“Well, it took me a while,” I said, heaving a sigh as Dina continued to hold me in her concerned, blue-eyed gaze. “But now I see.”
“What will you do?” my daughter asked.
“Divorce,” I said, my voice resolute, even if a bit weary. “It’s the only way.”
Funny how it didn’t get easier, ending a marriage. Even when I knew it must be done. Even though this would be my fourth time. It still hurt in the deepest places of my heart to watch this life we’d built together crumble—and with it, my hopes for a long and harmonious happiness.
The best way to proceed, then, was to do it fast and clean. Herb had little say in the matter, given the nature of the parcel I’d received in the mail. I told him my decision and he accepted it with a grim nod, a silent exhale that seemed to take the fight out of his entire frame.
“The staff can help pack up whatever personal effects you will be taking from Hillwood,” I said, clutching Scampi in my arms, clinging to the pup as if he might be able to offer me just a single drop of comfort.
“All right, Marjorie,” Herb said, his eyes fixed on the carpet. I stood there, mute, unsure of how to proceed. Was that all? But then Herb raised his eyes, sweeping them upward to meet my own hollow stare, and he looked in that instant as if his face were the final, weakened defense holding back a rush of despair. If his mouth were to open, the dam would break. And break it did, with one long shudder of his chest, a sudden torrent of tears, as he spoke at last, only to say, “Oh, Marjorie. My dear, dear girl. I’m sorry.” He repeated it over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
What was I to say to that? Eventually, I managed only: “So am I, Herb. So am I.”
Unlike with some of my past divorces, I didn’t feel white-hot rage or disgusted dislike for Herb at this parting. I knew him, even in spite of the truth of those photographs, to be a kind man. A good man. He had not been jealous or cruel to me, ever. In fact he had always supported me in my efforts and had eagerly celebrated my joys at my side. Now that it was over, he was not trying to take my home from me or steal any of the treasures that mattered to me. Even though this divorce was arguably the most sordid and shocking of them all, Herb’s behavior toward me, at the end, remained decent and dignified. And so I saw no reason why we could not part ways as friends. In that, at least, we seemed to be aligned.
* * *
“Mom, you could have run General Foods. Goodness, you could have run the State Department. You can do absolutely anything in the world once you set your mind to it. Why do you have such trouble with husbands?”
“I honestly don’t know, Eleanor. But I can assure you, I’m asking myself that same damn thing.”
My daughter and I sat on the dock at Camp Topridge, overlooking a lake brushed dark blue by dusk, Scampi snoring peacefully in my lap. I’d come to this camp in the woods to heal and rest, just as I’d done so many times before. D.C. was roiling with summer heat and the scandal of my fourth, inglorious divorce. Young men, whether telling the truth or not, had been all too willing to come forward and name themselves as Herb’s lovers, speaking openly to the papers about their tawdry times with him. God help me if there had really been that many.
But here, in the pristine and wooded quiet of the Adirondacks, I did not need to hear about it. I could enjoy this respite with my family. My daughters, my grandchildren. I was working very hard to focus on what I did have: my health, my family, the homes I loved, and the opportunities that existed because of my family’s history. I had many lovely things in my life—even if I never had any luck in choosing a husband.
We passed a quiet summer. I swam, I rested, I walked the woods. I watched the kids play tennis, and I joined them in their rowdy croquet tournaments. At night we built campfires and we played cards, and I fell asleep to the low and mournful calls of the loons that skimmed the lake’s glassy surface. In the morning I awoke to pine-dappled sunlight, breathing deep of the clean mountain air. As the days shortened and autumn rolled in, I found myself feeling strong and rested. Ready to return to Hillwood, lest the press corps or the gossip circles dare claim that Marjorie Merriweather Post had ceded her spot as the District’s most fabulous hostess.
* * *
—
“I’ve always loved the ballet. Why, I’ve seen performances everywhere from Moscow to Paris to New York. And I’ll continue to support this place, just as I always have.” I spoke to a scrum of reporters outside Washington’s National Ballet, where they swarmed on the night of the season’s opening performance, their flashbulbs popping and pencils scribbling.