only returned her kiss, said good-bye and thanks for lunch, and followed Kiki down the path and across the lane, where I took off my own shoes and dug my bare toes into the sand of the beach. Kiki was already skipping through the curtains of water as they unfurled onto the beach. The sun hit my face full-force, and I wished I’d brought my hat. Why hadn’t I brought my hat, to block the sun?
I put up my hand to shield my eyes and stood there, watching Kiki. Budgie’s voice rang in my ears.
Nick’s such a darling. . . . He phones me constantly.
Nick was up at dawn.
Her long-fingered hand lying like a caress atop her belly: Who knows? Maybe not long at all. Imagine that, Lily Dane.
The men just love it to death. . . . You should have seen the look on Nick’s face .
Very slowly, I let my hand drop down to my side.
Nick and I are staying in the guest bedroom while they fix up ours.
I turned my face upward and closed my eyes and let the sun bathe my face, and it felt good, hot and languorous. It felt like summer.
Why not? I thought. Why not go on a date with a fellow or two? Why not let Aunt Julie cut my hair and color my mouth with lipstick? Why not raise my skirts an inch or more, and let somebody kiss me again? Why not kiss again, and in kissing forget?
Just think. Your Kiki can help watch the baby.
Kiki was turning six. She would start school next fall. For years now, her need for me had consumed my life, had consumed mercifully all my love and thought and energy, but in the coming months and years she would need me less. The world would open its arms to her, bit by bit, and mine would be left empty, bit by bit.
And I wanted to be kissed again. I wanted to remember what it felt like when a man held me in his arms, and lowered his head to mine, and told me what I meant to him. I wanted to feel his warm hands and his warm lips on my skin. I wanted to lie next to him, and listen to the sound of his breathing, and know he was mine.
Why not kiss again, and in kissing forget, and in forgetting forgive?
I watched the sun through my eyelids, let the late-May heat absorb into my bones. When I was warm enough, I walked down to the water’s edge and joined Kiki, skipping and giggling across the champagne foam.
7.
SMITH COLLEGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Mid-December 1931
N ick and I are curled together on the seat of his Packard Speedster, talking about Christmas.
“Think about it,” he says. “We’ll be less than a mile apart, for three entire weeks. We can see each other every day, go out to dinner, have a little privacy. What would you like for a present?”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
“Something soft? Something sparkling?” His breath warms the top of my head; his arm sits snugly around my back and shoulders. Beneath my cheek, the lapel of his greatcoat has the butter-soft polish of cashmere.
“Nothing. Just yourself.”
“But you have that already.” He kisses my hair. “It doesn’t matter. I already know what I’m getting you, Lilybird.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes. I’m growing sleepy from the warmth of Nick’s body and the late hour. He should have left long ago, but still we sit here, unable to disentangle ourselves. He arrived at eleven in the morning, as he does most Sunday mornings, and we took a walk in the frost-laden air before having lunch under Dorothy’s gleaming eyes at the diner. Another walk, and then a visit to the museum, where we snatched a brief kiss during a momentary lull in the flow of visitors. Dinner with Budgie and a friend or two, then the movies, and now this: the daring front seat of Nick’s racy little car, because it’s the only place we can be private without freezing in the December air, and where Nick Greenwald, as always, is behaving like a perfect gentleman. Not one button of my coat has been unfastened, not one inch of my dress has been raised along my silk-stockinged leg.
“Nick, you
I put up my hand to shield my eyes and stood there, watching Kiki. Budgie’s voice rang in my ears.
Nick’s such a darling. . . . He phones me constantly.
Nick was up at dawn.
Her long-fingered hand lying like a caress atop her belly: Who knows? Maybe not long at all. Imagine that, Lily Dane.
The men just love it to death. . . . You should have seen the look on Nick’s face .
Very slowly, I let my hand drop down to my side.
Nick and I are staying in the guest bedroom while they fix up ours.
I turned my face upward and closed my eyes and let the sun bathe my face, and it felt good, hot and languorous. It felt like summer.
Why not? I thought. Why not go on a date with a fellow or two? Why not let Aunt Julie cut my hair and color my mouth with lipstick? Why not raise my skirts an inch or more, and let somebody kiss me again? Why not kiss again, and in kissing forget?
Just think. Your Kiki can help watch the baby.
Kiki was turning six. She would start school next fall. For years now, her need for me had consumed my life, had consumed mercifully all my love and thought and energy, but in the coming months and years she would need me less. The world would open its arms to her, bit by bit, and mine would be left empty, bit by bit.
And I wanted to be kissed again. I wanted to remember what it felt like when a man held me in his arms, and lowered his head to mine, and told me what I meant to him. I wanted to feel his warm hands and his warm lips on my skin. I wanted to lie next to him, and listen to the sound of his breathing, and know he was mine.
Why not kiss again, and in kissing forget, and in forgetting forgive?
I watched the sun through my eyelids, let the late-May heat absorb into my bones. When I was warm enough, I walked down to the water’s edge and joined Kiki, skipping and giggling across the champagne foam.
7.
SMITH COLLEGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Mid-December 1931
N ick and I are curled together on the seat of his Packard Speedster, talking about Christmas.
“Think about it,” he says. “We’ll be less than a mile apart, for three entire weeks. We can see each other every day, go out to dinner, have a little privacy. What would you like for a present?”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
“Something soft? Something sparkling?” His breath warms the top of my head; his arm sits snugly around my back and shoulders. Beneath my cheek, the lapel of his greatcoat has the butter-soft polish of cashmere.
“Nothing. Just yourself.”
“But you have that already.” He kisses my hair. “It doesn’t matter. I already know what I’m getting you, Lilybird.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes. I’m growing sleepy from the warmth of Nick’s body and the late hour. He should have left long ago, but still we sit here, unable to disentangle ourselves. He arrived at eleven in the morning, as he does most Sunday mornings, and we took a walk in the frost-laden air before having lunch under Dorothy’s gleaming eyes at the diner. Another walk, and then a visit to the museum, where we snatched a brief kiss during a momentary lull in the flow of visitors. Dinner with Budgie and a friend or two, then the movies, and now this: the daring front seat of Nick’s racy little car, because it’s the only place we can be private without freezing in the December air, and where Nick Greenwald, as always, is behaving like a perfect gentleman. Not one button of my coat has been unfastened, not one inch of my dress has been raised along my silk-stockinged leg.
“Nick, you
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