“That may be so.” Papa propped his elbows on the table. “Look, Budge, I’m with you in anything that’ll make you happy. But can’t you wait? Finish school and see at the end of the year?”
I considered this unexpected tack for a moment. In truth, I did want to finish school. I’d made it this far and was so close to my diploma at this point. Papa saw his opening as I chewed on his words and he pressed on: “If he is worthy, he will keep. There’s no need to rush up the aisle.” But then his face darkened, and his voice was gravel as he continued: “There is not any reason to rush up the aisle, is there, Marjorie Merriweather Post?”
“Papa! Of course not!” I gasped, feeling my cheeks flush with heat, mortified that he could even think I might have been so reckless. Or that Ed would be such a cad!
“Well, that’s good,” Papa said, sitting back in his chair, eyes fixed firmly on the tablecloth. “Didn’t think so. But you know, as your daddy, I’m only making sure.”
We resumed our breakfast in a strained silence. I could tell that Papa sat on tenterhooks, eager to see me consent to wait, at least until after my diploma was in hand. I did agree with his reasoning, even if I refused to reveal that fact in my posture or facial expression. It would be good to finish school, I admitted to myself. It could be good to make Ed wait just a bit. Why, we were both so young. There was no need to hasten marriage by a matter of months. I was about to tell Papa as much, that I would agree to wait until after I had finished school, when I was interrupted by a sudden waft of sugary, vanilla-scented air, followed by Leila’s throaty voice at the threshold of the breakfast room: “There you are.” And then she stiffened. “Oh, Marjorie, hello.”
“Hello, Leila,” I said, my voice toneless.
She glided uninvited into the room and stood near to where we sat, close enough for the cloying scent of her perfume to rankle. “Are your trunks all packed, dear?” she asked.
I nodded.
She looked at Papa, then back to me, saying, “I can hardly believe the summer is over and it’s time for you to go already.”
I pushed back from the table, entirely done with breakfast. Leaning close to kiss Papa on the cheek, I whispered, only for him to hear, “I’ll think about it, Papa,” and I left the room.
* * *
—
I had told him I would think about it, but in reality, I had made my decision the moment I had risen from that breakfast table. I’d marry Ed Close as soon as I graduated, and I’d start a family of my own. And hopefully, once I was established in a household with my own money and my own husband, I’d be done sharing a roof with Leila.
Autumn saw me unpacking my trunks and settling back into the brownstone of the Mount Vernon school. As it was our final year, Helen Hibbs and I had the pick of our lodgings, and we chose to room together. I was a dedicated pupil who studied hard and made fine marks; I knew Papa would not have abided anything else. And so even though my mind now swirled with thoughts of Ed Close and the Greenwich summer we’d shared, I completed my assignments on time and I answered my teachers with respect. But I was much less interested in schoolwork now that Ed had entered my life.
He wrote dutifully, every week, telling me about his law classes and his weekend trips out to Greenwich, reaffirming in his measured but affable manner that his commitment to me remained resolute. I found myself whispering about Eddie to Helen in the darkness at bedtime. I found myself penciling his initials in my notebooks during classes, daydreaming about changing my own name, and then practicing the letters: “Marjorie Close.”
If Papa thought that perhaps the time and the distance would be enough to dampen my feelings or change my mind, he was wrong, but he did try to persuade me to reconsider. “You’re so young,” he wrote. “You’ve not been seriously courted by anyone, including Ed, and I don’t know that you’re ready to make such a momentous decision.”
I ignored these written warnings, instead filling my responses to Papa with long descriptions of my schoolwork in the hopes of convincing him that I was a serious pupil and responsible young lady. But as autumn cooled to winter, he kept at it: “Marjorie, you’ve got millions to your name. There’s no need to rush into any marriage until you’re certain you’ve found the one for you.”
I knew that Papa loved me, and I appreciated his protective efforts. But where were these efforts to protect my heart when he’d abandoned my mother? When he’d made his unspoken shift toward that woman, Leila, as his mistress? No, Papa, you are not fit to lecture me on matters of the heart.