“We can’t have that,” he said, gently nudging my shoulder with his. We looked at each other a moment, neither one of us speaking. I wanted to take him up on that earlier offer of a drink; it felt like a night for champagne. Eventually, he spoke: “I must confess, when I heard the words cereal heiress from Michigan, well, you were not what I was expecting.”
Now I could not help but laugh. I cocked my head to the side. He had heard of me? He had heard enough that he was expecting something? With my heart at a gallop, I managed to force some cool Alice Roosevelt poise into my voice as I said, “I’m not certain I fully grasp your meaning, Mr. Close.”
“Ed,” he gently corrected. I arched an eyebrow, indicating he should go on. “I only mean…” He puffed out his cheeks a moment before letting loose a slow exhale and running a hand through his light, neatly combed hair. “I don’t know. Simply to say that…well, you are entirely surprising, Miss Post.”
“Marjorie,” I said. He raised his brow, challenging me with his expression. I grinned, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer. “Come now, if I can call you Ed, then you may call me Marjorie.”
“All right, then. Marjorie.” The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled, and I felt my pulse quicken once more. I liked the way my name sounded on his lips. And now I could not seem to pull my gaze from those lips; I found myself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by them. But Ed saved me from completely embarrassing myself with my gawking as he continued, “And I am glad that Washington is a swamp.”
I looked at him in silence, confused. He went on: “I’m glad that those inhospitable mosquitoes drove you north. Here. To Greenwich.”
My cheeks flushed warm. I turned from his gaze toward the grass as I cleared my throat and said, “Ah yes. Well, Greenwich seems lovely. I am…I’m happy to be here, as well.”
“Say, Marjorie, we can’t hear the music quite so well out here.”
I offered a gentle shrug in reply. I did not feel like going back inside and dancing. Not with everyone looking on. I preferred it out on the terrace, and I was enjoying Ed Close’s company more than I cared to admit aloud.
He was staring at me, and his voice was low when he said, “How about a dance right here, then? That is, if you can fit me onto your dance card?”
I inhaled a quick puff of breath, grateful for the darkness that hid my too-wide smile. “Let me check,” I said, lifting my card, the entire thing blank. “I am not otherwise promised.”
“Good,” he said, extending his hand. Even though we both wore gloves, a jolt ran through me as he took my fingers in his own and I felt his grip closing around mine. He pulled me close toward his tall, lean frame. I inhaled, and with our bodies so near, I noted that fresh scent again—his shaving soap mixed with the aromas of champagne and crisp country night air.
As we listened to the faint music and he led me through the slow, fluid steps, I reminded myself that I knew how to dance. Papa had insisted I take all of those lessons at Mr. Hinman’s studio. I was suddenly grateful that he had, that he’d been aware that there was a whole world outside of Battle Creek, one in which a young lady needed to know how to dance a decent waltz so that when a young man as charming as Ed Close asked her for a dance, she didn’t make a complete fool of herself. The same wide world that Mr. Hinman’s daughters had gone off to explore—that had taken me east to Mount Vernon and then north from the capital to this green, coastal town. All of that had led to this moment. I’d come to the club that night hoping to dance. I’d stepped out onto the terrace looking for lightning bugs and fresh air and stars. But I felt in that moment as though I’d found something so much more exciting.
* * *
Ed Close appeared at our Greenwich home, The Boulders, the next day. He arrived several hours after breakfast, looking cool and relaxed in a crisp suit of immaculate cream-colored linen, a straw boater on his fair head, and a small spray of white petals in his lapel. I was sitting on the porch, and Ed offered a theatrical bow, removing his boater as he approached. “Miss Post, good morning.”
“Mr. Close.” I lowered my book and rose from my wicker chair, trying to temper the beam that threatened its way across my features. Taking in a deep breath, I forced myself to summon what I hoped looked like cool composure, a task made all the more difficult as I noticed how the morning sunshine fell on Ed’s head of neatly combed golden hair. Goodness, he was even more attractive than I remembered. “How are you?” I asked, descending the porch stairs.