I’d been so cold and aloof with him lately, really ever since I’d stumbled upon the divorce papers and his closeted interlude with Leila. My parents had finalized their divorce, and both had conducted their own separate and awkward conversations with me, explaining their plans. Mother now split her time between Washington and St. Louis, where she took her regular cures. Papa spent time in both Battle Creek and Washington, where I was still enrolled in boarding school. And he had followed through on his plan to build a sprawling new estate up here in Greenwich. He was rarely alone in his travels; though he’d never spoken to me of any formal attachment to Leila other than her ongoing role as “secretary,” he had allowed that woman to assume an ever-larger hold on his life and role in our family, so that by this time she was practically a constant fixture.
But not tonight. Not on this lovely summer evening, and for that, I breathed just a bit easier. I was sixteen years old, it was my summer break from Mount Vernon, and I was going to a party—and I would enjoy myself, I decided. I wore a light gown of pale rose satin, my new Cartier diamonds from Papa glistening around my neck （I wasn’t blind; I’d seen the way Leila had scowled when he’d presented the necklace to me upon the completion of my spring term at Mount Vernon）。 The night was a balmy one with a faint saltwater breeze, and my dark blond hair was swept back in a Gibson style that showcased my jeweled throat and freshly made-up face.
As we entered the club, walking past a plentiful spread of oysters and smoked salmon, caviar and a tiered display of small canapés, Papa held tight to my arm. A gloved footman approached bearing a silver tray laden with flutes of chilled champagne. “No, thank you,” Papa answered for the both of us. Ever since his healing at the hands of the Christian Scientist Mrs. Gregory, Papa swore off all alcohol, and so I followed suit.
A quintet of strings played gentle notes on the far side of the room as the well-dressed guests mingled, sipping their drinks and nibbling on thin-sliced steak and deviled eggs. Beautiful young ladies meted out soft, controlled laughter as men in tailcoats requested places on their dance cards.
“Not too much like a Saturday night gathering in Battle Creek, is it?” Papa said, echoing my exact thoughts.
I spoke in just above a whisper as I leaned close and said, “It feels as though everyone is staring at us, Papa.”
I felt him squeeze my arm a bit tighter, and then he tossed his shoulders back and looked out over the room as he answered: “It’s because you’re so lovely, Budgie.” I knew that was not the case—he knew it, too—but I appreciated his efforts to put me at ease. No, people were staring at us because they had no idea who we were—or what we were doing there.
In all likelihood, Papa had more money in the bank than most of the well-tailored people in that rarefied room—and therefore I did as well—but they had something that we did not: they were of this habitat. This was not Battle Creek, some former pioneer outpost where everyone had arrived within the past few decades—a generation or two earlier at most. This was the East Coast. Here, in this leafy and moneyed town just outside of New York City, the sense of belonging had been bred into the local populace not only for their entire lifetimes but for generations prior. We had stepped into a country club, but it felt like a club in all ways—and we were most certainly its newest members.
Why did Papa feel the need to infiltrate this blue-blooded terrain? I wondered. But this was not the time to ask him, not while scores of eyes held us in their discreet but definite stares. I looked back toward the spread of canapés and decided perhaps I’d make myself a plate, but then a voice caught me unaware. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight.” A young man, tall, appearing slightly older than me, had approached without my noticing. I turned, distracted, toward his voice, startled to be addressed in that room. But then I noticed that he was speaking not to me but to Papa.
“Oh?” Papa, serving himself a small bite of smoked salmon, turned toward the young gentleman.
“Indeed,” the man answered, with a nod of his narrow, fine-featured face. “I drive by your home each day. The Boulders estate, isn’t it? What a project. I am fascinated by the work you are doing.”
Papa dipped his chin. “And you are?”
“Edward Close,” the man said, offering his gloved hand to Papa. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Edward Close, the pleasure’s mine. I’m Charles William Post. And this here is my daughter, Miss Marjorie Merriweather Post.”