Read Online Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler - Free Book Online
Authors: Therese Anne Fowler
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can cheer her up. My moody children, goodness…” I couldn’t tell Mama what I was up to; she’d have clucked about it endlessly and made everything worse.
Now Sara sat next to where I lay on the bed with damp eyes and the letter clutched in my hand. She patted my arm and asked, “What does he say?”
The lump in my throat made it hard for me to answer, so I handed her the letter, which was as brief as mine had been and amounted to Never contact me again.
Sara read it. “Wow, he sounds really hurt. But then, that’s what you wanted.”
“Mm.”
“He’ll be happy in the long run, I guess. If he gets his book published and all.”
Wiping my eyes, I nodded my agreement.
“And if he loves you truly, he’ll love you then, too. You had to do it, Zelda.”
“For his own good.”
“And yours.” She took my hands and pulled me up from the bed. “Now come on, it’s hot and I’m thirsty. Let’s go down to the drugstore and have us some ice-cold dopes. There’s more to life than fellas, right?”
“Not really,” I said. My smile felt weak, but it was a start.
* * *
Ten days later, Scott stood in the hall of my house. “I had to see you,” he said breathlessly, while Daddy scowled at us from the library’s doorway. “This is all wrong.”
He looked as desperate and miserable as I’d been when I’d gotten his letter. He wore a light brown suit that he’d obviously slept in—and run in, it seemed, likely all the way from the train station. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and made shiny trails along the sides of his face.
I took his hand; it was moist, too. With a glance at my father, I said, “Come outside.”
As I led Scott to Mama’s rose garden, he said, “It was all my fault for taking too long. Come back with me—we’ll get the first train and get married right away.”
My heart pounded in my chest. Yes! Buy me a ticket, I’ll pack my trunk! I tried to say the words, they were right there in my throat, but—
He’s such an extraordinarily brilliant person that it would be terrible if he let himself do nothing in the end.
Yes, I know, I thought—but I was stubborn, too, and he was right there with me looking so hopeful and impassioned, and I didn’t want to let him down and I didn’t want to give him up.
“Have you ever thought that writing should just be your hobby?” I asked hopefully, selfishly—stupidly too, ’cause I already knew better. “You could do something stable for a profession. Banking, maybe, like my brother-in-law Newman.”
Scott shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? Why does it have to be writing?”
“It’s the only thing I know how to do. I don’t have a single other talent or skill.”
“You could learn one.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand. I was terrible in the army. Worst aide-de-camp ever. I can’t run an office. I can’t lead men. I’m not a whiz with numbers. I’ve got no patience for administrative work—do you know what kinds of idiots head up these companies? But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. With you there to come home to … You’ll inspire me. You do inspire me. I’ll work so much better if I’m not worrying about you.”
Such romantic words! If the scene were being played out in a dime novel or a picture show, the heroine, heart racing, would swoon and fall into the hero’s arms. We’ll leave it to fate! she’d say as she fainted. I guess I’m not the swooning type, though, because I knew Scott was giving himself a prescription:
I’ll work so much better if I’m not worrying about you .
As I had already concluded, he was completely right, just not in the way he thought. He’d never give up on any of his goals—wasn’t his appearance here clear proof of how ridiculously stubborn he was?—and if he didn’t give up on any of them, he’d fail at them all.
So I swallowed hard and said, “You know, I think our love has run its course and we both need to just move
Now Sara sat next to where I lay on the bed with damp eyes and the letter clutched in my hand. She patted my arm and asked, “What does he say?”
The lump in my throat made it hard for me to answer, so I handed her the letter, which was as brief as mine had been and amounted to Never contact me again.
Sara read it. “Wow, he sounds really hurt. But then, that’s what you wanted.”
“Mm.”
“He’ll be happy in the long run, I guess. If he gets his book published and all.”
Wiping my eyes, I nodded my agreement.
“And if he loves you truly, he’ll love you then, too. You had to do it, Zelda.”
“For his own good.”
“And yours.” She took my hands and pulled me up from the bed. “Now come on, it’s hot and I’m thirsty. Let’s go down to the drugstore and have us some ice-cold dopes. There’s more to life than fellas, right?”
“Not really,” I said. My smile felt weak, but it was a start.
* * *
Ten days later, Scott stood in the hall of my house. “I had to see you,” he said breathlessly, while Daddy scowled at us from the library’s doorway. “This is all wrong.”
He looked as desperate and miserable as I’d been when I’d gotten his letter. He wore a light brown suit that he’d obviously slept in—and run in, it seemed, likely all the way from the train station. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and made shiny trails along the sides of his face.
I took his hand; it was moist, too. With a glance at my father, I said, “Come outside.”
As I led Scott to Mama’s rose garden, he said, “It was all my fault for taking too long. Come back with me—we’ll get the first train and get married right away.”
My heart pounded in my chest. Yes! Buy me a ticket, I’ll pack my trunk! I tried to say the words, they were right there in my throat, but—
He’s such an extraordinarily brilliant person that it would be terrible if he let himself do nothing in the end.
Yes, I know, I thought—but I was stubborn, too, and he was right there with me looking so hopeful and impassioned, and I didn’t want to let him down and I didn’t want to give him up.
“Have you ever thought that writing should just be your hobby?” I asked hopefully, selfishly—stupidly too, ’cause I already knew better. “You could do something stable for a profession. Banking, maybe, like my brother-in-law Newman.”
Scott shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? Why does it have to be writing?”
“It’s the only thing I know how to do. I don’t have a single other talent or skill.”
“You could learn one.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand. I was terrible in the army. Worst aide-de-camp ever. I can’t run an office. I can’t lead men. I’m not a whiz with numbers. I’ve got no patience for administrative work—do you know what kinds of idiots head up these companies? But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. With you there to come home to … You’ll inspire me. You do inspire me. I’ll work so much better if I’m not worrying about you.”
Such romantic words! If the scene were being played out in a dime novel or a picture show, the heroine, heart racing, would swoon and fall into the hero’s arms. We’ll leave it to fate! she’d say as she fainted. I guess I’m not the swooning type, though, because I knew Scott was giving himself a prescription:
I’ll work so much better if I’m not worrying about you .
As I had already concluded, he was completely right, just not in the way he thought. He’d never give up on any of his goals—wasn’t his appearance here clear proof of how ridiculously stubborn he was?—and if he didn’t give up on any of them, he’d fail at them all.
So I swallowed hard and said, “You know, I think our love has run its course and we both need to just move
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