At this, Mr. Edward Close turned and fixed his cool, gray-blue gaze on me, his full lips curling upward into the hint of a smile. His lips, my eyes rested on his lips. And then, with the slightest arch of his eyebrow, Mr. Close said, “Oh, Miss Post, then you are the young lady who’s truly in charge, from what I hear?”
I blinked, skimming my thoughts for some quick reply. “You hear correctly,” Papa interjected, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and giving it a light, affectionate squeeze. “My Marjorie here is capable of running anything twice as well as I can. Why, when I was first getting things started in the family business, I didn’t let a box of cereal out of my sight without Marjorie’s seal of approval. You could maroon this girl alone on a desert island and in a few days, she’d have the grains of sand organized. So the same went for our new house plans. My Marjorie here has an eye for these things.” I felt my cheeks grow warm, but then Papa shifted on his feet and continued: “I’m a curious man, Mr. Close, so I’ve got to ask: Just where did you hear about us?”
“Greenwich is a small town,” Edward Close answered as if he and Papa were old confidants, and as his body leaned close, I couldn’t help but note the fresh scent of him, the hint of mint and tallow from his shaving soap.
“That right?” Papa offered a satisfied tilt of his head.
Edward Close nodded. “So, the Posts moving in and then preparing to build the largest home in the area—that was big news for our bored Four Hundred.”
I knew to what Mr. Close referred in his quip about the Four Hundred, the elite of East Coast high society, a select clique of families comprising the Astors and the Whartons, the Stuyvesants and the Roosevelts. Entry into the Four Hundred was granted based not on net worth but on pedigree. The Vanderbilts had more money than all of them, but lacking the lineage, those railroad millionaires had been notoriously snubbed, denied entrée by members of the Four Hundred. The Closes, then, must have been some of the East Coast’s oldest money.
Papa seemed unfazed. “It’s going to be quite a place when it’s done, Mr. Close.”
“Oh, please, sir, call me Ed.”
“Well, all right, then, Ed. You and your folks are welcome to stop in anytime you’d like to see what we’re doing. Report back to these…Four Hundred…on the place.”
“That would be wonderful, Mr. Post. Thank you,” Ed answered, genuine interest lighting his patrician features as he looked from Papa toward me. I folded and then unfolded my hands, wishing I had a glass or a plate of hors d’oeuvres in my grasp, anything to provide some sort of distraction.
“What’s got you so interested in buildings, Ed?” Papa asked. “Are you a builder yourself?”
“No, sir. The law, actually.”
“That right?”
“Yes, sir,” Ed Close answered. “I’m currently studying at Columbia.” Again, Ed Close stole a quick glance in my direction. I returned his gray-eyed gaze this time, offering a partial smile.
“Well, I’m a food man myself,” Papa declared, thrusting a hand into his pocket. “Don’t know too terribly much about the finer points of the law, other than the fact that it’s best to keep on its good side.” Ed Close laughed at this. I did, too, grateful for the ease with which Papa could speak to anyone.
“Please, Mr. Post, Miss Post.” Ed Close looked at me for a long moment, and I felt the hastening of my heartbeat against my stays. “Might I bring you both something to drink?”
“No, thank you, son,” Papa replied. “My daughter and I were just about to get a bite to eat. But I do mean it: stop in and see the place next time you’re passing by.”
“I will, sir. Thank you. I would like that very much.” Ed Close kept his eyes fixed on mine the whole time he was saying it.
* * *
—
After dinner, I left Papa in a small clutch of cigar-smoking New York businessmen and slipped out onto the back terrace, eager to get some air and escape the constant scrutiny of so many curious eyes. Papa seemed to relish the attention, the way our presence so evidently ruffled this staid, tight-knit gathering, but I was young and shy, and I found it daunting. Many of the young men had looked at me with an appraising sort of interest throughout the evening, but then, their eyes slanting toward my father at my side, not one had asked me to dance. Nor had a single young lady left her small huddle of satin and pearls to cross the room to make my acquaintance.
Outside on the terrace the night was cool and dark, the space illuminated only by the puddles of light that seeped through the windows and the open glass doors. I could see that a pair of girls a few years older than me stood whispering on the far side. On my approach they erupted in conspiratorial giggles and made a quick retreat back indoors. I stood alone, wishing I had a shawl to drape across my shoulders.