Waves of her sins—of omission, of commission—attacked with a thick physical presence in her throat and weighed down her muscles. “You never pressured me.”
“You kept saying no, and I kept asking. Now see what happened.” He waved a hand around the area of her hips. “Your mother thinks I’m a mass murderer. Your father probably considers me a putz. I blew it.”
Phoebe brushed away his words. “They’re upset with me. My mother doesn’t want me giving up my chances. Throwing away my life.” The steady ache in her pelvis and a vague and unexpected thud of loss for her baby left no room for careful talk.
“Throwing your life away how?”
“On you.” Phoebe brought her knees to her chest, trying to soothe the pain persisting through the large white pill.
Jake’s guilty expression tortured her. She looked away and examined the room of the child she’d been, all pink and white, as though she were born to be a confection. A Hostess Sno Ball of a girl. Peel away the top layer, and underneath she remained spongy and sweet.
“Being with me is throwing away your life?”
“It’s your family. My mother thinks they did something illegal. Did they? I don’t care if it’s yes or no. Honest. I only want to figure out what she’s hammering my father about.”
“Your father hates me, too?”
“My father’s on your side.”
Jake’s shoulders sagged. “At least there’s that.”
Phoebe thought of his family—his parents’ apartment. The Pierces’ ancient cabbage-rose pocked rug murmured failure and depression; her own family’s spotless white carpet saluted her father’s earnings.
Their cramped rooms screamed Nan Pierce’s inability to turn away anything, no matter how cheap or ill-made. Her outdated wardrobe matched her hairstyle and beaten, bitter expression. Every one of Ken Pierce’s features pointed to the ground. Phoebe didn’t know exactly what he did for a living; they all referred to his job as “something with the Daily News” and then let it go.
“What happened with your parents?” Phoebe asked. “What should I tell my father if he asks?”
“After their store failed—paint—they decided to do investments.”
“Do investments how?” The word investments conjured up nothing. Other than putting money in her savings account—the same one her parents had opened for her when she turned sixteen—she never grasped the fine points of anything about business. Her mother always riffled the Times until she came to the financial section, which was filled with print so fine she used a special pair of glasses to read the words. Every morning, Phoebe’s father said the same thing: “You can’t study stocks day to day, Lola. It’s a cumulative thing.”
“How will I know the trend if I don’t watch?” A true product of the Depression, her mother guarded each dime and watered coins into dollars. Rules drove her parents. “Save regular, no matter what you earn!” “Pennies can turn to fortunes!” “Do right, and right will come back to you!”
“They opened a small brokerage, but they didn’t register with every one of the million places asking them to cross every t. No big deal.” Jake shrugged.
“Did they go to jail?” The thought of his parents in prison terrified her.
“Christ. Of course not. They got fined. They lost the business. Their lives fell to shit. Guess what the upshot will be?” Determination covered his strong face: that combination of rough and handsome, so different from Rob’s patrician features.
Jake’s dark sexiness had become once again what she wanted in the man she loved. Anything reminiscent of Rob repelled her.
She took his hand and squeezed. “What?”
“I’m gonna prove them wrong,” Jake said. “Your dad won’t need to defend me like some idiot son. I won’t need anyone’s protection. You’ll see. Everyone will see.”
He cupped her chin, forcing her to stare straight into his eyes. “I love you.” He reached into his pocket and took out a blue leather box, snapped it open, and took out a ring. He grabbed her left hand, went down on one knee, and held out the chip of a diamond as though holding a prize before a queen. “Marry me.”
CHAPTER 7
Phoebe
September 1968
Phoebe beat two eggs with fear and venom, certain that each circle of her fork brought her closer to becoming her mother. Smack in the center of the supposed youth revolution, she felt more middle aged than buoyant.
Marriage at nineteen meant this: four years later, only twenty-three, she’d been tossed into the world of matrons. Their apartment was spitting distance from her parent’s home. Glamour and Mademoiselle, formerly studied for tips and hints, now read like anthropology texts, leading her to wonder if she’d been relegated to Ladies’ Home Journal. At the beauty parlor, she pored over Vogue, hungering for a microshort Twiggy haircut. Two minutes later, inspired by another cover girl, Jean Shrimpton, she vowed to grow her hair long, letting it flow over her shoulders and leave behind the common pageboy swinging around her chin. Geometric, Mary Quant–like, and miniskirted, that’s what Phoebe yearned to be, but she feared she’d married herself to the tedium of twin sweater sets from Macy’s, doomed to be part of a dying history just when she wanted inclusion in the great wave of change all around. The wave of influential British designers could open a path away from the tedium of Brooklyn fashion.
Her job, which she loved, Jake considered a holding pattern before motherhood, considering her work inferior both for the location and her low salary. Tutoring immigrants in the ways of New York and working with their kids held less weight to her husband than helping out at his office—which she did on Saturdays. His business bored the hell out of her, though his energy for finance infected her at least enough to become mildly interested by association.
Phoebe slipped a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Jake. Even as she served him, he kept his eyes on the Wall Street Journal. She cleared her throat, crossed her arms, and finally, when the first two actions failed, smacked him in the back of the head. “I’m not offering maid service, buddy.”
He ran a hand over her behind. “A little French uniform wouldn’t hurt.”
She rolled her eyes. “Would a short skirt elicit a please and thank-you?”
“Probably not. But my eggs sure would get cold.” He pulled her to him and planted a noisy kiss to the side of her lips.