You’re sitting at the end of Marjorie’s breakfast table in a pale silk housecoat, one bare foot tucked beneath you, turning the pages of the Shiny Sheet while the ice melts in your orange juice. The windows overlooking the lawn are open. The curtains shift whenever the ocean air reaches them, carrying the smell of clipped grass and the white gardenias on the table Marjorie insists be replaced every morning.

Across from you, Marjorie is dressed for the day despite having nowhere to be until noon. Pearls, powder, lipstick pressed carefully into the lines of her mouth. A secretary stands at her shoulder with a leather appointment book open, waiting while Marjorie decides whether the president of some charitable foundation deserves ten minutes or fifteen.

“Neither,” you say without looking up from the newspaper. Marjorie’s secretary glances at her. The maid nearest the coffee service lowers her eyes. No one interrupts Marjorie Merriweather Post. No one offers an opinion unless she’s asked for one, and even then, people have learned to choose their words as though their livelihoods are attached to each syllable. Marjorie studies you over the rim of her cup. “Darling, I don’t recall asking.”

“You didn’t.” You turn another page. “But you promised we’d have the afternoon together, and you’ve already put three things in it.” A small tightening touches her mouth. It isn’t anger. Everyone else in the room mistakes it for anger because that’s safer. “You could’ve mentioned this before I dressed,” she says. “I mentioned it last night. You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening.”

“You were reading telegrams in bed.” Marjorie sets down her cup with care. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening.” You finally look at her. The sunlight catches the white of her hair and the hard little sparkle of her earrings. There are men in Washington who return her telephone calls before they return their wives’. There are women in Palm Beach who’ve spent entire winters waiting for one invitation through the gates of Mar-a-Lago. Marjorie can close a door with nothing more than a glance and make certain it stays closed long after everyone’s forgotten what offense began it.

You hold her gaze and say, “Cancel them.” Her secretary’s fingers tighten around the appointment book. Marjorie is quiet for a moment. Then she turns her head. “You heard her, Miss Lewis. Clear the afternoon.”

“Yes, Mrs. Post.”

“And send flowers to Mrs. Hanley with my apologies.” You wrinkle your nose. “Not lilies. She hates lilies.” Marjorie gives you a look that would send anyone else out of the room trembling. “Gardenias, then.”

“Those are yours.”

“They’re flowers, darling. I don’t own them.”

“You behave as though you do.” Her mouth shifts again. This time, you see the smile before she lowers her eyes to the table. “Gardenias,” she tells her secretary. “From the greenhouse. Not the florist.” Miss Lewis writes it down without comment. She’s been in the household long enough to understand the arrangement, though no one uses that word. In Palm Beach, you’re Marjorie’s companion when strangers ask. Her ward when the question comes from someone old enough to find that explanation respectable. A distant relation when introductions need to be made quickly.

In Marjorie’s bedroom, with the curtains drawn and her jewelry scattered across the vanity, you’re her darling girl.

You close the newspaper and reach for the coffee she had poured for herself. Marjorie watches you take it, watches you add another spoonful of sugar without asking. She doesn’t object. She never does when it’s you. “Now,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “would you care to tell me what you’ve planned for this precious afternoon?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she says, her face flat. “I thought we’d stay home.” Marjorie lifts one eyebrow. “I’ve cleared three appointments so you can do nothing?”

“You said I could have you.” There’s no sound from the staff, though you feel their attention sharpen. Marjorie does too. Her face doesn’t change, but her hand settles against the linen tablecloth. You should’ve chosen different words. You know that. There are still rooms in this house where doors are kept open when the two of you sit too close, still dinners where Marjorie introduces you with a careful hand at your elbow and never the possessive touch at your waist she uses when no one is looking. She’s spent her life knowing exactly what society will forgive from a rich woman and what it will use against her.

Her eyes stay on you. Then she says, very evenly, “Leave us.” The room empties at once. Shoes cross the tiled floor. The secretary closes her book. The maid takes the coffee service even though you’re still holding Marjorie’s cup. Within seconds, the doors are shut, and the long breakfast room belongs to the two of you. You look down at the coffee. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t.”

“They heard me.”

“They hear everything. Most of them have the good sense to forget it.” You run your thumb over the thin gold edge of the cup. Marjorie reaches across the table and turns your wrist until the china is safely lowered to its saucer. Her fingers remain around you after she’s done it. “You cannot speak that way in front of everyone,” she says, though her voice has softened.

“You tell me that every week.”

“And every week, you ignore me.”

“You like it.” Her thumb pauses against the inside of your wrist. Outside, somewhere beyond the terrace, a gardener starts a motor. The low sound reaches the windows, then settles beneath the quiet between you. Marjorie’s gaze moves over your face. “You’re becoming terribly sure of yourself.”

“You let me.”

“I indulge you.”

“You do what I ask.”

“That isn’t the same thing.” You lean across the corner of the table, close enough that her perfume reaches you. “Canceling your afternoon because I said so sounds very much the same.”

She could correct you. She could draw herself up and remind you whose house this is, whose money pays for the silk on your shoulders and the white convertible waiting beneath the portico. She could tell you that no one commands Marjorie Merriweather Post in her own home.

Instead, her hand leaves your wrist and settles against your cheek. “You’re a spoiled little thing,” she murmurs. “You bought me three dresses yesterday.”

“You said you needed them.”

“I said I liked them.”

“You were standing in the fitting room in your slip. I wasn’t listening carefully.” You smile despite yourself. Marjorie brushes her thumb beneath your eye, removing a faint trace of sleep you missed before coming downstairs. The gesture is slow, nearly absentminded. She’s gentler with you when she thinks no one can see it.

“I don’t want some luncheon,” you tell her. “I don’t want another table full of women staring at us and pretending they aren’t.” Her hand stills. You turn your face slightly into her palm. “I want to swim before it gets too hot. Then I want you upstairs with me.”

“You intend to keep me in bed all afternoon?”

“I intend to take a nap.”

“That isn’t what you said last night.”

“You weren’t listening last night.” A quiet breath leaves her, and you feel it against your forehead when she leans closer. “I heard every word last night.” Her mouth brushes your temple. It’s brief because even alone she carries years of caution in the set of her shoulders, but her hand remains at the back of your neck. Your fingers find the strand of pearls resting against her collarbone and straighten them where they’ve shifted.

“Wear the blue bathing suit,” you say. Marjorie draws back enough to look at you. “I don’t take wardrobe instructions.”

“You do from me.”

“I most certainly do not,” she says, her hand moving around to the back of your neck. “You wore the green dress to the Kennedys’ dinner because I asked.”

“You sulked for forty-five minutes.”

“Because the ivory one made you look severe.”

“I am severe.”

“Not with me.” The words settle more quietly than the others. Marjorie’s face changes in a way the women at the club would never believe. Her jaw eases. Her eyes move down to your mouth before returning to your face, and the hand at your neck draws you a little closer. “No,” she says. “Not with you.”

You stand, taking her coffee with you, and move around the corner of the table until you’re between her chair and the sunlight from the windows. Marjorie looks up at you, still composed, still dressed in enough diamonds to alter the course of someone’s life. You place the cup back into her hand and smooth a spot near her lipstick with your thumb.

“Finish your coffee,” you tell her. “Then come upstairs and help me choose a bathing suit.” She catches your hand before you can pull away. “You have twelve.”

“Thirteen,” you correct.

“No, twelve.”

“You bought another one.”

“Of course I did.” You bend and kiss her forehead, careful not to disturb her hair. “Blue suit, Marjorie.” Her fingers close around yours. Anyone else issuing an order in that tone would be gone from Palm Beach before cocktail hour, their club membership questioned, their invitations withdrawn, their name left out of every column that mattered. Marjorie looks up at you and sighs. “Yes, darling.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

By the time you finally make it down to the pool, the sun has shifted high over the terrace and Marjorie has changed her bathing suit twice.

The blue one won, though only after she stood in front of the dressing-room mirror for nearly twenty minutes, turning from one side to the other while you sat on the edge of her bed and told her it looked lovely. She accused you of rushing her. Then she made you fasten the little clasp at the back of her neck, changed her lipstick because the first shade was too pink beside the fabric, and refused to leave until her hair had been sprayed so thoroughly that it no longer seemed capable of moving.

Now she stands at the edge of the pool in white sunglasses, a silk cover-up tied neatly over the blue suit, staring down at the water as though it has personally offended her. “You said we were swimming,” you remind her. “You said you were swimming.” Marjorie touches the back of her hair with the tips of two fingers, checking what hasn’t shifted. “I made no such promise.”

“You put on a bathing suit.”

“I dressed appropriately for the setting.”

“You spent almost two hours dressing appropriately for the setting.”

“That isn’t my fault. You kept distracting me.” You hadn’t done much more than sit on her bed and watch, but there’s no use arguing when Marjorie has decided on her version of events. You slip out of your sandals and leave them beside the lounger. The stone is already hot beneath your feet, and the water catches the hard noon light, bright enough that you have to narrow your eyes.

Behind you, Marjorie gives a quiet instruction to one of the attendants. A padded lounger is adjusted beneath the striped awning, a fresh towel placed over it, and a small table brought close enough to hold her cigarettes, lighter, sunglasses case, and the sweating glass of something pale she’d ordered before either of you left the bedroom.

When you turn, she’s lowering herself onto the cushion. “You aren’t even going to put your feet in?” You ask. Marjorie doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“Marjorie.”

“My hair is perfect.”

“It’s always perfect.”

“Precisely. I intend to keep it that way.” She unties the cover-up but doesn’t remove it completely, letting it fall open around her hips as she settles back. The blue suit is modest and structured, cut higher across her chest than the ones you favor, though the color makes her skin look warm beneath the shade. She reaches for the silver cigarette case on the table and opens it with her thumbnail. You stand at the foot of her lounger, hands resting on your hips. “You promised me the afternoon.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re not getting in.” You pout, trying to force her to listen. “I’m sitting beside the pool with you. That is an afternoon by the pool.”

“That isn’t the same as getting in.” Marjorie places a cigarette between her lips and flicks open her lighter. The flame catches instantly. She takes the first slow drag without looking away from you, then lets the smoke leave her mouth toward the open side of the terrace. “I don’t remember you being this demanding when I met you,” she says. “You liked me immediately.”

“I thought you were sweet.”

“I am sweet.”

“You’re standing over me issuing orders before lunch.”

“You let me.” Her mouth pulls faintly at one corner. She lowers the cigarette and reaches for her drink, the heavy ring on her finger tapping once against the glass. “Go and swim, darling. I’ll admire you from here.”

“You won’t. You’ll read telegrams.”

“I left them upstairs.”

“You’ll find new ones.”

“Someone has to keep the world running.” You lean down and take the cigarette from her fingers. Marjorie watches you bring it to your mouth, her expression sharpening slightly when you inhale. She doesn’t like you smoking as much as she does, which has never stopped her from offering you one after dinner or holding hers against your lips when she’s feeling indulgent. “That’s mine,” she says. “You’ve got another twenty in the case.”

“Nineteen.” You return it to her, and she accepts it with the patient look she reserves for moments when you’re being especially difficult. Smoke slips from the end and drifts between you. Beneath the awning, the air smells of tobacco, suntan oil, and the sharp green sweetness of the hedge bordering the terrace.

You reach for the knot of her cover-up. Marjorie’s hand closes around your wrist before you can pull it loose. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking this off.”

“I can manage my own clothing.”

“Then do it.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable.” You tug once, and she tightens her hold, though not enough to make you stop. Her eyes move briefly toward the open doors leading into the house. A maid has disappeared inside. The pool attendant is keeping himself busy at the far end of the terrace, rearranging towels that don’t need rearranging. Everyone employed by Marjorie has learned when not to look directly at her. You lower your voice. “You said you’d wear the blue suit for me. I can barely see it.”

“You saw quite enough upstairs.”

“I saw you change into it.”

“You were staring.” Your fingers go still against the knot. Marjorie takes another drag from her cigarette as if she hasn’t said anything improper, but the line of her mouth has softened. She looks pleased with herself. “Then you’ve no excuse at all.”

You pull the knot loose before she can catch your hand again. The cover-up opens fully, slipping away from her waist and gathering against the cushion. Marjorie lets you do it, though she sighs as though you’ve exhausted her beyond reason. “There,” you say. “Better.”

“For whom?”

“For me.” She studies your face for a moment, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. “Of course.” You move to the chair beside hers and pick up the bottle of suntan oil left on the table. Marjorie takes one look at it and shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

“You’ll burn.”

“I’m under the awning.”

“Your legs aren’t.”

“My legs have survived Palm Beach for years without your supervision.” You pour a little oil into your palm anyway. Marjorie watches, then stretches one leg along the lounger with reluctant elegance, giving in without ever admitting she’s done it. When your hand closes around her ankle, she settles deeper against the cushion. “You’re bossy today,” she murmurs. “You’ve told me that already.”

“I’m hoping repetition will inspire reflection.”

“It hasn’t worked on you.” Her laugh is quiet and brief. You smooth the oil over her shin, careful around the thin skin at her ankle, then work upward toward her knee. Marjorie smokes while you do it, the cigarette burning down steadily between her fingers. She finishes it before you’ve reached her other leg and immediately reaches for another. “You’re going to smoke the whole case,” you tell her. “I might.”

“You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’ve been smoking longer than you’ve been alive.”

“That doesn’t make it good for you.”

“It makes me experienced.” You take the lighter before she can reach it. Marjorie holds the unlit cigarette between her lips and waits, chin lifted slightly. She watches you, patient and imperious, until you finally flick the lighter open and lean close. The flame moves between you. Her hand closes gently around your wrist to keep it steady while she draws in, and for a moment her face is near enough that you can see where the powder has settled beside her mouth.

When the cigarette catches, she doesn’t release you immediately. “You see,” she says, smoke barely leaving her lips. “You indulge me too.”

“Only when you behave.”

“I always behave.” You look down at her. Even reclined beneath an awning, wrapped in silk and blue fabric with her white hair perfectly set, Marjorie manages to look capable of ending a man’s social life before dinner. The cigarette rests between her fingers. Her other hand remains around your wrist, thumb moving once over the pulse there.

Her fingers loosen, but you turn your hand before she can draw hers away and lace them together. Marjorie looks toward the house again. It’s a habit she can’t quite lose, even here, even with staff who depend on her too completely to speak about what they see. You squeeze her hand. “No one’s looking.”

“Everyone is always looking.”

“Then let them.” She gives you a long, measured look over the top of her sunglasses. There are times when you can almost see the years of caution returning to her, the careful explanations and closed bedroom doors, every public touch adjusted until it could be mistaken for something harmless. Then her gaze drops to your joined hands. “You’re very brave when it’s my reputation at stake,” she says. “You’d ruin anyone who talked.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“You would, though.” Marjorie lifts the cigarette to her mouth. “Without blinking.” You smile and bend to kiss the back of her hand before releasing it. “Come into the water.”

“No.”

“Just to the steps.”

“No.”

“You won’t get your hair wet.”

“I know your habits. You’ll splash me.”

“I won’t.”

“You absolutely will.” You stand and catch her by both hands. Marjorie stays where she is, her weight settled stubbornly into the lounger, but she doesn’t pull away. The cigarette remains pinched between two fingers, held carefully aside. “Darling,” she warns. “You said I could have you.”

“You do have me.”

“Then get up.” For anyone else, the silence that follows would be dangerous. Marjorie looks up at you, her sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the small movement at the corner of her mouth. She lets you pull once, then again, before finally setting her cigarette in the ashtray and allowing herself to be brought upright. “If one drop touches my hair,” she says, smoothing the blue suit over her hips, “I’ll have the pool drained.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I had a ballroom rebuilt because I disliked the acoustics.”

“That’s different.”

“It was considerably more expensive.” You take her hand and begin leading her toward the shallow steps. Marjorie follows with the slow dignity of a woman being escorted somewhere against her better judgment, though her fingers tighten around yours when the first inch of water covers her feet. She looks down at it, then at you. “Cold,” she says. “It’s Florida.”

“It’s still cold.”

“You’ll live.”

“That remains to be seen.” You step backward into the pool, drawing her with you. The water reaches her ankles, then her calves. She gathers your hand more firmly and glances once toward her untouched cigarettes beneath the awning. “I’m doing this for you,” she says. “I know.”

“And you’re not to splash.”

“I know.”

“And we’re staying on the steps.” You guide her down one more, until the water reaches just beneath her knees. “Of course, Marjorie.” She hears the lie. You can tell by the way her mouth flattens. Still, she doesn’t let go.

You get her no farther than the third step. Marjorie sits because you insist, lowering herself carefully onto the warmed stone with one hand braced behind her and the other still holding yours. The water gathers around her hips, darkening the blue fabric of her suit. She checks the back of her hair again the moment she’s settled, fingertips barely touching the stiff white waves. “You’re hovering,” you tell her.

“I’m protecting myself.”

“From water?”

“From you.” You sit beside her, close enough that your thigh presses against hers beneath the surface. Marjorie keeps her chin lifted while she looks over the pool through her sunglasses, pretending the contact means nothing. Her abandoned cigarette is still smoking in the ashtray beside the lounger. A thin line curls upward beneath the awning, and you can tell she’s watching it from the corner of her eye. “You’re thinking about your cigarette.”

“I’m thinking about getting out.”

“You’ve only just sat down.”

“That’s quite enough for me.” You catch her hand before she can push herself upright. Marjorie looks down at your fingers around hers, then toward the open doors of the house. The terrace remains quiet. Someone moves behind one of the windows, a pale shape passing between the curtains, but no one comes outside. “They’re not looking,” you say. “They know better.”

“You frightened the pool boy.”

“He was staring.”

“He was checking the filter.”

“He was checking you.” You smile and lean your shoulder against hers. “Were you jealous?”

“No.” Marjorie turns toward you then, sunglasses slipping slightly down her nose. Her mouth is set, but there’s no real warning in it. You lift a hand and push the glasses back into place for her, letting your thumb linger against her temple. “You’re troublesome when you’re bored,” she murmurs. “I’m not bored.”

“No?”

“No.” Your hand moves down to the side of her neck, where the ends of her carefully arranged hair curl just above the strap of her bathing suit. “I’ve got you.” Her gaze drops to your mouth. It happens quickly, but you’re close enough to see it. “You’ve had me all morning,” she says. “And you’ve complained the whole time.”

“I’ve had cause.” You laugh softly, and the sound makes her mouth loosen. Marjorie turns her hand beneath the water until her palm rests against your knee. Her fingers spread there, warm despite the pool, and stay without moving. You lean in first. She lets you kiss the corner of her mouth, careful and brief, nothing that would disturb the lipstick she spent so long choosing. When you try again, she turns just enough to meet you properly. Her hand lifts from your knee and settles at the back of your neck, holding you near while her lips part against yours.

Marjorie always kisses as though she has more time than anyone else. Slowly, with her thumb resting beneath your ear and her mouth pressing into yours until you stop thinking about the sun on your shoulders or the stone digging faintly into the backs of your thighs. She tastes of tobacco and the gin she had beside her lounger. Her lipstick leaves something soft and waxy against your lower lip.

You move closer on the step, one knee brushing over hers. Water folds between your bodies. Marjorie’s sunglasses bump lightly against your cheek, and she draws back just enough to remove them, setting them behind her without looking. “Better,” you whisper. “You’re very demanding for someone who’s already got what she wanted.”

“I wanted you in the pool.”

“I’m in the pool.”

“Barely.” Her fingers tighten at your neck. “Don’t press your luck.” You kiss her again before she can say anything else. This one lasts longer. Marjorie’s mouth opens beneath yours, and the hand at your neck draws you in until your shoulder presses against her chest. She makes a small sound when your tongue touches hers, quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it. Her other hand finds your waist beneath the surface, palm firm against the wet fabric of your suit.

The staff knows better than to interrupt her, but the terrace still feels too open. You can see the house behind her shoulder, its long windows bright with reflected sky. Marjorie must feel it too. Her kisses remain controlled at first, broken by little pauses in which she listens for doors or footsteps.

Then you put your hand in her hair. Your fingers slip into the stiff curls above her ear, pushing past the lacquered surface until you reach the softer hair underneath. Marjorie goes completely still against your mouth. You know before she pulls back. Her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?” You simply look at her, feigning innocence. “Your hand is in my hair.” You leave it there. “I know.”

“I spent forty minutes on that hair.”

“You didn’t. Mrs. Calloway did.”

“That makes it worse.” A small section has already lifted beneath your palm. One of the smooth waves near her temple has loosened, and a pale curl bends in the wrong direction. You try to flatten it with your fingertips. Marjorie catches your wrist. “Don’t touch it.”

“I’m not tearing it apart.” Her face changes slightly at that. The irritation remains in her eyes, but her grip around your wrist eases. You let your fingers drift deeper, careful now, feeling where the pins hold everything close to her scalp. Marjorie closes her eyes for half a second. “You like it,” you say. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I like my hair arranged.”

“You like my hands in it.” She opens her eyes. “You’re becoming insufferable.” You lean in until your mouth is near hers again. “You still let me.”

“For reasons I can no longer remember.” You kiss her before she can continue. Marjorie resists for no more than a breath, then her hand returns to the back of your neck. Your fingers curl into her hair again, loosening another careful wave as her mouth opens beneath yours. This time she doesn’t stop you.

Her other arm moves around your waist and pulls you partly across her lap, making the water rise against both of you. Your knee settles between hers on the wide step, and Marjorie adjusts you with a quiet impatience, keeping you close while trying not to shift enough to wet anything above her shoulders.

You kiss along the line of her mouth, then beneath her cheek. Her perfume has faded beneath the sun and chlorine, but it remains warm at her throat. She tilts her chin when your lips touch there, her fingers pressing into your side. “Darling,” she says softly, though it doesn’t sound like a warning anymore. Your hand moves over the back of her head. The pins have begun to loosen. You feel one catch against your finger and pull it free before it can scratch her scalp. Marjorie hears the little metallic tap when it falls onto the step. She pulls back. “Was that a pin?”

“No.” You look at what you’ve done. One side still has its stiff, perfect shape. The other is softer now, curls separating around her ear and at the nape of her neck. A few white strands cling damply to her skin where your hand has carried water upward. “It’s pretty,” you tell her.

“It’s destroyed.”

“It’s only hair.” Her expression turns flat. “Only hair.”

“You can have it done again.”

“I can have the entire room redecorated again. That doesn’t mean I want you pulling down the curtains.” You bite the inside of your cheek, but the smile comes anyway. Marjorie sees it and gives you a look sharp enough to make most of Palm Beach apologize immediately.

You touch the loosened curl above her ear. She lets you. “You’re laughing at me,” she says. “I think you look beautiful.”

“You thought I looked beautiful before you dismantled me.”

“I like you this way better.” Marjorie’s hand rests at your waist beneath the water. Her thumb moves once over your side, slow and absent despite the displeasure she’s still trying to maintain. “This way,” she repeats. “Less perfect.”

“That isn’t a compliment,” she says. “It is from me.” She looks toward the house again. You follow her gaze, but the terrace doors remain closed and the windows show nothing beyond the curtains. When she turns back, her mouth has softened. “You will fix it before dinner,” she says.

“I don’t know how.”

“You’ll learn.”

“Mrs. Calloway can do it.”

“Mrs. Calloway will know exactly how it happened.”

“She already knows about us.”

“Knowing is not the same as being presented with evidence.” You glance at the lipstick smeared along the corner of her mouth. “She’ll have more than your hair to ask about.” Marjorie lifts a hand and touches her lips. When she looks at the faint red on her fingertip, her eyes narrow again. “You’ve ruined my lipstick too.”

“You can put more on.”