* * *
The knock came on my bedroom door shortly after midnight. I was sitting before my mirror in a silk wrapper, removing the final pins from my hair. “That’ll be all, thank you,” I said, dismissing my maid, who left the room with her eyes cast downward, her frame appearing to tremble as she passed my husband in the doorway.
“Joe, I’m exhausted,” I said, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “It was a lot of work getting that party ready.” It was true. I was weary. And most certainly not in the mood for a quarrel.
But apparently my husband, so dour all night, had experienced a sudden burst of energy. He entered my room uninvited, and my heart dropped when I saw him shut the door, closing us in together. And then he said, “But you had the energy to twirl like that for Nelson Rockefeller. Or, I’m sorry, was it Lyndon Johnson?”
I turned to face him. “Both,” I answered, my voice toneless.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I danced with both of them, Joe. Nelson is an old friend. And Lyndon I met tonight. He and his wife couldn’t have been more gracious. Did you get a chance to speak with them?”
I heard the quiver in his voice as he ignored my question and said, “And you couldn’t have been more hospitable to him, that Senator Johnson.”
I couldn’t help but sigh, my frustration ill-masked as I answered: “Maybe if you put some warmth and energy into it, you’d have a few more friends in this town.”
It was a blow, and I knew that as soon as I said it, as soon as I saw my words hit their mark, causing Joe’s dark-eyed glower to flicker in a momentary wince. My husband was not well liked in Washington, not anymore. “I don’t need friends in this town,” he answered, his voice like gravel. “They’re all a bunch of phonies.”
“All right,” I said, my entire body sagging with exhaustion as I looked desperately toward the shut bedroom door. Why couldn’t he just leave? All I wanted was to climb into bed and sleep until Joe was in a better humor.
But he was not done. Staring at me, his brows stitching together, he declared: “And you’re the biggest phony of ’em all.”
That was it; I’d had enough—of his jealousies, his dark moods, his biting words intended to wound and defeat me. I sighed again, rising from my chair and crossing toward my bed, my exhaustion getting the better of me as I voiced exactly the thought that crossed my mind in that instant: “The only thing I’ve been phony in, Joe Davies, is pretending that I still loved you all these years. That you were a man worthy of me.”
He charged toward me then with chandelier-shaking footsteps, and for a brief instant, I was afraid that he intended to actually hurt me. And perhaps he did intend to, but changed his mind at the last minute—perhaps he decided it wouldn’t be worth the price. There were servants just on the other side of my bedroom walls. I was well connected. I had friends who were journalists, friends who were presidents. I had more money than he had and could afford better lawyers.
Instead he picked up the nearest valuable, a dish of rose-pink porcelain in the shape of a shell, in which I kept some of my favorite jewels. He took it and hurled it at the wall, where it smashed into a thousand pieces. “You’ve been pretending to love me?” he sneered, his cheeks flushing crimson. “Could have fooled me! That was some piss-poor performance you put on. I hope you don’t expect any awards. You’re an even worse actress than that piddling daughter of yours.”
My veins went cold, the blood chilling inside of them. “Get out.”
He huffed a laugh. “Like hell I will. This is my place. My name’s on the deed.”
I looked to the shattered shell on the floor, my jewels scattered like glittering birdseed across the Aubusson carpet. It could never be repaired. But I could leave before anything else could be broken. “Then I’ll get out. This conversation is over, Joe. This marriage is over.”
* * *
Divorce made Joe angrier, if that was even possible. Meaner, too. But we had so much together: twenty years of life, a marriage that had taken us all over the world, and so many vestiges of those years that still mattered to me, even if I could do without ever seeing the man again.
There was no hope of walking away with any sort of fondness intact, but I wanted the divorce to be as quick as possible. I wanted to be done with him, and so, as much as it hurt, I gave him the house. He could have it. Much as I’d labored over that home and those gardens, they would always remind me of my time as Mrs. Davies. I would start fresh in a new place of my own.