Read Online The Paris Wife by Paula McLain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paula McLain
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Grecian urn chasing truth and beauty. Where did I fit in exactly?
“I think I’m too old to fall in love sometimes,” I said to Ruth one afternoon. We sat in my room on the bed, a plate of tea biscuits between us, while outside it snowed like it might never stop.
“You’re too old—or he’s too young?”
“Both,” I said. “In a way he’s lived more than I have, and he’s certainly had more excitement. But he can be awfully romantic and naïve too. Like this business with Agnes. She did break his heart, I believe that full well, but he carries it around like a wounded child.”
“That’s not very fair, Hadley. You suffered over Harrison Williams, didn’t you?”
“I did. Oh, Ruth.” I put my head in my hands. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I think I’m just afraid.”
“Of course you are,” she said gently. “If you honestly think he’s too young for you, all right then, make your decision and stick to it.”
“Do you think I’ll stop worrying when I know he loves me for sure?”
“Just listen to yourself.”
“There’s so much to lose.”
“There always is,” she said.
I sighed and reached for another biscuit. “Are you always this wise, Ruth?”
“Only when it comes to other people’s lives.”
The next day there was no letter from Ernest, and the next day also none, and the next as well. It seemed clearer and clearer that he was either forgetting me or consciously pushing me to the side, choosing Rome and the hope of making a go with his writing instead. I was hurt, but also terribly jealous. He had something real to pin his hopes on, something to apply his life to. My dreams were plainer and, quite frankly, more and more tied to him. I wanted a simple house somewhere with Ernest coming up the walk whistling, his hat in his hand. Nothing he’d ever done or said suggested any such thing could ever happen. So just who was naïve and romantic?
“If it’s over, I can be brave,” I told Ruth and Bertha on the evening of the third day, feeling a heavy knot clench and dissolve at the back of my throat. “I’ll roll up my sleeves and find someone else.”
“Oh, kid,” Ruth said. “You’re down for the count, aren’t you?”
After we went to bed, I tossed and turned for hours before falling into a light sleep sometime after two. The next morning, still feeling foggy-headed and quite low, I checked the letter box. It was too early for the mail to have arrived, but I did it anyway—I couldn’t help myself. There, in the box, was not one letter but two, both of them fat and promising. Rationally, I knew the mail boy must have come by with them the evening before, catching me unawares, but part of me wanted to believe that I had conjured the letters there with my longing. Either way, Ernest’s silence had finally broken. I leaned against the doorjamb, my eyes blurring with tears of relief.
Back upstairs, I tore open the letters greedily. The first spilled the usual news of work and fun at Kenley’s place, lately referred to as “the Domicile.” There had been a boxing match in the living room the night before, with Ernest playing the role of John L. Sullivan, ducking and weaving in long underwear and a brown silk sash. I laughed to think of him this way and was still laughing when I began reading the second letter.
Still thinking about Rome
, it began,
but what if you came along—as wife?
Wife
. The word stopped me cold. I hadn’t met his mother or any of his family. He hadn’t even been to St. Louis to sit in the front parlor and bear Fonnie’s disapproving gaze. Still, he might be serious. It was just the way he’d propose, off the cuff, following a joke about boxing. I wrote back later that morning:
If you’re ready to make the mad dash I’m game
.
Rome. Together. It was an extraordinary thought. When I let myself fantasize about marrying Ernest, we lived in St. Louis or Chicago, in a place very like the Domicile, full of fun and good talk at any
“I think I’m too old to fall in love sometimes,” I said to Ruth one afternoon. We sat in my room on the bed, a plate of tea biscuits between us, while outside it snowed like it might never stop.
“You’re too old—or he’s too young?”
“Both,” I said. “In a way he’s lived more than I have, and he’s certainly had more excitement. But he can be awfully romantic and naïve too. Like this business with Agnes. She did break his heart, I believe that full well, but he carries it around like a wounded child.”
“That’s not very fair, Hadley. You suffered over Harrison Williams, didn’t you?”
“I did. Oh, Ruth.” I put my head in my hands. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I think I’m just afraid.”
“Of course you are,” she said gently. “If you honestly think he’s too young for you, all right then, make your decision and stick to it.”
“Do you think I’ll stop worrying when I know he loves me for sure?”
“Just listen to yourself.”
“There’s so much to lose.”
“There always is,” she said.
I sighed and reached for another biscuit. “Are you always this wise, Ruth?”
“Only when it comes to other people’s lives.”
The next day there was no letter from Ernest, and the next day also none, and the next as well. It seemed clearer and clearer that he was either forgetting me or consciously pushing me to the side, choosing Rome and the hope of making a go with his writing instead. I was hurt, but also terribly jealous. He had something real to pin his hopes on, something to apply his life to. My dreams were plainer and, quite frankly, more and more tied to him. I wanted a simple house somewhere with Ernest coming up the walk whistling, his hat in his hand. Nothing he’d ever done or said suggested any such thing could ever happen. So just who was naïve and romantic?
“If it’s over, I can be brave,” I told Ruth and Bertha on the evening of the third day, feeling a heavy knot clench and dissolve at the back of my throat. “I’ll roll up my sleeves and find someone else.”
“Oh, kid,” Ruth said. “You’re down for the count, aren’t you?”
After we went to bed, I tossed and turned for hours before falling into a light sleep sometime after two. The next morning, still feeling foggy-headed and quite low, I checked the letter box. It was too early for the mail to have arrived, but I did it anyway—I couldn’t help myself. There, in the box, was not one letter but two, both of them fat and promising. Rationally, I knew the mail boy must have come by with them the evening before, catching me unawares, but part of me wanted to believe that I had conjured the letters there with my longing. Either way, Ernest’s silence had finally broken. I leaned against the doorjamb, my eyes blurring with tears of relief.
Back upstairs, I tore open the letters greedily. The first spilled the usual news of work and fun at Kenley’s place, lately referred to as “the Domicile.” There had been a boxing match in the living room the night before, with Ernest playing the role of John L. Sullivan, ducking and weaving in long underwear and a brown silk sash. I laughed to think of him this way and was still laughing when I began reading the second letter.
Still thinking about Rome
, it began,
but what if you came along—as wife?
Wife
. The word stopped me cold. I hadn’t met his mother or any of his family. He hadn’t even been to St. Louis to sit in the front parlor and bear Fonnie’s disapproving gaze. Still, he might be serious. It was just the way he’d propose, off the cuff, following a joke about boxing. I wrote back later that morning:
If you’re ready to make the mad dash I’m game
.
Rome. Together. It was an extraordinary thought. When I let myself fantasize about marrying Ernest, we lived in St. Louis or Chicago, in a place very like the Domicile, full of fun and good talk at any
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