Beautiful Little Fools(38)

Jordan 1920

CANNES, FRANCE




IT WAS HARD TO BELIEVE that Daisy had a baby. A real bona fide person that she’d grown inside of her and pushed out of her tiny body. She wrote me letters after I saw her in Santa Barbara, told me the news about her pregnancy and then the birth and, then, their move to France. I knew that they’d named the baby Pamela because that had been Rose’s middle name. We wanted to honor Rosie, but I couldn’t call her Rose, Daisy had written. That would hurt too much… I knew all this, and yet, none of it felt real to me until I stepped into the Buchanans’ chateau in Cannes, and Daisy placed a plump, pink… baby into my outstretched arms.

I wasn’t sure how to hold her—she was deceptively heavy, and she squirmed and squealed like a pig, then burst into tears. Daisy attempted to soothe her with kisses to her little forehead, then called for Yvette, the nurse, who ran in and whisked Pamela away from me, almost before I had time to register that she was a real, live, breathing girl. Daisy’s girl.

Daisy grabbed my hand and led me into the sweeping parlor. Their chateau was a large three-story mansion, on the edge of the Mediterranean. And the parlor had an entire wall of windows looking out onto the bright blue water. My eyes widened as I looked around, taking in the view. “Isn’t Pammy a doll?” Daisy murmured.

I turned back to look at her, and I nodded. Because that’s exactly what she’d felt like, a doll. Something fake and porcelain, delicate and unreal, like the dolls we used to spend hours playing with as kids. “I still can’t believe you’re a mother, Daise,” I said. It felt almost more impossible because Daisy stood across from me now, looking the same as she always had: same shiny, shiny hair, same trim waist. How exactly had she grown and borne this… child?

Daisy laughed, invited me to sit, and poured me a cup of tea from a tray already resting on the coffee table. “Well, I still can’t believe you’re finally here, in France.” She handed me the tea and then clapped her hands together, letting out a little noise of glee.

“And I can’t believe you actually live here.” And I didn’t just mean France, but this towering chateau perched on the edge of the Mediterranean.

We looked at each other then and both burst out laughing. That was life, wasn’t it? Everything you could never believe happening to you, happening just like that, right before your very eyes.

“Oh Jordie.” She leaned back against the sofa and smiled. She sounded and looked so very happy. And a happy Daisy was the best kind of Daisy. I loved seeing her this way. It almost made me forget that anxious feeling that had risen in my stomach up through my chest during the whole long journey to France. Now, I was just relieved to be with Daisy and also very tired. I couldn’t help myself, I yawned. “Tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to sleep away your travels, we’ll go to the beach, all right? It’s the most beautiful beach you’ve ever seen.”

“More beautiful than Santa Barbara?” I asked her sleepily. I leaned my head back against the plush sofa and thought about that last afternoon I’d spent with her there. I’d met her and Tom at the beach, just before I’d gone back to Charleston. Daisy had not been able to keep her hands off Tom then, running her fingers intimately across his face. I’d felt like I was invading a very private moment between the two of them, and I’d looked away, stared off at the beautiful deep blue water. Santa Barbara’s beach truly had been stunning.

Daisy’s expression suddenly turned sour, and I noticed she had new creases around her eyes. But she shook her head a little and then, she was smiling again. “The water here is not just beautiful but warm. It’s like the bath, Jordie. Better than anything back home. I promise.”



* * *



I AWOKE MY first morning in Cannes following a restless night. In spite of my exhaustion from the long trip, I’d slept fitfully, tangled up in half dreams of Mary Margaret. She was here and then she was gone. And then when I opened my eyes and sunlight streamed in through the large French doors, I was relieved to see it was finally morning.

I wrapped myself in my robe and wandered outside, where I sat on the balcony—large enough for the whole women’s golf team to fit and only one of six on this side of the house. I stared out at the blue, blue sea. What had Daisy said yesterday? Better than anything I’d ever known back home. Still, I could not ease that steady ache in my belly, that restlessness that had kept me tossing and turning all night long. Now it hit me: I was homesick.

It was hard to believe it had only been a few weeks since I’d last been in Charleston with Mary Margaret, Mrs. Pearce, and the other girls. We were to have the months of August and September off, and then when we returned, in October, we’d be preparing for our first real paying tournaments, which would start just after the first of next year. I’d been doing well enough in the practice tournaments that I imagined in only a few months’ time I might be able to count on the money I could win golfing as bona fide income. That would be a huge relief, because right now Aunt Sigourney controlled everything Daddy had left for me in trust. And other than sending me a small monthly allowance for clothing and necessities, she wouldn’t let me touch any of it. She hadn’t even wanted me to come to France to see Daisy on my break—she’d wanted me to go to New York and stay with her instead. Daisy had generously paid my fare.