Our faces were so close that it would have been the easiest thing in the world for our lips to touch. But Ned spoke quietly next: “If I tell you a secret, promise not to rat me out to all these Yanks?”
I nodded.
He leaned even closer, whispering into my ear: “I’m from the Midwest, too.”
“Oh?”
“Ohio. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Once or twice.”
“Then you’re probably the only one here who has.”
“Michigan,” I said.
“Yes, I know.” He fixed me with an appraising grin, and I felt my cheeks grow warmer. Just then, a footman approached bearing a tray of bubbling champagne. Ned took two flutes and offered me one, which I accepted with a clink of cheers. Then he went on: “There’s more that we have in common, from what I hear.”
“That so?” I asked, taking a sip of the cold drink, feeling the bubbles travel down to my belly and send a burst of giddiness throughout my body. Or perhaps my proximity to Ned Hutton was responsible for that.
He nodded, then said: “My old man passed away when I was young. Ten years old.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He left us with nothing,” Ned continued.
“That must have been difficult. For your entire family. You especially, being so young.”
He shrugged, mumbling a passing “yes,” and I noted in silence how we’d both endured tragedy at a young age. The loss of parents, and in his case, the loss of his wife on top of that. Having lost both of my parents by the end of my twenties, I felt that there was a certain strength that couldn’t help but be forged through those harshest of life’s early fires—and a bond that inevitably resulted between those who’d been burned in that same kiln.
“So I got a job when I was just a youngster, working a mail room. I had to support Mother. I put myself through college and then business studies. I got my first job in a Cincinnati bank. My second in San Francisco. Then after I lived through the earthquake out there, I decided to move to New York City to open up a shop of my own. And now my firm on Wall Street makes millions.”
It didn’t seem like boasting, the way he said it all. It was simply the truth. He was a self-made man who’d pulled himself up from tragedies and losses with nothing more than his own smarts and grit and determination. He reminded me of another self-made millionaire whom I’d known and loved. He felt, already, familiar, even though this was the first time we’d spoken at any length.
I smiled at Ned, raising my champagne glass and clinking it once more to his. “Well then, here’s to you.”
He returned my look. “And here’s to you.”
We each took a sip of our champagne, standing side by side a moment in a silence charged with both excitement and somehow an easy, companionable comfort. The faint lap of the ocean water against the belly of the boat sent us up and down in a lulling, gentle rhythm. Would it be wrong for him to kiss me, right here, in front of everyone? I didn’t really care.
“Goodness, Marjorie,” he said after a moment, his voice pulsing with some deep feeling. “It feels nice to feel good again. What with everything that happened…it’s been…well, it’s been quite a year.”
I turned to face him again, meeting his blue eyes. He went on, saying, “It was a surprise seeing you here tonight, but I’m glad it happened.” He ran a hand through his thick golden hair, looking out over the ocean as he sighed. “How long are you here for?” he asked.
The truth was that I had plans to leave Palm Beach the next weekend—my return train ticket was already booked for New York. But my answer came quickly: “Oh, I’ll be here for a few more weeks at least.”
Ned Hutton smiled at me. “Me, too,” he said, holding me with his gaze. And then, a moment later, he added: “I’d like to see you again, Miss Post.”
“I agree,” I said. “With all of it.” It had been a difficult few years for me as well. It had been a surprise to see him there, on that boat, that night. But I was glad I had, and I knew that I wanted to see him again.
* * *
I did not leave Palm Beach the next weekend as planned. Nor the weekend after that. I should have been hesitant about falling in love again and even more reluctant to think of marrying again. A divorce was a scandal that few people were willing to invite one time; a second would be unthinkable.
But I did not let that concern me, because, in truth, all I wanted to think about was Ned Hutton. For the next few weeks, as I remained in Palm Beach, I did little else but see Ned. Dinner at The Breakers hotel overlooking the ocean, as the setting sun turned the wispy clouds overhead into rose and sherbet lace. Ned singing me Marion Harris songs as we walked, arms linked, up Worth Avenue. Dancing at Bradley’s until my feet hurt and Ned insisted I remove my heels as he carried me home in his arms, giggling and barefoot. He’d taken a suite at the Everglades Club for the winter, and soon enough I all but abandoned my rented villa and decamped to his place. The best nights were the ones when we never left his room at all.