I had never intended to deceive him. I’d thought there were pieces of my past that were best left untold—what good would it do to bring all that up now? It would send me to pieces, for one thing, and Archie would be horrified. Such things were best left unsaid, and yet now, as he was starting to get strange ideas in his head about a family, children, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. All of a sudden it seemed that deceiving him was exactly what I was doing.
I got back to New York in time to fill in for Jenna in the Follies, who’d been “taken ill.” I learned her numbers and footwork fast, with more determination than I knew I had in me, especially after such a long and arduous train ride. I rehearsed every single day from sunup until sundown. So just as my future husband was telling me I should start thinking about giving it all up, Ziegfeld slotted me back into the Follies—temporarily, he reminded me, until Jenna returned, but we all knew that wasn’t happening. It was thrilling to be in both shows again.
“I’m so relieved you’re back in the Follies,” Ruthie said when we’d opted for a night in back at the apartment rather than out at the clubs. “How does it feel?”
“Glorious,” I said. “And exhausting, just the way I like it.”
“You should listen to me more often. I told you you’d be back on top in no time.”
“I know, I know,” I said, sprawled on the white sofa, Ruthie lying on her usual spot on the rug. She reached up and grabbed my hand.
“Let me try it on again,” she said, admiring my ring. “I think Lawrence is going to propose any day.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been telling him all about your engagement, how romantic it was. I think it’s got him thinking.” She smiled. “He would make such a good husband and a wonderful father.”
I sat up. “Do you want to have children?”
“Of course.” She laughed. “I can’t wait.”
“But what about the shows?”
“What about them?”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll be out the door so fast.”
“You’ll just quit?”
“Olive, can you imagine how nice it would be not to have to work so damn hard, not to have to watch our figures all the time? I’m going to learn how to cook and I’m going to play house all day long and, fingers crossed, it won’t be too long before I’ll have a baby. I’ve been planning for it since I was a little girl.”
I looked at her, baffled. “I thought you loved show business.”
“I do. But I’m going to love this so much more.” She took off my ring and looked at it from all angles, then gave it back. “It sure is a beauty.”
I slipped it back on my finger and felt a pang of envy shoot through me. How nice it must feel to have that kind of certainty and confidence in her womanhood. Outwardly I might come off as independent, appearing to demand respect, but inside I was questioning everything, inside I was starting to crumble.
Two long weeks later, Archie joined me once again in Manhattan. We celebrated our reunion with a night out and he was keen on introducing me to one of his friends in the art world.
“We should start thinking about our guest list,” Archie said as we walked to the waiting car outside the Plaza, an icy December chill biting our faces.
“Yes,” I said, although I was sharply aware that in the past two weeks I’d been avoiding the subject of the wedding, in my mind and in conversations with the girls.
“It doesn’t feel right to start planning a wedding without my mother,” I said, knowing full well that this wasn’t the only thing bothering me.
“Well, I need to meet your family, Olive. I have to ask for your father’s blessing, for heaven’s sake. We’re doing things terribly out of order. It will certainly make me feel better to have things out in the open, and I’m sure it will make you feel better, too.”
“I know,” I said. “Of course we’ll tell them. Soon, maybe this weekend.”
But I knew I’d delay it as long as possible. I knew they’d be happy, no doubt about it, and that was the problem. It would make things better all around. My parents would be thrilled to meet Archie, a handsome, wealthy, responsible businessman who was willing to take on their wild and unruly daughter. This was exactly what they’d hoped for, and now that I was making it a reality, my father would no longer have to worry for me. I’d give in and get off the stage and he’d be getting exactly what he wanted, and he’d probably tell me that.
Ever since Archie’s announcement at his mother’s house, that he’d like me to stop performing, travel, see the world, I’d grappled with it. I loved Archie, but I didn’t like the idea of throwing in the towel on this life I’d so desperately wanted and worked hard for. And yet I understood what he meant: to be truly man and wife, we’d have to meld our lives together. How could we really do that if I was tied to the stage? I wondered. I knew deep down that I’d have to make changes for our life to work together, but I wasn’t ready to admit to anyone that I’d let it go.
“Anyway,” I said, changing the subject, “tell me something about your friends we’re going to meet tonight. What do I need to know?”
“Gertrude is an art collector too, far more invested than me, and she’s a sculptress also, though I haven’t seen her work, so I don’t know if she’s any good.”
“Is she going to abhor me too, because I’m a show girl?”
“Good Lord, no! Wait until you see her studio, she has a penchant for the young and unknown artists. She likes to seek them out and bring them to the surface. Her family’s very well-known, so she has the means to bring these struggling artists to the light. It’s really quite admirable.”
We walked into what I thought was going to be a small dinner party on West Eighth Street and MacDougal and found instead a throbbing soiree in what looked like a combined art studio and gallery.
“Gertrude,” Archie said after we removed our coats, “thank you so much for having us. This is Olive Shine, my fiancée.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, hugging me tightly. “A Ziegfeld girl in the flesh, and a beauty at that! Come on, you two. Archie, I’ve been so eager to show you the new work.”
Dressed to the nines in a beads-and-lace dress, she pulled us through the crowd to a room to the left of the action. We walked through dancing and music and laughter, and I wondered if everyone was high from the strong fumes of oil paint and turpentine that filled the space.
Art of all kinds was everywhere—half-finished on easels, on the walls, stacked on the floor. But in the smaller room the paintings were dark and somber—gritty scenes of poverty and desperation in streets and speakeasies that I recognized.
“Hey, I’ve walked by that place!” I said, pointing to a dingy bar scene with barkeeps tending to patrons. “McSorley’s. I heard the beer is terrible. Basically water.”
“Ladies don’t drink beer,” Gertrude chided me. “And they wouldn’t let a lady in even if you paid them.”
“Speaking of,” Archie said, “I’ll be right back with refreshments, and it certainly won’t be beer for you two,” and he went off to find us some juice.
“It’s a John Sloan piece,” Gertrude went on. “Really captures the ambience, doesn’t he? And I love his figures. I know what’s going on in that barkeep’s head by the slump in his shoulders.”
It was a bit moody for my taste. I didn’t know much about art, but I preferred things a little more vibrant.
“Is that a portrait of you?” I asked, pointing across the room to a huge painting of a woman lounging in a green-and-blue pant ensemble on a purple-draped velvet sofa. “It’s fabulous.”
“Isn’t it just! It’s a Robert Henri. My husband won’t let me hang it at home because he doesn’t want his friends to see his wife ‘in pants’!” she said with a mock gasp. We both laughed. “Really! It’s absurd. So I hung it here, in my haven.”
Archie and I had a grand time mingling with all of Gertrude’s guests. Archie was fascinated by her artist friends, some of them intent on showing the truth, as they called it: real life, people working, hardship instead of the “elite idealism” that they said other artists portrayed.
On our way back uptown at God knew what hour, I snuggled into Archie in the back seat of the car. I loved that he wanted to show me every corner of his varied world. It was one of substance: artists, creators, people not afraid to speak their minds. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so lucky to be with a man who was able to talk to me about the arts and didn’t care if we were kicking the sawdust-covered floors at a downtown speakeasy or climbing into bed at the Plaza.
We made love that night on the soft white sheets, the smell of fresh winter air in his hair and the taste of gin on his lips. And when I was just about to drift off to sleep, he pulled me into him.
“I have an idea,” he said, brushing the hair off my face, my eyes half-closed. “What if we move back to Cincinnati after we get married?”
I didn’t bother opening my eyes, just half chuckled and pulled the sheets around me. “You’re hilarious,” I whispered.
“I’m serious. You saw all that beautiful art tonight, wait until I show you my collection. It’s all in storage at my mother’s house.”
I pushed myself up on one elbow and stared at him. Surely he was joking.
“This Plaza arrangement is temporary,” he said. “Once we’re married you won’t need your apartment and I won’t need this. We’ll need a proper place to call home. I’d like to have my art on display, especially since you are so creative yourself. It thrills me that we can enjoy it together.”
“Bring it to Manhattan,” I said.
“There aren’t enough walls in New York City.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I said.
“And besides, the city is no place to raise a family—”
“Archie,” I quickly cut him off before he had a chance to finish that sentence, “we can live our lives any way we want. That’s what I love about us, we’re not your average couple, we’re unconventional. We dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers, remember?”
“That was Frank who said that, not me.”
“Who cares? We march to the beat of our own drum, we don’t have to follow those guidelines about marriage, and all that people think it entails. As long as we’re happy and in love, we can make any arrangement work.”
I kissed him, hoping it would seal my words, persuade him to believe me.
“I don’t know, Olive,” he said, sighing and lying back on his pillow. “I—”
“I’m tired,” I said, suddenly feeling wide-awake. “Let’s just talk about this in the morning.” I turned onto my side and hoped to God that we’d never talk about this again.
One thing was clear: something in Archie had changed. When we’d met he’d said he didn’t want to become a father, I was sure of it, not after what he’d been through with his first wife. I’d specifically taken hold of this information, storing it away, while recalling all too well what the doctor had told me, that my uterus had ruptured, that I couldn’t bear more children. But now small tears were starting to appear in what I thought had been an impenetrable bond, an ideal courtship, two people who thought the love they had for each other was all that mattered, the only thing they needed. Maybe I had been wrong.