“Birdie, honey!” Mrs Montgomery calls. “Come here,” she says, slipping an arm around my shoulder. “What do you think of this seating?”
The countdown to the wedding is on, and Mrs Montgomery has taken over completely. Topper and I are fine with it. Neither of us is particularly invested in wedding planning, and she’s a legendary host who’s never thrown anything less than a perfectly tasteful event. This is her element, why not let her revel in it?
“You’re too wonderful.” I squeeze her hand, silently grateful for every decision she makes without consulting me. She’s so startled by my lack of bridal micromanagement that I can feel her appreciation for me growing with each day of the holiday season.
“I have to admit,” she says, “you’re the easiest and most pleasant daughter-in-law I’ve ever come across. I’m the envy of all mothers in my circle.” She thanks me for letting her do all the work I have no interest in, and I know there is a God. I laugh every time Topper meets my eye in recognition of this quiet win.
“You have her eating out of the palm of your hand,” he whispers. “And she thinks it’s the other way around.”
“It’s too good,” I say, kissing him as we walk over to Beekman Place to visit Tilly and Buddy. There’s a christening coming up for our new goddaughter, and we’ve come to meet her.
“Come look at this thing I made,” Buddy calls as we enter the apartment. “Tilly’s down the hall with the baby.”
We pass the drawing room, the dining room, the library, and the den, into the breakfast room off the kitchen.
“Let me see her,” I say. And there she is, the most gorgeous little girl you’ve ever seen.
“Isn’t she something?” Tilly beams.
“She’s beautiful,” Topper says, walking over to Buddy.
“Can I offer you anything?” Buddy asks. “I’ve set up a little something in the library if you’re peckish.”
I help Tilly to her feet, and the nursemaid comes to take the baby.
“How are you?” I ask as we link arms, heading to the library.
“I’m okay,” she says. “She’s an easy baby. I’m grateful.”
“I’m pleased for you.” I squeeze her arm, and we settle into easy chairs with refreshments.
“Have you chosen a name?” Topper asks.
“Yes,” Buddy says, glancing at Tilly.
“Margot Cabot Channing,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“Wonderful,” Topper and I echo.
“A beautiful name,” I add.
“I hope she’ll be beautiful,” Tilly says, looking out the window. “Beautiful and charming. It’ll make her life easier, especially if she’s burdened with my intelligence.”
Buddy laughs. “Yes, something to take the edge off all that nuisance intellect.” His voice is fond. “She already is perfect.”
He gets up and returns with the freshly printed invitations:
Mr and Mrs William Cabot Channing
request the pleasure of your company
at the Baptism of their daughter
Margot Cabot Channing
on Saturday, the eighth of February
nineteen hundred and fifty-eight
at eleven o’clock in the morning
Grace Church
Broadway at Tenth Street
New York City
Luncheon to follow
at the Harvard Club
Twenty-seven West Forty-Fourth Street
“You can take yours now that you’re here,” Buddy says.
“Why not,” Tilly adds as Buddy slips our invitation into an envelope, writes “Delivered By Hand” in the top front corner, and hands it to me.
***
We spend a few hours at Beekman Place talking about the baby, our upcoming wedding, and Mrs Montgomery’s enthusiastic takeover.
Later, we return to the Montgomery’s and Mr Montgomery makes us aware that we don’t have a real home of our own yet. There’s the cottage in Newport, Topper’s cabin in Maine, my house in Palm Springs, and, of course, my home, the Memphis mansion, which Topper has visited less than a handful of times and shows little interest in.
Over dinner with his parents, we discuss settling down. Topper says New York will always be home, but he’s spending so much time in D.C. working for Senator Kennedy that maybe, if I don’t mind, we should look for a house in Georgetown.
“Sure, honey. Whatever you think is best,” I say, squeezing his hand. But something tightens in my chest. Georgetown? That staid, conservative place? I push the feeling aside, remind myself we’re partners, that we always talk things through.
Mrs Montgomery smiles. Mr Montgomery watches his son, clearly wondering if Topper might one day become President of the United States. Many think he could. He has everything: intelligence, integrity, calm.
My mind spirals again. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m marrying the man, not this. Not the potential. A wave of dizziness passes, but I hide it well.
Mrs Montgomery tells me I’d make the perfect First Lady, proper breeding, universal appeal. I smile, feel my sweaty palms, agree, and toss off witty remarks as the conversation rolls on.
We talk about Sputnik.
“The Eisenhower administration was caught sleeping,” Mr Montgomery says.
About the Civil Rights Act, signed just as summer ended.
“I’m proud to have been part of it,” Topper says.
We talk about Kennedy, his Profiles in Courage won the Pulitzer this year. Maybe he’s the next president, they speculate. Maybe he’s paving the way for Topper.
Mrs Montgomery is appalled by the culture. “Have you seen this Pollock?”
I tell her I think he’s extraordinary. She disapproves, but with a smile. “There’s a generational shift,” she says. “I’m getting old.”
We talk about On the Road. Topper finds it exciting. Mr Montgomery surprises us by agreeing. “You can’t stop progress,” he says.
“Yes,” Mrs Montgomery adds. “New York is becoming more sophisticated.”
“We’re taking over Paris,” she smiles. That, at least, pleases her.
And I sit there, smiling too, but panicked. I’ve barely left college. Everything is changing so fast, and I can’t find myself in any of it.
I think of the boy, spending Christmas in Memphis, and how strange it is that he feels permanent, even as his life explodes across the globe.
I smile again, thankfully, it reads as joy. No one notices my anxiety. I say thank you as my glass is refilled.
“Adorable,” I say. “Marvellous. Yes to everything.” But I don’t mean it. Not really.
***
I telephone the boy from my bedroom on his birthday. The Montgomerys are all out, so I’m alone with the staff, who are busy in the kitchen and the formal rooms.
I pick up the phone, dial zero, and wait.
“Operator,” comes the clipped voice.
“Long distance, please. Memphis, Tennessee. Person-to-person to the Presley residence. The number is 901–398–4882.”
A pause. Clicking. The sense of cables and exchanges stretching across the whole country.
“One moment while I connect you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Then suddenly; his voice.
“Happy birthday, baby boy!” I say, my voice brightening the instant he picks up.
“Lord, I’ve been waitin’ by this phone for the last hour,” he admits. “Finally!” He laughs. “Didn’t wanna call you at your in-laws’ house, you know.”
I smile down the line and tell him that was wise. We both laugh, but it doesn’t last long.
“Thank you for the birthday present,” he says, softer now.
“My pleasure.”
He tells me he’s already been out riding it.
“This morning?” I ask.
He sighs. “Nah. I was so down, they let me have it yesterday.”
I smile to myself.
“I miss you,” I say, my voice catching, unexpectedly. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to celebrate you turning twenty-three.”
I start to cry, suddenly, uncontrollably.
He’s surprised, but gentle.
“Aw, baby, don’t do that. It’s alright. Everything’s gonna be fine,” he soothes, though we both know it’s not true. Nobody knows what’s coming. We’re both in over our heads. Our lives are changing too fast. We weren’t built for this sort of thing, even if the world insists we were.
We take turns trying to comfort each other until the fog lifts a little and the sun comes through.
He tells me he’s got to have his photograph taken with the March of Dimes girl downstairs, she’s eight and waiting for him.
“You should’ve told me half an hour ago!” I scold. “It’s not fair to make a little girl wait. I’m disappointed in you, E.”
He goes quiet, thoughtful.
“You reckon all this fame’s gone to my head?”
I pause. Of course it has. But today, I’m gentle.
“What do you think?” I ask.
A long pause.
“I think maybe a little.”
“So maybe now’s the time to change all that?” I say softly. “Get back on track, be that best, most wonderful version of yourself I know and love?”
He thinks, then laughs.
“Nah, I don’t reckon I wanna.”
Then, out of nowhere:
“You think you’ll still love me when I’m old and grey?”
I laugh. “I can’t really picture it.”
“Lovin’ me into old age?” he teases.
“No, I mean I can’t picture you old and grey.”
He chuckles. I add, more quietly:
“But to answer your question properly, I can’t imagine ever stopping loving you.”
“Ditto,” he says. Then: “You know, I heard once that the age you fall in love, the person you love at that age, that’s how you’ll always remember ‘em.”
“That kind of makes sense,” I say.
“So I’ll be in love with thirteen-year-old Birdie till the day I die,” he laughs.
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, but I’m smiling. “I’m not in love with thirteen-year-old you. It’s your spirit I adore.”
“I’m just after your looks anyway. Your legs, your ass, and a little bit your sense of humour.”
I laugh. “You’re pushing it, mister. Why are you so cheeky today?”
He shrugs. “Don’t really know.”
I tell him he’d better get going and see the folks waiting downstairs.
His tone drifts. “I’ll do what I please. Ain’t none of your business anyway.”
I’m too stunned to be offended, I just laugh.
“Well then, I’d better go and leave you to it.”
There’s a pause. He regrets it instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I sure am thankful for the motorbike. And for you callin’ me.”
I soften. “Are you all right?” he asks suddenly.
“I sort of am,” I say truthfully.
“I sort of am too,” he echoes. Then, “Hold on a minute.”
The sound of fumbling. Papers? A chair shifting?
“You in your office upstairs?” I ask.
“Mm-hm.”
Then, without warning, he starts singing Young and Beautiful.
I try to stay silent as I cry without a sound, wiping tears on the bed sheet, thinking how impossible everything feels, even though, by any external measure, we’re among the luckiest people alive. And yet it makes no difference. Nothing feels secure. Everything feels like it’s slipping through our fingers.
When he finishes, neither of us speaks. We both know we’ll need to sit alone for a while after this call, gathering ourselves before going about the rest of our day.
My novel GREAT ARE THE MYTHS will be serialised (one chapter each day) over the summer of 2026. If you would rather listen to the audiobook, the full story is available for free on all the usual platforms. Info and links HERE
My World of Interiors 