twisting fear in her gut—what if it was from Fitzhugh, what if it was a beautiful piece of jewelry, and she didn’t want to have to send it back, and then she would have to marry him? She wasn’t even sure why this prospect should frighten her, but it held her oddly frozen between the doorway and the table where her parents watched her.
“Go on, Vida,” her mother said, in the tone she had used to tell Vida to eat vegetables as a child. “Take it.”
Vida reluctantly accepted the box into her hands. “Thank you,” she said.
He dipped his head and retreated through the door.
It was then that she noticed that the box was plain brown—it was not from a fancy jeweler or one of the department stores on Ladies’ Mile. She lifted the lid and saw the folded pocketknife, which once upon a time she had used to cut her hair.
“What is it?” Mother asked.
Vida couldn’t explain everything it signified. “A blade,” she said.
“Oh, no,” said her mother. “Oh no, oh no. If you accept a blade as a wedding gift, it means the marriage will fail. Don’t you know that?”
Vida was about to find her father’s eyes, to share this disbelief in her mother’s silly superstitions—that the gift of a knife could sever a relationship for real.
“Well,” her father said amiably. “Is it a nice one?”
“Yes,” Vida said. Her heart had begun to kick.
“What are you saying?” Her mother had gone pale. “You have to go, give it back immediately!”
“Yes,” Vida whispered. The knife had reminded her of something, some true part of herself. She wanted to hold it, but she couldn’t stand the idea of accepting it as a parting gift. “You’re right.”
“Go!” said her mother, worrying her hands.
“I’m wearing a nightgown,” Vida protested. All of her wanted to go, wanted to chase after he who had left her the knife. But she was afraid; she was afraid of what that would mean.
“Well,” said her mother. “Put a fur over it.”
Vida did as she was told. She ran into the hall. “Wait!” she called.
The servant turned at the sound of her voice. “Yes?”
“Who brought this?”
“A young man who works for the Farrar Line.”
“When?”
“Just now, mademoiselle.”
“Take me to him now. It is of the utmost importance.”
The fur coat did mostly obscure the peach frills of her nightgown, and she tried to look dignified as they rushed down the stairs. On the second-floor landing she caught a glimpse of herself—her hair waved, sun-bleached, curling at the chin, the frilly peach skirt of nightgown swishing over the little poufs at the toes of her house slippers, her face tawny as a desert cat. She did consider returning to her dressing room then, summoning Nora, putting on the uniform of smoothed dress and painted face before she did anything rash. But she was moved down the next flight, through the ornate lobby, by a shivery dread that if she did not catch Sal before he left, her whole life would veer in a terrible direction.
“There he is,” the bellboy said.
She thanked him and rushed on through the hotel lobby.
“Sal!” she cried to the tall figure about to disappear through the double doors and onto the street. She hadn’t meant to be so loud and desperate-sounding. The doormen were implacable, but other guests, loiterers, diners dressed for the grand tea room, glanced her way, and Vida wondered for a moment if she had made a mistake, if she wasn’t drawing attention to herself, dressed as she was and rather out of control, if the man about to disappear onto the street wasn’t even the one that she had been looking for. It was entirely possible that at this moment (and in every moment that came before) she was wrong about everything.
But then he turned.
It was him.
His hair was tucked up under his brimmed hat, and the light of the chandelier in the lobby reflected in his dark eyes, and his lips bent upward at the corners when he saw Vida and offered her his hand.
“Why did you give me that?” she asked, trying not to show quite so nakedly how happy it made her to see Sal again.
“Oh.” The lopsided smile disappeared. “Have I offended you?”
She thrust the box forward. She didn’t know what else to do. Emotion gusted through her, pushing her this way and that. And there he stood, infuriatingly, gorgeously placid. He was the same Sal: calm, amused, posing riddles, so that she stood exposed in all her wild