And Ned didn’t notice, as he was excitedly laying out his thoughts on the matter at hand: “We should have a name that is more versatile. Something inclusive.”
I nodded, thinking for a moment. “Post Foods?”
But Ned shook his head. “That doesn’t encapsulate the volume we have. It has to be something…broader.”
“More general,” I mused aloud, still thinking it through.
“That’s good!” Ned snapped his fingers, a spark of inspiration lighting his features.
“What?” I asked.
“That’s it. More general. How about General Foods?” Ned suggested.
I considered it. General Foods. Nowhere in that label was the Post name featured. But it was simple and it was accurate, and it gave us room to continue to grow. “General Foods,” I repeated, trying it out for myself. We needed a name as broad as our company. The Kelloggs could continue to nip at us with their corn flakes—we now covered every meal of the day. “General Foods.” I nodded slowly. “I like it.”
“Good. I do, too.” Ned pulled me in for a kiss, and I felt his frostiness giving way. My only question was: Would this thaw last?
Chapter 26
Palm Beach, Florida
“Exquisitely beautiful.” That was how the journalists described me as I showed up, night after night, at the best parties, dressed in the wildest costumes and the finest gowns, with Ned—dapper Wall Street financier turned unstoppable General Foods chairman, always the most commanding man in any room—at my side.
The postwar years danced along with all the breathlessness and verve of the Charleston, a decade fueled by champagne and jazz and rising hemlines, and Ned and I found ourselves at the center of a constant and raucous circus atmosphere. When we decamped to Palm Beach for the winter season, the world’s wealthiest and most powerful people queued up for invitations to our dinners at home and on the yacht. We palled around with celebrities like the beautiful divorcée Consuelo Vanderbilt, the young American heiress turned English duchess, and now an infamous international social fixture. We befriended the dashing White Russian playboy Prince Sergei Obolensky, former confidant of the murdered Romanovs. We mixed with a constant stream of de facto American royalty, people like Alice Astor and Mary Pickford and of course our closest friends, Broadway and Hollywood golden couple Flo Ziegfeld and Billie Burke.
On board our yacht, things could be especially relaxed, and so Ned and I loved to sail past Key West to Cuba and the Bahamas and from there take off throughout the warm turquoise waters of the Caribbean. The Ziegfelds were our constant companions; the men would fish for grouper and tuna while Billie and I would lounge on the deck, laughing over the stories about us in the society pages as we admired the lush and colorful scenery.
Our itinerary was loose as we passed the winter floating through the Caribbean, zigzagging from one island to the next, and our nights were often haphazard. Each time the yacht brought us into a new port, Ned would rally us to dress in our finest and take off in search of the lively local nightlife, particularly the tropical casinos and dance clubs.
I was not entirely comfortable with how regular it was becoming, during our stops in these island ports, to make a beeline toward the nearest casino. I had never been a gambler. I saw Flo’s telltale influence behind my husband’s increasingly risky appetites, but I didn’t wish to be the only spoilsport; Billie didn’t seem to mind in the least. I knew that Flo and Billie, as wildly successful artists and performers, lived a lavish lifestyle; a man like Flo could not have created the Ziegfeld Follies if he wasn’t given to brilliant flights of flash and excess. And besides, Ned so often supported me—in the management of my family’s business, in the parties I wished to give, in the friends I sought to host, in the travel itineraries I charted for our lives and the homes I managed—that the last thing I wanted to do was scold him in front of our friends. So I bit my tongue as he and Flo threw away my money, night after night, port after port.
And yet, there were times when even my mad love for Ned, my desire to make him happy, could not keep my frustrations bridled. Like one horrible night in Havana. We pulled into port and disembarked to have dinner in the old town. The air was warm and balmy, and it smelled of tropical pleasure, a heady swirl of floral perfume, ocean breezes, and the crackling chicken skins being cooked in the colorful restaurants that lined the narrow streets.
We began with cocktails at the American Club before moving on for dinner and dancing at a raucous spot called La Casita Roja. As I enjoyed the conch and colorful slices of fruit, sipping moderately on my island punch over the course of the meal, I watched with dismay as Ned swallowed glass after glass of the local amber rum.