distance. Our anchor was dropped, the deck was set for breakfast, and Joe drank his herbal tea as I sipped on my Postum.
Just as a young member of the crew appeared at the table with our food—Grape-Nuts and fruit for me, a melon-and-yogurt purée for Joe—a fresh gust of wind skittered across the port railing, sending a spray of water through the air. I clutched the table. The poor servant, caught as unaware as we were, momentarily lost his footing, and he reached for the nearest chair to brace himself, accidentally sending the tray of breakfast flying. My cereal bowl fell to the floor and shattered. Joe’s purée tipped over, landing with a splash on the deck at his feet. The servant, mortified, fell to his knees as he tried to salvage the mess, but Joe looked as if he would send the fellow overboard. “Goddamn it!” my husband yelled, his cheeks flushing scarlet as he saw where some of the drink had stained his trousers. I winced, but Joe was not yet finished. “Can’t you be more careful, boy?”