self-confidence, as she waited for the beginning of what was certain to be a triumphant debutante year in Philadelphia. Her best friend from Foxcroft, the Virginia boarding-school, had persuaded her to come out West to visit for a few weeks. It had taken him only a half hour to talk her into leaving the party with him.
He could still remember how entrancing Lydia had been in her full-skirted, pale blue taffeta dress with its matching jacket; so maddeningly proper with her little white gloves and her satin pumps; so enticingly graceful in a slender, reined-in, precise way; her shining dark brown hair falling in absolutely disciplined waves to her shoulders, her smiling lips a perfect shade of pink that made all the other girls look overly made-up.
Yes, she had knocked the daylights out of him with her finishing-school sophistication, a unique brand of polished poise, an unmistakable stamp of class, for want of a better word, than he’d ever seenin any of the nice Southern Californian girls he’d dated up till then.
And he must have represented something equally fascinating, new and irresistible to her, or else why would she have allowed him to take her away from a party? Why would she have spent every day of her visit with him, permitting him to kiss her for hours on end in the front seat of his convertible, until their lips were abraded and swollen and they were both feverish and sick with desire?
He’d never been allowed to touch her naked breasts. No contact below the collarbone had been her rule. Oh, he could still remember the violence of that frustration, more powerful than the best fuck he’d ever had, a frustration that neither of them knew what to do about because in 1947 anything more than kissing was unheard of for a Philadelphia aristocrat. Or for a nice Californian girl, for that matter.
So they had eloped, Mike Kilkullen and Lydia Henry Stack. Two criminally stupid, infatuated, sex-obsessed kids who should never have laid eyes on each other, let alone gotten married, had eloped because they couldn’t jump into the sack and screw themselves blind for a few weeks. Half his generation had probably done the same thing, but that didn’t mean, looking back, that it wasn’t a catastrophic way to make a decision, particularly when an easy divorce was out of the question with his Catholic background and her strict Episcopalian upbringing.
Looking back, he knew that he hadn’t realized to what extent their marriage had been a mistake until far later—years later—than she had. It had seemed to him to be working in the beginning, when they rented a little apartment in Palo Alto after college started. True, once it was legal to go to bed, the lovemaking was never as wonderful as both of them had ignorantly imagined it would be. Liddy, who had so loved to be kissed, didn’t enjoy sex. The real thing frightened and distressed her, and no matter how gentle he was, she never got over an essential distaste for what she considered a messy, intrusive act. But he was convincedthat her attitude would change in time, especially when she became pregnant so soon.
During those early months he often found her weeping, hidden away in the bathroom so that he wouldn’t hear. She’d insisted that she was only upset because she hadn’t wanted to have a baby so quickly, or because her parents were still furious with her for eloping, but later he’d understood that she was in a hopeless, unending, voiceless rage with herself for ruining her life, getting stuck in an impulsive,
unnecessary
marriage when she should have been back East where she belonged, in the city she loved, among people of her own kind, with everything ahead of her.
They had been far, far too young to get married without a great passion. Or even
with
a great passion, Mike thought bitterly. Their attraction was based on incomplete arousal and equally incomplete fantasies about each other. She’d been the princess treasure he’d won from the Eastern heart
He could still remember how entrancing Lydia had been in her full-skirted, pale blue taffeta dress with its matching jacket; so maddeningly proper with her little white gloves and her satin pumps; so enticingly graceful in a slender, reined-in, precise way; her shining dark brown hair falling in absolutely disciplined waves to her shoulders, her smiling lips a perfect shade of pink that made all the other girls look overly made-up.
Yes, she had knocked the daylights out of him with her finishing-school sophistication, a unique brand of polished poise, an unmistakable stamp of class, for want of a better word, than he’d ever seenin any of the nice Southern Californian girls he’d dated up till then.
And he must have represented something equally fascinating, new and irresistible to her, or else why would she have allowed him to take her away from a party? Why would she have spent every day of her visit with him, permitting him to kiss her for hours on end in the front seat of his convertible, until their lips were abraded and swollen and they were both feverish and sick with desire?
He’d never been allowed to touch her naked breasts. No contact below the collarbone had been her rule. Oh, he could still remember the violence of that frustration, more powerful than the best fuck he’d ever had, a frustration that neither of them knew what to do about because in 1947 anything more than kissing was unheard of for a Philadelphia aristocrat. Or for a nice Californian girl, for that matter.
So they had eloped, Mike Kilkullen and Lydia Henry Stack. Two criminally stupid, infatuated, sex-obsessed kids who should never have laid eyes on each other, let alone gotten married, had eloped because they couldn’t jump into the sack and screw themselves blind for a few weeks. Half his generation had probably done the same thing, but that didn’t mean, looking back, that it wasn’t a catastrophic way to make a decision, particularly when an easy divorce was out of the question with his Catholic background and her strict Episcopalian upbringing.
Looking back, he knew that he hadn’t realized to what extent their marriage had been a mistake until far later—years later—than she had. It had seemed to him to be working in the beginning, when they rented a little apartment in Palo Alto after college started. True, once it was legal to go to bed, the lovemaking was never as wonderful as both of them had ignorantly imagined it would be. Liddy, who had so loved to be kissed, didn’t enjoy sex. The real thing frightened and distressed her, and no matter how gentle he was, she never got over an essential distaste for what she considered a messy, intrusive act. But he was convincedthat her attitude would change in time, especially when she became pregnant so soon.
During those early months he often found her weeping, hidden away in the bathroom so that he wouldn’t hear. She’d insisted that she was only upset because she hadn’t wanted to have a baby so quickly, or because her parents were still furious with her for eloping, but later he’d understood that she was in a hopeless, unending, voiceless rage with herself for ruining her life, getting stuck in an impulsive,
unnecessary
marriage when she should have been back East where she belonged, in the city she loved, among people of her own kind, with everything ahead of her.
They had been far, far too young to get married without a great passion. Or even
with
a great passion, Mike thought bitterly. Their attraction was based on incomplete arousal and equally incomplete fantasies about each other. She’d been the princess treasure he’d won from the Eastern heart
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