I could have wept with relief to hear this, to hear Ed explain that I meant something real to him, just as he meant something to me. That I was more to him than simply a silly girl and a summertime dalliance. I smiled, my eyes drifting down to the ground, and I fought back against the needling threat of tears.
Ed squeezed my hands in his own, angling his tall frame toward mine. I caught the whiff of him, shaving soap and sunshine and saddle polish, and I noted how my vision went a bit blurry. “Marjorie, I know this is rash. It’s so unlike me…” His voice had an urgency that I understood—because I felt the same thing. “My dear girl, you’ve taken me completely by surprise, and the thought of being away from you just tears me up. Marjorie Merriweather Post…I wish to marry you. I do.” He laughed, and then he went on, his entire face flushed, and I knew now it was not due to the August heat. “I wish to go to Mr. Tiffany’s and buy you the biggest diamond he has. To stun you, just as you’ve done with me.”
I let out a raspy laugh. I had hoped to hear that I meant something to Ed Close. That I had been more than a mere August flirtation. But this—love? Marriage? Before I could speak, he leaned forward, surprising me with the kiss I had been thinking about since the first night of our acquaintance. He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist as our bodies met, and then all thought of words flew right out of my head as I kissed him back, relishing the perfect softness of his lips. The warmth of his body so close to mine, the clean smell of his skin. I could easily have stood there all morning, kissing Ed with no regard for what was proper or who might be scandalized to see us, but Ed remembered himself, gently pulling back after an embrace that was shorter than I wanted. His eyes told me, however, that he desired more, that he longed for another, longer kiss just as fiercely as I did. But Ed Close was a true gentleman. He was likely worried that Papa, somewhere in that massive house beside us, might look through a window and see.
Papa. I’d never in my life made a big decision without my father’s advice or blessing. But as I blinked now, dizzy from the heat and the sunshine and the lingering taste of Ed Close’s lips on mine, I said the words without any hesitation: “Yes, Edward Close. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Chapter 8
I waited a day to share my news, until after Ed had left Greenwich and returned to Manhattan. Papa reacted as I’d expected he would, the reaction for which I had braced and prepared. “Now, Marjorie, let’s just hold on and get our heads straight for a minute here.” We sat in the bright breakfast room, our bowls of cereal growing soggy between us. I had told Papa that Ed had proposed and I had accepted his hand, and Papa was taking a while to find words with which to respond. Eventually, his face scrunched in what looked like the expression of a man taking the final steps of a steep mountain summit, he said, “You are much too valuable a prize for anyone to run in and hurry off with.” He was managing to keep his voice level, but his blue eyes were aflame as he went on: “Much less a man we saw for a few days this summer and who presses you as he’s leaving town.”
I bristled at this on Ed’s behalf. The idea of Ed’s behavior being anything but upright and courteous seemed preposterous to me. “He’s not pressing me, Papa.” I looked down at my cereal bowl, mostly because I needed a break from my father’s eyes in order to collect my own thoughts. I had expected Papa’s resistance to my news. I knew how rash it seemed—Ed proposing after such a short acquaintance. But then, Papa had known Mother for most of his youth before he’d proposed marriage to her, and look how that had turned out. Didn’t that show that when it came to matters of the heart, there were simply no set answers? I loved Ed and he loved me. What more was there to it? But I didn’t voice any of this to Papa just then; instead I tried a different tack: “I thought you liked Ed, Papa.”
Papa looked down at his mug of Postum, sloshing the drink around but not taking a sip. “I do. He’s a fine young man. I like him very much. But—” Papa paused to consider his next words with care. “But you must be very sure that your heart tells you that Ed is the one. A marriage without love—why, it would simply wreck your life…” His words tapered off, but we both knew where that thought led.
I took a bite of my cereal but noticed that I tasted nothing. Papa inhaled and started a new thought: “Budgie, you’re only sixteen.”
“But you’ve always said it yourself,” I interjected. “You’ve raised me right, with a better head than your average young lady.”