I looked down at the packages. All from Papa, of varying degrees of thickness. What could they be? The sight of my new last name scrawled in his familiar handwriting created an odd, tugging feeling deep in my belly.
“Marjorie dear?” Eddie cleared his throat. The porters waited politely before us.
“Yes, ready.” I gathered up the packages and followed the porters and my husband to our suite. Once settled in, Eddie having tipped and dismissed the men who had lumbered under my luggage, I plopped down into a plush embroidered chair and tore at the paper around the packages. The first parcel contained a receipt of deposit. I gasped when I took it in, in spite of my familiarity with Papa’s boundless generosity. “Ed, can you believe this? Papa has given us one hundred thousand dollars as a gift.” In truth the sum had been given only to me, in bonds bearing my new married name, but I said us in that instant, not knowing why, only thinking that I did not wish for Eddie to feel that he had been left out.
“Goodness. That sure is bully,” my husband said from across the room, whistling as he slipped off his high button shoes and poured himself a scotch.
“And these,” I said, jangling a loop of brass keys. “The Boulders is to be entirely ours.” Again, the note said that The Boulders was to be entirely mine, but now that I was Eddie’s wife, didn’t that mean that the house was ours? I swallowed. “Papa won’t stay there with Leila, not even in the wing he planned for himself,” I said, masking the disappointment I felt. True, I had no interest in living there with Leila, but had it been only Papa, as originally planned, it would have given me great joy to share the estate.
“Well, I hope you know he can visit anytime he’d like,” Eddie said, walking toward me and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “We’ll welcome him as if it were his home.”
A smaller parcel carried a note, also from Papa. I tore the seal and read it, my eyes quickly misting, the words blurring as a thin screen of tears made them dance before my gaze:
Dear Little Sweetheart,
Well, the small toddler who has been over the road so long with Daddy is now a grown woman and a small toddler no more. It naturally brings a tinge of sadness to realize that the little girl with whom I had so many good times has faded into the past, but I am more than comforted with the splendid young woman grown from my small pal of years ago. Daddy feels well repaid for every effort he has made for you, my sweet daughter, and now I feel very sure you are going to be happily married and I find myself liking Ed as I would a boy of my own. Always remember that Daddy is somewhere close, and that he loves you always, sweet daughter.
Yours,
Daddy
I lowered the paper and saw that he had enclosed an additional message for Eddie:
Dear Ed,
Be tender and kind to my little girl. She is the only one I have. I have full confidence you will.
With all best wishes,
Yours truly,
C. W. Post
Eddie hugged me as I cried, telling me how much he admired my father. And even though I missed Papa, and felt the depth of the emotions behind his words and his gifts, I was thrilled to be with my husband, and grateful that the two men in my life felt such a mutual fondness.
* * *
—
We spent our days in Hot Springs wrapped in a peaceful daze of newlywed bliss and incredulity. Had we done it? Yes, we had. We were married. And now we were finally free of the crowds that had filled the church and the many details of planning the wedding, the fight to preserve the fragile truce between my parents, and we could simply enjoy each other.
In the mornings we slept late, taking our breakfast on trays in bed, as it was now my right to do as a married woman. On the first morning, when I was told by the kitchens that they did not offer Grape-Nuts on their breakfast menu, I grumbled and said, “I’ll just have to tell Papa and Uncle Cal that they need to ship the Homestead Hotel some boxes.”
Eddie laughed. “Won’t poached eggs do, Mrs. Close? Or buttered rolls?”
“I’ve had Grape-Nuts for breakfast every morning since my girlhood. I don’t see any reason to change that now.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Close, do I detect a stubborn streak?” Eddie smirked, taking a sip of his coffee, and I smiled grumpily as I helped myself to a bite of his poached eggs.
We took strolls through the surrounding woods or sampled the curative spring waters that made Hot Springs such a popular destination. We read the newspapers or napped on the veranda, savored long meals, and Eddie enjoyed his cocktails while I sipped lemonade or iced tea.
Helen Hibbs had told me, years earlier, what the marital act involved. On the first night in Hot Springs, after we’d dined and returned to our suite, I took my time in the bathroom, brushing out my long hair and arranging my new satin lingerie over my pale, soft curves. I draped a delicate silk wrapper over my shoulders and dabbed my neck and wrists with a splash of jasmine eau de toilette, and then I rejoined my husband in the big bedroom, feeling both eager and nervous. Prior to our wedding, Eddie and I had never indulged in more than a few minutes of stolen kisses in a drawing room or a chauffeured car. I had loved kissing my fiancé, I had craved even more intimacy, but Eddie was a well-mannered gentleman who never would have dreamed of pushing things further than was proper.