Tom didn’t come home that night. I knew he’d gone to see the Wilson woman, so I felt both relieved and angry. I was still feeling bruised by Jay’s indifference toward my daughter, his refusal to acknowledge my feelings about her, and now I was confronted with a husband who might have sired another heir, someone who might eventually pose a challenge to my daughter’s inheritance. Could neither man be bothered to look out for my child? I was infuriated and confused.
I had little time to make sense of these feelings because they were soon replaced by another emotion: fear. The next morning at breakfast, Tom commented on Jay’s visit, and it was clear he had been stewing about it.
“Why does he have to stop by here? It’s as if he thinks he’s one of us.”
I stopped buttering my toast and stared at him. “He came to discuss a deal with you. Weren’t you doing deals with him?” I held my breath, hoping that by going on the offensive, I put him on the defensive, and he would stop thinking about why else Jay might have visited our house.
He waved his hand in the air. “Liquor. Everyone does that. Nothing special. And I stopped after a bad shipment.” He stared back at me. “Was there something else he wanted?”
Tom was hardly subtle. He enjoyed feeling part of the hustle and bustle of business, of “deals,” of buying bootleg liquor. But he always snapped back to his core nature, that of wealthy gentry, disdainful of anyone outside his elite set, especially if they tried too hard to get inside and take what was his.
“He did mention wanting to show you his car,” I said, staring at him without batting an eye, trying to convey through an exaggerated calm that nothing was amiss. “But you were in a mood, so I did the polite thing and accompanied him for a drive.”
He snorted. “The polite thing.” After a pause, he said, “If I ever thought he—or any man—was taking advantage of my good graces to make a play for what isn’t his, there will be hell to pay.”
He went back to reading his newspaper.
I knew who would suffer that hell he promised. Me.
At least I knew where things stood. He suspected something between me and Jay, and, despite Dr. Prinz’s warnings, he would most likely want to claim what was his soon if I didn’t act. It wouldn’t be an act of lovemaking. It would be revenge.
I had to leave. But where would I go and with whom? Just a few days ago, I’d thought it was with Jay. Now I didn’t know. My thoughts became a muddle. I couldn’t seem to imagine any scenario, any plan. It was as if I was holding my breath, waiting for something to happen that wouldn’t require a decision from me.
Once again, I turned to Jordan for advice.
We met for a sail, and she was mightily impressed by my skill on the water.
“My dear, you’ll be skippering a pirate schooner in the Caribbean, I suppose. Is that why you’ve been so interested in how to allocate your funds? Are you planning on securing a chest of gold doubloons to use in your new life?”
“Oh, I’d hoped I’d kept that secret. Did someone tell?” I laughed, the sun and wind restoring my spirits. “Now I’ll need a new plan.”
Once we anchored in a quiet bay and unwrapped sandwiches provided by Cook, I presented her my dilemma and my fears—that Jay was insufficiently connected to my daughter.
“Jay isn’t opposed to having Pamela with us, but he’s not enthusiastic,” I complained.
“Not opposed—that’s good news, isn’t it?” she asked as we lolled on the aft section, picnic basket opened, Champagne poured, delights revealed.
“I have no intention of being an Anna Karenina,” I bit out.
“I should hope not. What a grisly way to die—run over and chopped to pieces.” She balled up her sandwich paper and tossed it into the basket. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and soaked up the sun. “You have to decide, darling. No one can do it for you. Do you want to stay with Tom or go with Jay? I can’t tell you what to do. I wouldn’t dare. Not now.”
She had told me what to do, of course, when I’d received Jay’s letter on my wedding eve, but that path was clearer. An unmarried pregnant woman did equal a ruined life. Jordan was a realist, and she accepted unchangeable facts, adjusting her attitude to accommodate them. I left out certain facts in my current dilemma.
I didn’t tell her how I’d felt the afternoon I spoke to Jay about Pamela.
I didn’t tell her about the associate of Anthony Delacorte who might be out to exact some revenge against Tom for his double-cross.
I didn’t tell her that I now wondered if I should stay with either man or somehow chart a different course.
I didn’t tell her any of these things because they troubled me so much, I could barely think. I had spent my life brushing aside unpleasant thoughts. It was a hard habit to break. Like Tom, I’d retreated to my comfortable position of avoiding any situation that required a show of courage. And that last possibility—charting a different course, all my own—took my breath away and stopped my thoughts. It was as frightening as being spirited away to a place like Mongolia, surrounded by primitives, not knowing their language.
After a while, Jordan closed her eyes as she relaxed against a pillow. “A woman has two choices in life,” she said. “She can either marry into money. Or…she can live a terrible life without money.”
I thought she was joking and started to politely laugh but, judging by her face, she was completely serious.
She went on: “Men can work for their money, can accumulate great piles of it. Women inherit it or work for it in other ways. Marriage is work.”
Still lost in her reverie, she continued her sermon: “There are exceptions, but they are rare, and if you don’t marry for money—I prefer to think of it as comfort—you must reconcile yourself to a very modest and possibly shabby life.”
After a sigh, she said, “Men make their way in life, with or without a spouse. Women have no lives without a husband.”
“Why, Jordan, you have no spouse, and you have a great life!” I protested.
She ignored my comment and at last opened her eyes and looked at me. “There is nothing wrong with choosing comfort, especially when adoring love comes as a bonus.”
Was she talking of Jay or Tom? I suspected, deep down, that Tom still loved me. He thought of me, though, as a possession, something to be proud of, to show off. Did Jay think the same?
After a time, I hoisted the sails and directed us toward home, no more certain of what I wanted to do than when we’d left the dock.
Her little speech haunted me, though, as I pondered life without being beholden to Jay or Tom, without always having to be a supplicant of some kind, even in subtle ways. I just didn’t know if I could live that shabby, “lonely” life she had talked about.
For a little while, I thought of nothing but enjoying the moment, and once again pushed unpleasant thoughts aside. It felt idyllic.
If I did anything at all to guard against bad outcomes, it was to manage my money. I cashed out of several big stock deals, I withdrew money from bank accounts, I sold jewelry. Yes, I worried about having such a large stash of actual greenbacks in my room, but I figured everything entailed risk, and I would rather have my treasure right there under my nose than a promise of more treasure to come.
As summer approached its last days, it treated us to a preview of fall. Blue skies, moderate temperatures, soft breezes with just the whisper of dying leaves from trees frazzled by the previous heat.
Tom went out of town, back to see his father on some family business. You would never know it from Nick’s recounting of our story, but both of us did have surviving parents—he, his father, and me, my mother. I suppose it dimmed the romanticism of his telling, to see us with family still in our lives. Parentage made one real.
With Tom away, I worried about nothing. I rose, I swam—either on our little beach or in our pool. I played with Pammy. I spent afternoons with Jay.
It was a mark of my indecision that I never told Jay that Tom was away for a few days. I knew he would use that as a reason to pressure me into leaving at that moment. It was the perfect time to do so. Unsuspecting husband off in Chicago, Pamela and me alone. Jordan was gone, too, and Nick was particularly busy, so I didn’t fear someone telling Jay about Tom’s extended absence.
I just wanted what I wanted in that moment. Fears pushed aside. Suspicious husband gone. Lover content.
We didn’t talk about the future anymore. We made a pact not to, to just live on the island of these moments together, and I devised a penalty for any time either of us used the words “tomorrow” or anything indicating a time beyond this one. The offender would have to rewind a clock to the previous hour, turning back time.
In just a few days, Jay’s clocks were all running on different times, but we didn’t care. We pretended they represented the times of countries we wanted to visit, so we’d attempt to speak the language of said country when entering that room. This usually devolved into hysterics as Jay had horrible mock accents. His German sounded Romanian, his French sounded Italian, and his Italian sounded like fishmongers in the Bronx.
Sometimes we swam together in his beautiful pool, and became tanned and blushed by the kiss of the sun.
I still had no idea what I wanted to do. Sometimes I thought that I’d just pack up everything, including Pamela, come to Jay’s doorstep, and say, “Let’s go away now.”
Other times, I asked myself why I couldn’t just continue as I was. Tom had mistresses and was likely to keep that habit as the years rolled by. Maybe he would have a litter of bastards by the time he was done. My anger over that dissipated as I worked on how to protect myself financially, so that my daughter would not be harmed by heirs showing up at any old moment to make a claim on her inheritance.
With Nick’s help, I had already managed to get Tom to agree to let me do my own stock buying with a small budget that I grew quickly. It was supposed to be a game, to see if I could choose good companies and make the money grow faster than Tom’s similar investment pile.
I wasn’t stupid enough to surpass him by much, though. I knew if I outwitted him by too large a margin, he’d stop the game in a fit of pique, then cut me off from it as well.
So I deferred to more modest selections, letting myself lose money occasionally, sometimes deliberately, sometimes because I wanted to see how a risk played out. But when I sensed some stocks were at a peak, I sold. I deposited the cash, then withdrew most of it. Nick helped me here, too, setting up a bank account for me—something separate from Tom’s. Back then, a woman couldn’t set up her own banking without a man.
My little stash of cash—in a secret drawer in my dresser—was in danger of spilling beyond its walls. Sometimes, I liked to lock the door and look at it, wondering if it was enough to push Pamela and me beyond just a shabby life and into a more comfortable one.
In fact, I began to dream that she and I would leave, and I’d have time to think, to decide whether to stay with Tom or go with Jay. Away from both of them, perhaps I could think more clearly.
Even though I tried to fail occasionally in my investments, I went through one particularly successful week, where I simply couldn’t stop making good decisions. It seemed as if I had a sort of Midas touch, unable, even when I tried earnestly, to choose poorly. Unfortunately, this coincided with a time when Tom was doing particularly poorly, and, as usual, he didn’t like being beaten, especially by his wife.
What was worse, he decided that our stock market game made for good dinner table conversation. Shortly after he returned from his trip to Chicago, we spent a miserable evening hosting Nick while Tom needled me about my luck and suggested I start betting on the horses next.
“You’ll have to learn a thing or two about that, though,” he said from his end of the table after taking a sip of wine. “It’s not as simple as closing one’s eyes and pointing to what you want.”
“Don’t insult Nick, dear,” I said, tired of his teasing. “He’s the one who does that blindfolded choosing, not me. You have a collection of them, don’t you, Nick? Stylish blindfolds imported from Paris?”
Nick, who must have sensed the tension, happily followed my lead. “It’s the best method. Written up in all the stocks and bonds articles I’ve been reading in the Yale Club library. Works between eighty and ninety percent of the time, and only the finest silk blindfolds will do.”
Tom wasn’t in a mood to be kidded, though. “Then why aren’t you using that technique when advising me? I’m beginning to wonder if the two of you are plotting to make a fool out of me.”
Nick had had too much to drink, so he injudiciously responded with more joking of his own. “Well, I suppose our plot is working then, isn’t it, Daisy?” He smiled at me and winked, but I just gave him a stony stare, and he seemed to realize he’d gone too far, so he added, “Just kidding, Tom. I’ll take a look at your portfolio first thing. Maybe we’ll get you into some of the things Daisy’s taken a shine to.”
Instead of calming the waters, his reference to my choices just riled Tom more.
“I’m not taking investment advice from my wife. She can barely keep her household budget. When I married her, did you know she thought one could buy a car for, what was it, dear—five dollars?”
“I’d misread an advertisement,” I said softly, my irritation spiking.
“And she buys so many things for Pamela—she bought her a diamond necklace the other day. The little dear will probably lose it if Daisy doesn’t first. You lost that one I gave you, didn’t you, dear?”
My face warmed. Yes, I had bought Pammy a necklace recently. Knowing its value, I thought it would be another good investment I might sell at some point, one that raised no suspicion. And, no, I hadn’t lost my own similar piece of jewelry. I’d sold it and stored the money away. I had wanted to see how one did that—sell off one’s jewelry—so I would know how to do it if I needed money. When Tom noticed I didn’t wear it anymore, he’d asked about it and I had lied that I’d lost it.
“The chain was always flimsy,” I said.
He laughed. “Good thing I manage the money. She and Pamela would be in rags if I didn’t.”
It was just before dusk, and the light outside was a warm yellow-gold. Tom’s gaze turned to the windows and he stared across the Sound.
“I bet she thinks he” —Tom pointed to Jay’s place—“has more money than I do. Not a chance. Not even close.”
“How vulgar to talk about money at the dinner table,” I said. In any event, I’d had enough. I stood. “I want some fresh air. I’m going to take a walk. Please, continue talking about money and how addle-brained I am on my own.”
I left the room and hurried to the path that led to the promontory. It wasn’t long, though, before I heard footsteps behind me and saw Nick running toward me, holding a wrap, obviously the excuse he’d used to leave the table and come after me.
“Daisy!” he called, handing me the cloth. “He’s just a little drunk, that’s all. Sorry if I made it worse.”
I laughed bitterly. “You’d think he’d be proud of a wife able to do as well as I’ve been doing. He can’t stand for anyone, especially a beautiful woman, to be better than him at something.” Maybe that was Myrtle’s charm, that she was so inferior to him in intellect and to me in beauty.
“He doesn’t seem to mind Jordan being better at golf,” he offered weakly.
I laughed again. “He doesn’t care about golf.”
“He cares about you.”
I turned to him. “Then why does he have to destroy the things I love?” I continued walking toward the promontory, stopping when we got there. “Before marrying him, I loved to dance—and not just popular dances, either. I took ballet lessons. I was good at it. I painted. I was good at that, too. Then Tom said the dance lessons took too much time away from Pamela and him, and the painting made a mess the servants had trouble cleaning up.”
He didn’t say anything, and we just stood there, staring across the Sound to Jay’s house, in shadows now except for a couple of lights on an upper floor. I imagined Jay sitting in his suite and reading, maybe glancing my way. How I wanted to be with him. At least with him I could laugh and joke and not worry about hiding my wit or tempering my intellect to suit his ego.
Looking down at the water, I remembered another thing I used to be good at. Diving. I loved the feeling of jumping into the air and hurtling head-first toward the deep end, feeling liberated for those few moments in the air, just myself and the air and the water. Nothing else.
Just then, I saw Tom approaching us. His grim, determined stride suggested he’d yank his silly little wife back to her prison and put her back on the shelf, where he could admire her.
Without thinking, I tore off my wrap and stepped forward; I had wanted to do this for so long. When I’d gone sailing, I’d looked up and calculated the dive on many a trip toward our dock.
“Daisy, no!” Nick cried, too late.
I threw myself into a perfect dive. I knew the water was deep here, and all I thought about was getting away on this perfect summer evening, becoming some kind of sea nymph who could frolic in the waves and eventually land on some perfect foreign shore.
For a few seconds, I felt it—liberation. Glorious, exultant free- dom.