Tilly and Buddy are married on the last Saturday of July at Grace Church in the City. The bride wears a loose-fitted dress, for obvious reasons. No one comments, not even the catty social pages, whom Tilly’s father has quietly bribed into discretion.
The reception is a tasteful affair at The Pierre, the guest list kept to one hundred: family, close friends, and the high-society princesses and politicians who happen to be in Manhattan in July, between trips to Europe.
It’s a genuinely happy occasion. The party ends early because the bride is tired, but no one remarks on it. I’m moved by the love in the room, the witty speeches, and the comforting web of relationships a girl as superficially prickly as Tilly has managed to gather. She is happy, it isn’t for show. She and Buddy truly are in love.
“It all worked itself out,” Topper whispers as we leave the reception, walking hand in hand back to his parents’ home on the Park.
Tomorrow, the newlyweds will go to the Vineyard for a quiet honeymoon. Tilly prefers her beaches private in her current condition, and no one asks questions. Society closes ranks around her, and I’m glad her reputation is, once again, protected.
***
“Are you happy?” I ask Topper the next morning as we stroll through the park. He smiles, drawing me close.
“Couldn’t imagine being any happier,” he says.
“And you?”
“Miserable,” I joke, and run ahead of him.
***
On Monday, we pack the car and drive up to the Newport house. Our first summer as adults is relaxed and joyful, an easy-breezy affair. Mrs Montgomery, waving us off, reminds us it will get serious soon enough, so we ought to enjoy ourselves while we can.
When we arrive, there’s a package waiting in the hall: an early copy of the boy’s August EP, Just For You. Topper shakes his head.
“He’s your friend. You deal with him,” he says, carrying our luggage upstairs.
I ring the house in Memphis to thank him and chat. It’s Mrs P who picks up. She’s jolly and warm, telling me about her chickens, the grounds, and how lovely everything is now.
“And are you at home? Will you drop by?” she asks.
“Unfortunately no, I’m in Newport, Rhode Island,” I tell her. “But yes, I’ll be home for my birthday this year, as usual.”
“Please come for supper at the house,” she insists.
“And where is the boy?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s out with that actress just arrived from Hollywood,” she giggles.
“Who is it?” I ask, but she only laughs, calls something out to Mr P, and rings off with, “Come home and see us soon, Miss Birdie!”
***
It’s a sunny day, and we walk down to the ocean to wash off the journey from Manhattan. I offer to take Topper out for dinner so he doesn’t have to eat my pesky grub. He accepts gladly, and I drive us to The Dining Room at Castle Hill Inn.
“What will we do with these long summer days?” I ask as we drink wine and enjoy the cuisine.
“This,” he says, stretching out his arms. “Exactly this.”
***
I’d forgotten how marvellous it is to have nothing to do, I tell the boy one afternoon when he telephones the Newport house.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he drawls. “Ain’t never tried it myself.”
“Where’s Topper?” he asks.
“Out shopping for groceries with the maid,” I say.
“No Miss Mary?” he asks, surprised.
“No Miss Mary,” I reply. “She’s got the summer off, but she’s at the Memphis house. You can go visit her.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll go this afternoon,” he says, pleased. “Did you listen to my record?” he asks, suddenly impatient.
“I did,” I tell him. “You are a genius. I loved it.”
He sounds irritated. “Well, it was meant to make you think about your decisions.”
I laugh. “I guessed as much.”
“Any regrets?” he asks.
“Plenty,” I say. “But I can’t hang my hat on you, for obvious reasons.”
“Suppose that’s so. I’d need a real special girl for that.”
“Stop being an arse,” I say. “Tell me why you adore me instead, just the top twenty things.”
He laughs. “One: Miss Mary’s cookin’. Two, ” He trails off. “You’re funny, you’re clever, and you’re beautiful,” he says. “Don’t much care for it when you get bossy and demandin’, though.” He sounds annoyed.
“Tough luck,” I say. “What else?”
He roars. “Why’s everything today gotta be about you?” he demands. “I didn’t call to talk about you. Let’s get back to me.” We both laugh.
“Mamma says you’ll be home for your birthday…” He sounds genuinely pleased.
“About that…” I hesitate. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”
“Oh.”
He goes quiet. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, his tone shifting.
“By the way, it’s gettin’ serious between me and Anita,” he says, almost defiantly.
“Anita?” I repeat, though I know exactly who he means. Then, “Sorry, buddy, there’s something on the line,” I say, and hang up on him.
I take a book and head down to the beach to worry about nothing at all, just enjoying the present.
“Aaaahhh, summer!”
***
Cornelia and I are at the Jane Pickens Theater, gobbling popcorn and sipping sodas, watching Loving You. I’m oddly excited to see it. Dolores Hart was cast partly because someone thought she resembled me, and I’m curious to see how much of the boy’s real life made it into the film.
It’s nothing like I expected. Cornelia doesn’t even notice the resemblance, or that Dolores is meant to be me, because her character is nothing like me. So that’s not a win for me.
“You’ve been there. You’ve actually been there,” Cornelia says, watching the boy strut and sing as Deke Rivers. “It seems unreal now, doesn’t it?” She turns to me, earnest.
“Not really,” I say, and toss a handful of popcorn at her. “Catch.”
She nudges me. “But seriously. Look at him!” She points at the screen, and several girls in front turn around to shush us. I apologise.
Cornelia sinks lower in her seat and whispers, “He is the sexiest hillbilly man I’ve ever seen. Funny, I never noticed when he was around. Isn’t that strange?”
She looks to me for an answer I can’t give. I shrug. “Something must be wrong with you. I’ve always been able to see it.”
“I mean, Topper is gorgeous and all,” she goes on, “but this guy, this guy is sexy and dangerous and uuuuuuuhhhh!” She groans. “Come on!”
“Shut up, Connie,” I whisper. “Let’s watch the movie. And don’t underestimate Topper.”
She chuckles. “Sorry. But can I have this one now, if you don’t want him anymore?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“It’s not up for negotiation. He’s my first love. He’s off the table.”
“Spoilsport,” she sighs. I soften. “He would love you, though. He likes funny.”
She smiles.
“But he doesn’t like obstinate,” I add. “So there’s that.”
After the film, as we head out for ice creams, she says, “You could have just lived in sin with him, you know.”
“Are you ever going to stop this?” I ask.
“No,” Cornelia says. “But you could have. I’d still be your friend, you know. It’s not too late to drop it all and go back to the dirty, sweaty backwaters and be his little greasy hillbilly baby.”
She laughs, then sighs. “Fuck me, he is one sexy motherfucker!”
“Cornelia Grace!” I dance down the street with her. “Language!”
She runs ahead into the ice cream parlour.
“Ah, fuck off,” she calls back. I flip her the bird. A man walks past, alarmed. Cornelia points at me and says, “Look at that woman, she’s had sex with two men in her life.”
He doesn’t look shocked. He glances between us and says, “Is that it? I’ve had about a hundred more,” and struts off, bobbing at his hair.
Cornelia is speechless for once.
“Pistachio for me!” I call after her, waiting on the bench outside.
“Yes, ma’am,” she laughs. “I need cooling down,” she calls from inside.
***
On the walk back to Cornelia’s parents’ estate, we see President Eisenhower’s motorcade and wave enthusiastically.
“Would you look at that,” I say.
“Rather,” Cornelia replies.
We stop outside Doris Duke’s house, wondering what goes on inside Rough Point. Cornelia knows everything; she grew up Duke-adjacent.
“She’s got a camel, a pool of Turkish tiles, and never goes to anything she’s invited to. Honestly, I respect it,” she says.
“Society is a pain in the arse,” I say.
“Look at you,” Cornelia says, eyeing me. “Haven’t you grown into a pretentious little rebel?”
I tell her I was born that way. She thinks, then smiles.
“Remember when Tilly had an affair with that married man at Miss Porter’s?”
I remember, and we both burst out laughing.
“Jesus, I forgot about that,” I say.
“You’ve got ice cream down your front,” Cornelia scolds.
And I do.
“I am such a lady,” I laugh, trying to clean myself up.
“I can’t believe you’ll be twenty-two next week,” she says, looking at me like I’m ten. “You need to grow up, baby.”
“You do!” I shoot back.
“I’m not the one getting married next year,” she retorts.
“No,” I say. “How do you feel about that, being left on the shelf?”
Cornelia winks. “I feel good. Gives me a chance to seduce your cast-offs.”
My World of Interiors 