Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'This is crazy', he whispered. 'My parents...'

'Shh', I said, putting a finger to my lips. Then I climbed on top of him.

It was the first time we'd made love. Unlike Jack, George played according to the carnal rules of the day - when sex before marriage was still considered foreign, perilous territory, to be traversed only after a sizeable amount of time had been spent with the other person. Though we'd kissed, George's natural tendency towards circumspection meant that he'd yet to make a proper move. By the way he'd asked me about my involvement with Jack (and whether 'Shore Leave' was autobiographical), I sensed that he knew I was no virgin. But now, sharing a bed with him for the first time, I realized that he was.

He was anxious. He was awkward. He was fast. So fast that, afterwards, he lay slumped against me and whispered, 'I'm so sorry'.

'Don't be', I said, my voice as hushed as his. 'There'll be other times'.

'Will there?'

'Yes. There will. If you want'.

'I want'.

'Good. Because I was starting to wonder...'

'Wonder what?'

'Wonder when on earth this was going to finally occur'.

'Seduction has never been one of my great skills'.

'Never?'

He turned away from me. 'Never'.

'Not even with Virginia?'

'She wasn't interested'.

'That happens, I suppose'.

'Yes - but usually not with someone you're engaged to'.

'Then you had a lucky escape. Think of what an arid marriage that might have been'.

'The best bit of luck I've ever had is meeting you'.

'I'm flattered'.

'Don't be. You're wonderful. My parents thought so too'.

'Really?'

'They were impressed with you. I could tell'.

'Well, personally, I found it very hard to guess what they were thinking'.

'It's just their manner. They have two religions: Presbyterianism and diffidence'.

'That still doesn't give them the right to be diffident towards you'.

'It's all to do with Edwin's death'.

'His death should make them value you even more'.

'They do value me. They just have difficulty expressing such things'.

'They undervalue you. They shouldn't'.

He looked at me with amazement. 'Do you really think that, Sara?'

I ran my index finger down along his face. 'Yes', I said. 'I really do think that'.

I sneaked out of his room just before daybreak. I fell into bed for around an hour, but couldn't sleep. So I had a bath. Then I dressed and went downstairs, deciding to head out for a walk. En route to the front door, I passed by the dining room, and heard a voice: 'You must have slept badly, Miss Smythe'.

I stopped and saw Mrs Grey seated at the end of the dining table. She was already dressed and coiffed for the day, a cup of coffee in front of her.

'Not that badly'.

She gave me a look of ironic disdain. 'If you say so. Is George still asleep?'

I tried to fight off a blush. I don't think I succeeded as she arched her eyebrows.

'I wouldn't really know', I said.

'Of course you wouldn't. Coffee?'

'I don't want to disturb you...'

'If you were disturbing me, I wouldn't ask you to join me in a cup of coffee, now would I?'

'Coffee would be lovely', I said, sitting down. She got up and went over to a banquette, on which sat a sterling silver coffee pot and the appropriate china. She poured me a cup, returned to the table and set it in front of me.

'I'm certain the coffee will be most welcome after your restive night', she said.

Oh God... I lifted the coffee cup up to my lips and took a quick sip. Then I set it down again. In the space of that simple movement, I'd decided to ignore her last comment. Instead I asked: 'Did you yourself sleep badly?'

'I always sleep badly. And you're dodging my question'.

I met her gaze. 'Had you asked me a question, Mrs Grey, I would have promptly answered it. Because it would have been impolite otherwise. But you didn't ask me a question. You simply made an observation'.

Another of her tight smiles. 'I can see now why you are a writer. Your powers of observation are formidable'.

'I'm not a writer'.

'You're not?' she said. 'Then what about that story in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning?'

'One published story doesn't make someone a writer'.

'Such modesty... especially given the immodesty of the story. Were you in love with that Navy boy?'

'It was a story, Mrs Grey, not a personal remembrance'.

'Of course it was, dear. Twenty-four-year-old women writers always invent stories about the love of their life'.

'There is something called imagination...'

'Not when it comes to a story like yours. It's a common enough genre: romantic confessional box; the sort of thing one usually finds in the Ladies' Home Companion...'

'If you are trying to insult me, Mrs Grey...'

'Hardly, dear. But do answer me this... and note that I am phrasing this as a question: did you actually spend the night with your sailor in a cheap hotel?'

I narrowed her in my sights. 'No, he actually spent the night at my apartment. And he wasn't a sailor. He was in the Army'.

There was a pause, during which she raised her coffee cup and took a sip. 'Thank you for clarifying matters'.

'You're welcome'.

'And if you think I am going to tell George about this, you are mistaken'.

'I sense George already knows'.

'Don't be so certain of that. When it comes to women, men only hear what they want to hear. It's one of the many failures of their sex'.

'You think your son George is a failure, don't you?'

'George is a well-meaning boy. Not one of life's natural leaders, but modest and humane. For the life of me, I don't know what a smart girl like you sees in him. Your marriage will fail. Because, eventually, he will bore you'.

'Who says we will marry?'

'Trust me: you will. C'est le moment juste. It's how it happens. But it will be a ghastly mistake'.

'May I ask you a question, Mrs Grey?'

'Of course, dear'.

'Did your son's death transform you into a misanthrope, or were you always so bitter and joyless?'

She pursed her lips, and considered her reflection in the black sheen surface of her coffee. After a moment, she looked back up at me. 'I've enjoyed our conversation enormously, dear. It has been most enlightening'.

'For me as well'.

'I'm so glad. And I must say I'll come away from our little talk with a splendid realization... what I think you writers call an epiphany'.

'Which is what, Mrs Grey?'

'We are never going to like each other'.

Later that morning, I boarded a train back to Manhattan with George. We sat in the Club Car. He insisted on buying us a bottle of champagne (which turned out to be New York State sparkling wine). He insisted on holding my hand all the way to Grand Central Station. He could not take his adoring eyes off me. He looked lovesick - that same morning-after glow which I must have radiated on that Thanksgiving morning eighteen months ago.

Somewhere south of Port Chester, he said, 'Marry me'.

I heard myself reply, 'All right'.

He appeared stunned. 'What?'

'All right, I'll marry you'.

'You mean it?'

'Yes. I mean it'.

His stunned expression quickly gave way to elation. 'I don't believe it', he said.

'Believe it', I said.

'I'll have to call my parents as soon as we get to Manhattan. They'll be so thrilled. My mother especially'.

'Of course they will', I said quietly.

I didn't say a word to George about the little chat that his mother and I had had over breakfast that morning. Nor did I relate its contents to Eric. Because I knew that - had I described the conversation with Mrs Grey, or told him about the extraordinary stiffness of the family into which I was marrying - he would have tried to talk me out of the engagement.