Before marriage, a man declares that he would lay down his life to serve you; after marriage, he won’t even lay down his newspaper to talk to you.
—HELEN ROWLAND
SOPHIE
Returning home, a quarter of an hour after that
JAY KEEPS his hand on the small of her back, all the way up the front steps. Just let me do the talking, he said, on the way over, and she lets him do the talking.
“Here she is, safe and sound!” he announces cheerfully, and Sophie is smothered by a sudden descent of arms and kisses. “We had a grand time.”
“All that time, she was with you?” Father says.
“Yep.” Jay nods with vigor, and then his face turns beautifully puzzled. “Wait a minute. You didn’t know she was with me?”
“She didn’t leave a word behind.”
Jay turns a reproachful gaze on Sophie. “Darling. Your poor father.” Back to Father. “She came running after me, when I left. We went out to tea and had a long talk. I guess we lost track of time.”
What a brilliant liar, Sophie thinks. His face so open and guileless, the untruths slipping so glibly from his mouth. The funny thing is, she rather admires him for it. Maybe this talent of his doesn’t bode well for married life, but there’s something so alluring about a man who can pull the wool over Father’s eyes—Father’s eyes!—without even troubling to blush.
In the middle of Sophie’s present misery, it’s the only small joy.
“Well,” Father says, “all’s well that ends well, I guess.”
“Indeed it is, sir. But there’s more good news. I’m delighted to say that Sophie’s agreed to a Valentine’s Day wedding, and what’s more, my sister’s going to make it all official with a grand party at her apartment, the first Saturday of February. Isn’t that right, Sophie darling?”
“Yes, it is,” Sophie says.
And Father’s slapping Jay’s back, and Jay’s tolerating it manfully, and the air buzzes with masculine congratulation and relief. Sophie takes a kiss on each cheek, and she even slips her arm around Jay’s, just to be a good sport.
Only Virginia remains quiet, near the stairs, and her face is heavy with some expression that might, or might not, be the anxious exhaustion of a mother tending a sick child.
Don’t worry, Sophie wants to tell her. I know what I’m doing. Just you wait and watch me.
But Virginia doesn’t wait. She turns and treads back up the stairs, back up to Evelyn’s little room on the top floor, and Sophie turns back to her fiancé and keeps her secrets to herself.