In those final nights of August, as I noticed the sun dipping below the tree line earlier in the evenings, the days growing steadily shorter, I roiled, sleepless and agitated, under my bedsheets, seesawing back and forth: a conviction that surely I meant something to Ed Close, followed by a stern voice of censure telling me I was a silly young fool who knew nothing of love, and nothing of men like Ed Close or the ladies they married.
And then, just a few nights before my scheduled departure, on an evening when Papa was dining out in nearby Darien with Leila as I remained alone at The Boulders, I passed my worst night yet. I lay in bed as the hours ticked by, thinking about Ed and agonizing over my upcoming departure. The sound of wheels in the forecourt told me that Papa and Leila had returned, and I heard them alighting from the car and coming into the house. Muffled noises as they dismissed the last few servants for the night and retired to bed—in separate rooms or the same one? I grimaced; I knew the answer to that well enough. And suddenly the night grew even more wretched.
I awoke the next morning to a sunny day, mild without the drag of humidity, but I did not much care to enjoy it. I ate sparingly at breakfast, my stomach still tied in knots. Then later, as I sat alone on the back porch, something I had not expected happened: Ed Close approached on horseback. He came at a casual trot. I had been doing my best to distract my thoughts by writing out a packing list for my traveling trunks. But Ed’s sudden, unbidden appearance pulled my thoughts away from all else. I lowered my pen as I drew in a long, fortifying breath. Ed Close, you sudden and entirely disruptive summertime surprise. My, but he cut quite a figure in that saddle.
“Marjorie, hello.” Ed waved excitedly as he slowed his horse and hopped down, one of our grooms appearing to take the reins from him and lead the animal toward our stables.
I rose from my seat and walked slowly down the porch stairs onto the lawn, meeting him with my hand over my eyes to shield against the August sunshine. “Hello, Ed.”
“Good morning,” he answered. His cheeks were flushed and rosy from the ride and the morning’s warmth. I longed to lean forward on my toes and kiss him right there. “Do you enjoy riding?” he asked.
“I do,” I answered with a nod. I was comfortable enough atop a horse; at Papa’s insistence I had grown up riding Western, both legs astride the saddle, hands clutched firmly around the horn, but I knew that the young ladies out here rode in the English tradition, perched in draped skirts on a modest sidesaddle, gloved hands primly gripping leather reins. It was a manner of riding that struck me as not at all practical, but perhaps that was part of the point.
Ed removed his hat, running his fingers through his golden hair with a sigh. His waves appeared uncombed, even a bit unkempt, which was something I’d never seen before, and he seemed to be struggling to choose his words, eventually saying, “Well then, next time we are together, we’ll have a ride. How about that?”
My voice was quiet, my throat tight, as I answered honestly: “I’d like that.” Because I longed, more than anything, for there to be a next time, regardless of the activity.
Ed looked me squarely in the eyes, his lovely features showing an uncharacteristic strain. “Marjorie…” But then he appeared to lose the thread of whatever it was he had intended to say.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my body tilting involuntarily toward his. “Yes?”
“I…I have to leave tomorrow, to return to New York City.”
I nodded slowly at this, feeling a tightening in my shoulders.
“Law school,” he added.
“Yes,” I said. I hadn’t known when exactly he’d leave, but I had known it was coming.
“When do you leave?” he asked.
“Day after next,” I answered.
“Yes,” he said, glancing down toward his leather gloves. “I…you see, I couldn’t…well, I didn’t want to go, Marjorie, without seeing you one more time.”
“I appreciate this visit, Ed,” I said, swallowing. “I am happy to see you as well.”
A puff of his cheeks, and then an audible sigh. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.
I wasn’t sure my heart could take much more—it felt as if it might beat right through my rib cage. But I forced a steadiness into my voice as I asked, “What’s that?”
He leaned toward me, taking my hands in his, and I let him do so, meeting his stare. And then he said: “You have enchanted me, Marjorie Merriweather Post.”