Back at Bryn Mawr, I’m racing to finish my senior thesis, determined to do it quickly and well. Tilly is supposed to be working too, but she’s distracted. Buddy comes down to visit us so often that their constant antics are beginning to get on my nerves. More than once, I slip a noise complaint under her door in the form of terse, furious little notes. She ignores them.
I want to do well. I’ve worked at this for nearly four years, and now I’m so close to the finish line I can almost taste it. If I sprint, I might just make it. My thesis is about colonialism, which makes Tilly chuckle.
“Of course it is,” she says, shaking her head.
Colonialism in art, with an emphasis on the Americas. I’m still revising, but it’s going well. Tilly suggests I ought to write about my own colonisation of “the Americas” and rolls her eyes as she leaves my room. I throw a book at the door just as it slams.
“Less aggression toward the savage from your ladyship,” she calls from the corridor.
***
The boy wants me to come visit him on the set of Loving You, but I tell him it’ll have to wait until after graduation. I simply can’t make time for anything else right now. He sends me silly postcards from out West in February:
Postcard 1:
Baby Doll,
It’s your fat baby. I lost the weight. Don’t ask me how. Mamma and Daddy were here, they send their love. They’re in the movie.
Love,
Crazy.
P.S. They colored my hair brown. Everybody loves it. You probably won’t.
Postcard 2:
Honey Bee,
How am I supposed to record a song called “Loving You” when you’re so far away? Tell me! HOW!
Yours,
Deke Rivers
P.S. I’m dating like it’s going out of style.
Letter from Memphis, March:
To my high-falutin’ smarty-pants,
I put a formal offer on the house we saw. We’ll live there till we’re old and gray and got nothin’ left but rotten teeth and wild grandkids. I’ll be known as “one-ton” by then.
In other news: I’m back to being fat again. Damnation! Will you still love me when I’m a three-hundred-pound baby? Come home for Easter, will ya? I need you to put me through your exercise routine!
Yours,
E
***
During a few days off, I visit Topper and Cornelia.
Cornelia has broken up with Artie. She’s heartbroken, but recovering.
“First love,” she sighs.
“It’s a tough one,” I say.
She wouldn’t convert to Judaism, and he wasn’t allowed to continue unless she promised to do so if they moved toward engagement. Cornelia says she loved him, but that it wasn’t a hard decision.
“No one tells me what to do, and that’s just a ridiculous ask.” She rolls her eyes. “He could have converted to Christianity. Why didn’t he?”
I wonder aloud why people who aren’t particularly religious care so much about these differences.
Cornelia agrees.
“But really, how are you doing? Will you be okay?” I ask her.
Cornelia sniggers. “Listen, Birdie. I’ll be fine. I’m not that picky. I’ll find a replacement soon enough.” She gestures at herself. “Look at me. I’m gorgeous. The men will come flocking. Just you wait.”
I tell her I’m certain she’s right.
***
Topper is finishing his degree as well. When I mention I’m heading South for Easter, he says he thinks it’s a splendid idea. I ask if he’d like to come along as my date for Mabel’s Easter nuptials, but he wonders if it’s all right if he doesn’t. I assure him it’ll probably be dreadfully dull anyway.
When I speak to the boy on the phone, he sounds tired and worn out. Irritable, even rude at times, which is new. I start calling him the Prince of Darkness when he’s offhand with me, and he does not like that one bit.
But the truth is, he is changing. Not in a profound way, he’s still the boy, but as fame envelops him, it has begun to go to his head. Not heavily. Not even as much as one would expect. But he’s finished running after me. He no longer needs me in the same way.
Because I’ve been living a life outside our bubble for longer, I understand. When your world expands, the need for one person becomes less acute. There are others, and more to think about. The soul who once felt central may still be just as important, but you begin to forget how important, as life fills up with other colours and shapes.
***
I finish my thesis and hand it in early. I’m content with the result. Tilly says it’s very good and assures me I’ll get top marks. I’m discovering how quickly I can work when I must, and how focused I am when the topic genuinely matters to me. At last, I get a well-deserved break.
***
Topper and I head to Palm Springs for a week of rest and reward for our hard work. We catch the spring sun and enjoy the warmth. We spend time at Rancho Mirage with Mr S, and I find myself worrying about his new relationship with Ms Bacall, because, honestly, I think he could do better. There’s something about her I can’t quite place. But I don’t say a word.
Cary comes out for the day and takes me to dinner.
“The boy is right, you know,” he says over cocktails. “You ought to think about your prospects. Marriage will legitimise your place in the world.”
“But I’m an independent woman of means,” I reply.
“Of course you are, dear girl,” he says. “but you’ll be looked at as a harlot here if you don’t become an honest woman soon.”
He laughs but he means it. I scowl.
“Baby, you must think about the future. Why aren’t you?” He rests his head in his hand, still smiling.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It must be my modern European ways.” I shrug.
Cary takes my hand and squeezes it.
“You’re one of us,” he says, “you have an artist’s soul,” he continues, winking. “But I can only protect you from the gossip mongers so far, you hear?”
We both grin. I can’t bring shame on Grandpa George this way, I think to myself. I have to find a solution.
“How’s the boy, by the way?” Cary asks. “I’m intrigued by him, and by why you two are so connected.”
“It’s a kind of love, I suppose,” I say. I tell him what the boy’s been up to; filming, recording, living it up in Los Angeles.
“Yes, of course,” Cary says. “I remember those days. They’re magical… until they’re not.” A shadow crosses his face.
“And you? You finished your thesis?”
“I did,” I say.
“It’s good,” I add.
“You are a special girl,” Cary says, driving me back. He takes my hand again in the car.
“Effortlessly complete and otherworldly beautiful,” he says, then gets out, opens my door, and walks me to the entrance. “Don’t ever lose yourself.”
He kisses my cheek before rushing back to the car. He smells as you’d expect: vanilla, smoke and stylish perfection.
“I hope to see you again soon,” he calls.
I blow him a kiss, which he catches.
“Thank you. Ditto,” I say.
I watch him disappear into the sunset and realise how much I love looking at him. He’s the most stylish man I’ve ever known. I’ve been trying to dress the boy like him since 1948, but the boy is his own person, with his own style.
My World of Interiors 