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464 pages, ebook
First published April 9, 2013
鈥淪O WE BEAT ON,
BOATS AGAINST THE CURRENT,
BORNE BACK CEASELESSLY INTO THE PAST"
He bowed. 鈥淟ieutenant Scott Fitzgerald, hoping to make your acquaintance.鈥� His voice was deeper than I鈥檇 expected, with no trace of Alabama or any place Southern.
I pretended to be shocked by his forwardness. 鈥淲ithout a proper introduction?鈥�
鈥淟ife is potentially very short these days-and, your latest partner might return at any moment.鈥� He leaned closer. 鈥淚鈥檓 wiser than I am impetuous or improper, rest assured.鈥�
鈥淲ell. General Pershing ought to be consulting you on strategy. I鈥檓 Zelda Sayre.鈥� I offered my hand.
鈥淶elda? That鈥檚 unusual. A family name?鈥�
鈥淎 Gypsy name, from a novel called Zelda鈥檚 Fortune.鈥�
He laughed. 鈥淎 novel, really?鈥�
鈥淲hat, do you think my mother is illiterate? Southern women can read.鈥�
鈥淣o, of course. I鈥檓 impressed, is all. A gypsy character-well, that鈥檚 just terrific. I鈥檓 a writer, you see. In fact I鈥檝e got a novel being read by Scribner鈥檚 right now-they鈥檙e a New York City publishing house.鈥�
鈥淗e danced as well as any of my partners ever had-better, maybe. It seemed to me that the energy I was feeling that night had infused him, too; we glided through the waltz as if we鈥檇 been dancing together for years.
I liked his starched, woolly, cologne smell. His height, but five inches taller than my five feet four inches, was, I thought, the exact right height. His shoulders were the exact right width. His grip on my hand was somehow both formal and familiar, his hand on my waist both possessive and tentative. His blue-green eyes were clear, yet mysterious, and his lips curved just slightly upward.
The result of all this was that although we danced well together, I felt off-balance the entire time. I wasn鈥檛 used to this feeling, but, my goodness, I liked it.鈥�
鈥淪cott grew a mustache and read Byron and Shelley and Keats, all in preparation, he said, for the task ahead of him. How the mustache would help him write I couldn鈥檛 say, and I don鈥檛 think he could, either.鈥�
鈥淏elieving Europe had turned toxic, or at least toxic for us, we moved to a charming little house in Montgomery, where I would have my family to help me readjust.
Little had changed in the eleven years we鈥檇 been away, but for me, everything had changed. I had changed. Freedom from Prangins had been my greatest desire, yet like a slave after emancipation, I wasn鈥檛 quite sure how to exist in this quiet, calm, open-ended world, how to be a mother to my cautious daughter, a wife to any man-let alone one as observant and particular as Scott. When he left Scottie and me for an unexpected six-week job in Hollywood for MGM, my moods and my confidence rolled like the ocean in a storm, leaving me seasick, sometimes, and scared. I鈥檇 been forbidden to resume ballet-and was so out of condition that I was hardly tempted anyway-so to steady myself I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote: essays, stories, letters to friends, an article for Esquire, the start of a book.鈥�
Even now, I wouldn't choose differently than I did.
Work of a wife.
That was it, W-I-F-E, my entire identity defined by the four letters that I'd been trying to overcome for five years.