Free Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler Page B

Paradise . Eleanor and I were sitting cross-legged on my bedroom rug while I practiced how to look more sophisticated when I smoked. Along the wall were three new trunks filled with what little I’d take with me into married life: clothes and linens and shoes and books, a handful of photographs and a box of mementos, my diaries and my old doll, Alice. “Tilt your chin up a little more,” Eleanor directed.
    I did, saying, “New York’s goin’ to be grand. Scott made us a reservation at the Biltmore Hotel for our honeymoon.” I handed Eleanor the advertisement Scott had torn out of a magazine and sent to me.
    She read, “‘The Biltmore is the center of international social life in New York.’ Just the place for you, then.”
    “He said there’s nothing like it in Montgomery, not even close. Millionaires stay there.”
    “You can get room service.”
    “And swim in the indoor pool!” I said. “And he says there’s a big ballroom on the twenty-second floor — twenty-two, and that’s not nearly the tallest!—with a roof that opens up when it’s warm out and you can eat under the stars.”
    Eleanor was speechless.
    “And, I’m going to see the Follies. ” I took a sophisticated drag on my cigarette.
    “And the Statue of Liberty.”
    “And skyscrapers!”
    “And you’ll be the wife of a famous man.”
    “Not so famous, not yet anyway; his book has only been out for a few days.”
    “Well, handsome then, and famous as soon as enough time has passed for people to know his name. Next thing you know, I’ll be adding rich to my list of adjectives and everyone will say, ‘Finally he’s good enough for our Zelda.’ Now show me that watch again.”
    *   *   *
    My folks said their good-byes in our front hall. Not one of us mentioned that they weren’t making the trip, too, or why that was. Mama and Daddy said little, in fact, beyond “Travel safely” and “Write soon” because my father had already said, “We think this is a poor choice and we won’t condone it. Marry him, if that’s what you think you want to do—we can’t stop you. But we won’t stand there and see it done.” Mama had only sat nearby trying to be stoical, tears pooling in her eyes.
    All the preparations had been made at Scott’s end, with aid from Tootsie and Newman, who were now living nearby. There was no role for our parents and, really, little role for our siblings—and so Scott had told his folks and his sister to just stay home. My sisters were mainly participating because it was convenient for Marjorie to accompany me on the train, and convenient for Tootsie and Tilde, who’d also moved to New York State, to come into Manhattan. The three of them could enjoy a rare visit, and Marjorie could see the city; nothing more was necessary, or desired. Certainly I didn’t yearn for any further oversight. Excited as I was to be going, I’d hardly given the separation from home a thought. I could easily have hurried out the door without even a formal good-bye.
    My friends had all gathered at the station for a surprise send-off. Here, the scene was emotional as they saw me onto the train with kisses and tears and flowers. I hugged everyone, dispensed jokes and advice while continually wiping my eyes, and promised I wasn’t leaving forever—if only so that Eleanor and the Saras would let me go.
    Once aboard the train and settled in our Pullman, I began to relax a little. As the engine chugged away from the station and Montgomery unspooled behind us, I drew a deep breath, exhaled, and tipped my head back against the seat. The car was new, sleek and modern-looking compared to the plush, older ones we’d taken before the government had commissioned all the trains for the war. There were window screens now, and dust deflectors. The carpet was unpatterned, and plain, smooth seats had replaced the old tufted ones. Out with the old, I thought, and away goes the new .
    “I guess this will be a kind of adventure for you, too,”