Page 14 of My Darling Girls

August’s matrimonial advertisement was supremely detailed about it:

A young photographer with means desires to marry a young woman of education, refinement, and good intellectual abilities. Any sincere lady with good teeth is invited to write letters and send her portrait through the Post Office.

When she’d read it the first time, she stumbled over the “good teeth” reference and couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry or laugh. But the mailing address was in Chicago, and that sealed the deal for her. She qualified under education, refinement, and intellectual abilities. Her favorite subject was mathematics. She could read and write, and she could maintain a decent conversation. Most importantly, her teeth were impeccable.

August’s cheeks turn crimson. “I should’ve not said that. About the teeth. It was foolish of me.” He laughs. “My friend talked me into it. I should’ve known better. But I’d had too much whiskey, and it seemed like a great idea at the time. I feel so awful about it.” His smile is mischievous and boyish, and suddenly, he seems at ease. The spring that has been twisting around her soul since the moment she boarded the train uncoils.

He picks up her trunk, holding it delicately, as if it’s a porcelain vase, and she’s suddenly reminded of other hands holding the trunk. Smaller and much more delicate. No, she can’t think about that. Her memories are links in a chain she must break.

“Let’s go home.” He looks at her expectantly.

It’s not a question. Not even an invitation. It’s something a husband says to his wife on the way from the theater. He offers her his arm, and she graciously accepts it.

They get married that afternoon in the Cook County courthouse. There are two witnesses, random onlookers.

Later, after a meal and a couple glasses of wine, she slowly undresses herself in front of August right at the dinner table. Any marriage requires a great deal of planning and execution. And she can’t afford any more mishaps. She needs him to forget she sent him an old picture. To forget the unpleasant shock of the first impression.

She won’t allow him to question her ever again.

He sits still, his neck straining. His face is impenetrable.

But when her undergarments hit the floor, August leaps out of his chair, and a moment later, he’s in front of her. The way he looks at her—with such wonder and longing—makes her dizzy with an unexpected desire. He rests his hands on Jo’s shoulders, pulls her closer. The smell of wine mixes with the scent of rain. His eyes roam over her face, her skin, her hair.

“Forget the photograph. Forget everything I said on that platform.” His voice is a raw rasp. His face is all shadows and sharp angles.

She draws a breath, yielding to him. “August,” she whispers, touches the side of his face, and her hands slowly slide to his neck. “We’ll never talk about it again.” She curls her arms around him.

His hands sweep across her back, and he tugs on her waist, pulling her up on the table. His hand slides down, searching for her warmth, a deep groan building in his throat. His fingers are everywhere—on her skin, her breasts, between her legs. He lowers his mouth to her neck, his tongue, firm and insistent, tracing every curve of her throat. His fingers circle her nipples, and she moans—a light, barely audible sound. Jo lifts her leg and twists it around his hip.

Every nerve, every tendon in her body is burning and pulsating under his touch. His mouth is finally on hers. Ravenous and biting one moment, slow and exploring another. He tastes like a rainstorm in the early-morning hours and expensive wine. She pulls him closer, shoving his pants down. Then she grips the edge of the table, pushing plates to the side. His teeth scrape against her throat, she’s pinned under him, and he’s pushing against her.

“Josephine,” he moans into her neck.

Her nails dig into his shoulders, her heels into his thighs. “It’s Jo,” she whispers. Then, while lying among the plates and glasses, she lets him in.

Sex is never complicated, maybe not as aesthetic as she wants it to be, but it’s sex she always uses when she needs to forget.

Outside the thunder roars, and the storm rages.

Unfinished Business

Jo resurfaces, breaking the water, coughing and hacking.

She pulls herself up on the edge of the well and heaves her trembling body on the ground. She coughs some more, clutching her middle and rolling onto her side as she tries to expel the last of the water. Finally, when the retching stops and she’s able to breathe again, the courtyard comes into focus.

The girl on the wagon.

The horse.

Both of them are looking at her curiously. Especially the horse.

“How was it?” Millie asks, a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

“Enlightening,” Jo coughs out.

Millie laughs softly. “Now, will you help me or not?”

“Help with what?”