Chapter Fifteen, part one

Incredible.

Charlie pressed his thumb gently against hers. He stopped thinking any thoughts at all and just sat, letting the precious melting feeling travel up his arm, to his heart, out to every limb. He was deep in this thawing stupor when he felt her shift, sitting up straighter.

“The others are coming,” she said. She slipped her hand out of his, leaving it hollow and empty. He struggled to keep his face neutral. It would be a disaster if she saw how disappointed he was. “I’m going to get a glass of iced tea,” she said. “Would you like anything?”

He wanted to ask for a gin fizz to soothe his disappointment, but it seemed a little early. “An iced tea would be great.” The air brushed past him as she moved out from under the umbrella. He sat still, alone again, listening to the lapping of conversation from across the sands. Sadie wanted to ride the roller coaster; the Worth siblings wanted ice cream. Everyone wanted another daquiri. Sometimes their dither grated on him, but right now it left him too weary to care. He would sit here and wait.

Life was a long line of mush with only occasional cherries.

In time, Violet’s voice rose again. Sadie was teasing her, and there was some kind of cut-up—maybe Earl had tried to dance a turn with her? It was hard to tell.

Laughter bubbled around him. The darkness Charlie sat in seemed to deepen by a shade. His mind turned to what she’d asked, about using a stick. It occurred to him that it might be partially his own fault that he was stuck on the sidelines, always waiting for someone to interact with him. If he had a stick, would it be different? Would he plunge into the group and become a part of it, even if he couldn’t see what was going on?

Unlikely. He wasn’t a heart-of-the-crowd kind of fellow. He never had been, even before. Still, he had to face facts—it was his own fault that he was alone in the silence so often. If he wanted things to be different, he would need to change.

But not today. Because Violet came back, slightly out of breath and with bells in her voice. “Here.” She pressed a cold glass into his hand. “The others are going up onto the boardwalk. Earl claims he’s going to ride that coaster three times in a row.”

“Don’t you want to go with them?”

“No.”

She said it lightly, but that was all she said. He took a swallow of tea, dying to know more. Did she not like roller coasters? Was she happier here, under the umbrella? Or…?

Ask her, you idiot!

He opened his mouth to say—he had no idea what—but she spoke first.

“When you’re finished, do you want to walk along the shore? Where the sand is wet?”

As an answer, he reached for his boater and finished his drink. There is no dignified way to get out from under an umbrella when you can’t see it, but he did his best. So much of his brain space was given up to remembering where obstacles were around him. What he wouldn’t give for an empty room with just one very soft chair in it.

Once he was standing, she caught his arm and steered him toward the sound of the waves.

“Have you been here before?” she asked. “It’s such a shallow beach—the water’s quite a long way out.”

“Are there a lot of people?”

“There are up on the boardwalk. And in clusters. I don’t love big crowds like that. All the cigar smoke and perfume—it can make my head ache. It’s much nicer down here.”

Ah, so she was walking with him to save her aching head. That made sense. And yet, his fingers still tingled where she had touched them.

When they reached the wet sand, his feet felt the difference immediately. The cool firmness of it made him stand taller. Violet’s hand was warm through his cotton shirt, and he couldn’t decide whether it would be appropriate to cover her hand with his. Why had she reached for his earlier? It couldn’t possibly be that girls—groomed, educated girls of his own set—dreamed of touching boys the way that boys…. No. That went against everything his father had ever said on the matter of women. His own mother didn’t seem to like touching anyone. Besides, men who wanted women, beyond their wives, had to pay for the pleasure. That was evidence enough that women didn’t like bedroom company.

Wasn’t it?

But then. There were those E.M. Forster novels—they implied something different. And Anna Karenina. He’d read that through twice, trying to squeeze out every last hint about how women thought and felt. Those women were fictional—were they a male author’s fantasy? Or based in reality? Regardless, they were European, and that felt very far away. Maybe his own mother was the best model for womanhood.

She and Violet couldn’t be more different.

“Penny for them?” she said. Her bare feet made padding sounds on the sand.

“What do women want?” he blurted. “From men?” Oh, damn. He’d said it. Now his ears were burning under his boater. Violet had slowed. It was too strange a question for such a day. Far too intimate. He was about to play it off as a joke when she spoke.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t even understand the other women in my family. But for myself, I’m not sure I even know what I want.” She paused. “From men.” Another pause. “The terrain seems to be changing on me right underfoot.”

They walked a few steps. Somewhere in the distance were the sounds of the merry-go-round, the shrieks from the coasters, the noise of the crowd. But all Charlie heard were the wash of the waves and, lying above it like a scarf, Violet’s breathing.

“Is this because of earlier?” she asked, her voice soft as feathers.

“Maybe. Partly.” They’d stopped walking now. “Why did you do it?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Yes! She’d wanted to! He fought to keep himself pinned to the planet.

“Maybe dancing is also something you’d want?” he asked.

“Sure.” The smile in her voice was evident. “I think I would like dancing.” They stood for a moment while Charlie’s heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. She laughed. “I’m glad you can’t see me blushing.”

“Are you blushing?” he breathed. He lifted his hand to what he guessed might be her cheek and brushed her skin with two fingers. Good God, he hoped she couldn’t hear his thumping pulse. It was almost a relief to walk again, to feel the sand give way to his toes, the wind bend aside so he and Violet could walk, arm in arm.

--

It wasn’t until they were driving back to the Breakers that Violet realized most of the group was drunk. Sadie included. Violet’s skin crawled every time her sister’s slurry voice rose above the others. Back at the Breakers, Reggie met them in the Great Hall with bottles of champagne. Then there were cocktails at dinner, and Reggie called for cards. As the group trailed into the library, he pushed a glass of champagne into Sadie’s hands.

“We’ll have to have you, little miss. You can sit at my table.”

Violet frowned. Sadie, leaning heavily on Reggie’s arm, had that off-kilter look their mother had often had as she stumbled down the hallway at night. She intercepted them.

“I think Sadie may be ready for coffee, not champagne.”

Sadie scowled at her. “Who drinks coffee at a party? Don’t tell me that’s how you suffragists have fun. Tonight,” she said in a mimicking voice, “for a special surprise, we have coffee or tea!”

She and Reggie fell apart over her joke. Reggie led her sister away, as Violet stood, hands on hips, wishing she could rewind the day and start the whole thing over. But there, standing near the piano, was Charlie. Rewinding the day would mean missing out on touching his hand. Walking on the beach. Talk of dancing. She let Sadie slip out of her mind.

“Shall we start with the Entertainer?” she asked, hurrying to her seat.

As they started to play, her mind lolled back to their talk on the beach. Her mad flush. His fingers on her cheek. She worked the pedal, the skin on her back alive with the consciousness that he was at the other end of the grand piano.

She’d never had this kind of awareness about a man before. Her body—even more than her mind—marked him, wherever he was in the room, drawing invisible tangents from her shoulders to his. Even when he was behind her, a piece of her was always awake to him, noticing if he left the room, sat or stood, changed chairs.

It wasn’t like he was the first fellow she’d spent time with. Emma Willard hosted seasonal dances, and she’d gone to all of them. Percy North had invited her to three years’ worth of Princeton dances and had even come to New York to meet her parents. Dan Wolfe, whose parents had run in the same set as hers and whom she saw every summer at horse races and at Cold Lake, had been a regular dance partner. She’d held his hand a million times while dancing, but nothing about the experience made much of an impression. Dan had helped her in and out of row boats, up onto the swim raft, over split rail fences. None of those moments had left her face hot for half the day.

No. This was different. Or maybe she was different. She felt different, as if doors were opening and closing all around her and she couldn’t keep up.

They reached the end of their repertoire as the clock struck ten.

“This is when I generally turn into a pumpkin,” Violet said.

Charlie reached for his clarinet case. “I’ll walk you up.”

Violet took his arm, heart hammering. They walked together, her skirts brushing his trouser leg. Neither of them spoke.

At the top of the stairs, they paused. Then Violet turned left, toward Charlie’s room, and he turned right, toward hers. Their hips bumped; his arm pressed against her chest. Her lips brushed his lapel. Violet caught a hint of his body smell—not the wool of his jacket, not the soap on his hands, but the real him—and it stopped her cold.

“Shall we—” he started to say, very softly, then gestured toward her room. She turned with him, and they walked in alert silence to her door. There, they paused. Charlie’s free hand slid over the top of hers. It rested there, hovering over her bubbling emotions.

“Violet, I—”

Hurried steps sounded on the carpeted stairs. Sadie flew into the hallway, eyes wild. The knot of her hair had slipped to one side, and her cheeks were pink.
“Can I talk to you? Alone?” She caught Violet’s free arm and pulled her away from Charlie. He took a step back, then another, raising his hand to say goodbye.

Violet knew he hated it when people arrived and departed without warning, so she said, “So sorry, Sadie needs me. See you in the morning?”

“In the morning,” he repeated, turning toward his own door.

As Violet followed Sadie into their room, her hand felt lonely for Charlie’s. It was a struggle to stay patient as she faced her sister.

Sadie flopped onto the bed while Violet took the chair at the vanity.

“Yes?” Violet asked.

Sadie pressed her lips together, her eyes glassy. “I need—” She hesitated, pleating and unpleating the fabric of her skirt. She started again. “We’ve been playing cards, you know. Reggie really demands it. You’ve gotten out of it so far with your piano playing, and obviously Charlie has his excuse, but I tell you, everyone else is compelled to play. And it’s fierce in there. Fierce.”

“I thought you liked playing cards.”

“I do. It’s just. Well. I started out doing nicely. The first night we played, I was well in the black. But lately…. And then tonight….” She trailed off, propping her head in her hand.

“Tonight?” she prompted. She should have insisted Sadie have that coffee.

“Tonight, I lost. Lost and lost. I lost so much.” She ran her hand across the bedspread, then plucked at a thread. “And now I owe Reggie money.”

Violet sighed. “How much?” She’d heard their parents have this conversation more times than she could count. ‘How much did you lose?’ ‘Can we cover it?’ ‘Will they take a note?’ “Where’s your jewelry?’ Gambling had been normal enough in the set their parents traveled in. Of course, it would be the same here—she should have realized. She ought to have given Sadie ten dollars when the cards started. Ten dollars was a lot of money, but they needed to please their hosts. Besides, they hadn’t had any costs on this trip beyond the travel. Poor Sadie. How miserable for her to have to come and ask for money.

She stood and went for her check book. “How much?”

Sadie scowled. “One hundred forty dollars.”

The room went cold. “One hundred forty? One hundred— Sadie, how could you possibly?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Sadie pressed her forehead against her hand. “There was so much champagne, but Reggie seemed fine, so we kept on playing, even after everyone else bowed out.” Sadie balled her hands into fists and punched the bedspread. “Don’t give me that disappointed look,” she spat out. “If I had my own half of the money, I wouldn’t have to be coming to you now. I could handle it all myself.”

“This is exactly the reason why you shouldn’t have your own money! Sadie, Papa’s annuity brings in three thousand a year. Your half of that is fifteen hundred. In one night, you’ve gambled away almost a tenth of your income for the year! A tenth!”

Sadie’s face was screwed up tight. “Still, I can afford it!”

“Can you? Can we—really?” Violet popped up and paced the room. “How could everyone else sit by and let you lose so much? You’re seventeen, for heaven’s sake, playing with adults who’ve spent their lives at the gaming table. I should never have let you start in with them.”

Sadie rose to her feet, wavering slightly, her voice full of venom. “I am not a child.”

“Well, you aren’t much of an adult, are you?” Violet snapped.

“I don’t care what you think.” Her sister crossed her arms. “I’m going to marry Floyd soon, and then I’ll have plenty of money for doing whatever I want.”

Violet stared. “Has Floyd asked you to marry him?”

Sadie lifted her chin, defiant.

“Has he taken you to meet his parents? Hinted at plans for the future?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“You know you’re underage. You won’t be eighteen until December. You’d need my permission.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t give it?” Sadie’s eyes sparked, ready for a fight.

“I’d like you to tell me why I should.”

“Because we’re in love.”

Something about that sentence made Violet’s skin squirm. “That’s not a reason to marry before you turn eighteen.”

Sadie slapped the bedspread. “Have it your way! Now, will you write that check, or won’t you? It’s my money by rights, even if it isn’t by law. You know it is.”

Violet sighed. Of course she knew it. Wasn’t she constantly trying to use the money to do what was best for Sadie? Best, she supposed, was in the eye of the beholder. “Gosh, we sound just like Papa and Mother.” She caught Sadie’s eye. “Remember how they used to go at it when they came home with debts?”

Sadie pinched her lips together in an excellent copy of their mother. “You should have taken up a profession."

“You should spend less at the dressmakers!” Violet put in, copying their father.

“You can’t spend like the Astors, you know. We aren’t one of them!”

“You should have left the table while you were ahead.” Oops, that one had been too near the mark. Violet avoided looking at Sadie’s crumpled face by getting up for her check book and ballpoint pen. “I’ll write the check,” she said. “To Reggie? But you’ll want to fix your hair before you go back down.”

She wrote a check to Reginald Vanderbilt and tore it from the checkbook. When she sat up, Sadie was sobbing into her hands. Violet went to her, held her, then led her to the vanity table to dry her tears. When Sadie dropped onto the stool, Violet began removing her hair pins.

“Listen. Papa’s annuity is plenty. More than plenty. We’re exceedingly comfortable. It’s only when you get around people like this, with astronomical incomes, that it starts to feel small. That’s the tiger that had Mother and Papa by the toes—they wanted to spend like their friends, like money was water. If they could have made their wants less, their happiness might have been so much more. Do you see what I’m saying? If they hadn’t needed Paris dresses and caviar, they never would have agonized over money.”

Sadie sniffed. “Just because you don’t need nice things doesn’t mean you should judge. Have a heart, Vi.”

Her words bit. The sting of it left her raw, and, as a result, Violet’s voice was colder than she meant it to be when she went on.

“Everyone has to live within their means. There’s no way around it. If our parents had been able to manage that, they wouldn’t have had to scream at each other the way they did.” She took up the hairbrush. “The next time you see the parlor maids downstairs, bear in mind that they probably make one tenth of what we do in a year. The same amount you just gambled away. What we have is plenty.”

She divided Sadie’s hair into thirds and braided it, pulling the hanks tight. “When you give the check to Reggie, I expect you to ask for a reprieve from cardplaying. Remember how much you like dresses and new hats. If you burn through all your money, you’ll be living out the year with Gran and Grandfather, and I know you don’t want that.”

Sadie frowned at Violet through the mirror as she snatched up a green ribbon and fastened it around her head, tying the bow to one side of her face. She took up the check and left the room without a word.

Violet let out a long breath and sank onto the bed. I’m failing with Sadie, she thought. All those years I spent silently criticizing Mother and Papa, and here I am doing no better. She doesn’t seem to listen to me anymore.

I wonder if she ever did?