Fallen Beauty

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF ERIKA ROBUCK

Fallen Beauty

“Robuck’s winning mix of imaginative storytelling and historical research makes for a gripping tale.
Fallen Beauty
is a must read for fans of the fascinating poet Edna St. Vincent Millay.”

—
J. Courtney Sullivan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Maine
and
The Engagements

“This finely tuned, lyrical novel is Robuck’s strongest work to date, and destined to become an American classic.”

—Simon Van Booy, award-winning author of
The Illusion of Separateness

“Erika Robuck brings the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay to life in all her beauty and insatiability. This is an electrifying read, one that crackles with passion on every page. The book reads like poetry.”

—Alyson Richman, national bestselling author of
The Lost Wife

Call Me Zelda

“You thought you knew everything about the Fitzgeralds, their drama, delight, dazzle, and despair? This gem of a novel spins a different, touching story, drawing you right into their intimacy and fragility through the eyes of Zelda’s caring nurse, Anna. You will love it, as I absolutely did.”

—Tatiana de Rosnay,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Sarah’s Key
and
The House I Loved

“A Jamesian sense of the uncanny haunts Erika Robuck’s poignant, compassionate portrait of Zelda Fitzgerald’s desperate dance with mental illness.
Call Me Zelda
is mesmerizing, page-turning, and provides us with a fresh, very human look at two literary icons.”

—Maryanne O’Hara, author of
Cascade

“In this richly imagined story, Erika Robuck has captured the creative brilliance and madness of Zelda Fitzgerald. Told through the eyes of a compassionate psychiatric nurse,
Call Me Zelda
is an unsettling yet tender portrayal of two women inextricably bound by hope and tragedy
.”

—Beth Hoffman,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
and
Looking for Me

“In this haunting and beautifully atmospheric novel, Erika Robuck pulls back the curtain on the Jazz Age’s most shining couple and offers up a sobering account of the casualties of genius and celebrity. She brilliantly brings Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald to life in all their doomed beauty, with compelling and unforgettable results.”

—Alex George, author of
A Good American

“Robuck writes with an open and sympathetic heart about the dark side of the psyche and how friendship and healing are found in the unlikeliest ways. I was utterly absorbed and eager to return to the story. This is going on my reread shelf.”

—Margaret Dilloway, author of
The Care and Handling
of Roses with Thorns

Hemingway’s Girl

“Dazzlingly written and impossibly moving, this novel is a supernova.”

—Caroline Leavitt,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Pictures of You

“Robuck brings Key West to life, and her Hemingway is fully fleshed out and believable, as are Mariella and others. Readers will delight in the complex relationships and vivid setting.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Writing in clear and supple prose, Erika Robuck evokes a setting of the greatest fascination. . . . This is assured and richly enjoyable storytelling.”

—Margaret Leroy, author of
The Soldier’s Wife

“Hired as a maid in the Hemingway household, Mariella learns to navigate the complicated allure of his interest while maintaining her own fierce heart. She weathers many storms with feisty strength and a memorable clarity, coming to recognize the many faces of true love.”

—
Booklist

“An inspiring story of heartache and renewal. Readers will be sure to enjoy this ode to a literary icon.”

—Sarah McCoy, author of
The Baker’s Daughter
and
The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico

“Robuck’s novel is colorful, atmospheric, and a pleasure to plunge into.”

—Joseph Wallace, author of
Diamond Ruby

“Even if you aren’t a Hemingway aficionado, you’ll love this robust, tender story of love, grief, and survival on Key West in the 1930s. And Hemingway fans should agree that because of its strong heroine and writing,
Hemingway’s Girl
is a novel of which Papa himself would approve. Addictive.”

—Jenna Blum,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Those Who Save Us
and
The Stormchasers

“I read
Hemingway’s Girl
in a single sitting—I couldn’t put it down. I fell in love with Robuck’s Hemingway and with the fiery Mariella Bennet, but what I loved most was the novel’s message: that we can inspire each other to be better human beings.”

—Ann Napolitano, author of
A Good Hard Look

“Erika Robuck brings to vivid life the captivating and volatile world of a literary legend. . . . Fans of Ernest Hemingway will devour this book!”

—Kristina McMorris, author of
Letters from Home
and
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

“Fans of Paula McLain’s
The Paris Wife
will adore Erika Robuck’s spellbinding tale.”

—Dawn Tripp, bestselling author of
Game of Secrets

OTHER NOVELS BY ERIKA ROBUCK

Receive Me Falling

Hemingway’s Girl

Call Me Zelda

FALLEN BEAUTY

ERIKA ROBUCK

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

New American Library

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Erika Robuck, 2014

Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Robuck, Erika.

Fallen beauty/Erika Robuck.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-61563-8

1. Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 1892–1950—Fiction.

2. Women poets—Fiction. 3. Female friendship—Fiction.

4. Women dressmakers—Fiction. 5. Unmarried mothers—Fiction.

I. Title.

PS3618.O338F35 2014

813'.6—dc23                        2013034198

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Kelly McMullen

March 1928

FIRST FIG

My candle burns at both ends;
     It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
     It gives a lovely light!

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

LAURA

Our quick breath encircled our heads in the late-winter air as he pulled me by the hand, through lines of Model Ts and Cadillac Coupes, toward the glow of the Colonial Theatre. My body coursed with elation and guilt, every bit as intoxicating as the rum drinks he’d mixed for us out of the trunk of his car. The frenzy of the Jazz Age had overflowed from the cities into smaller towns like ours in music, film, fashion, and literature, resulting in restlessness and tension between generations and ideals. Fueled by the energy of the new, we had toasted our agreement: That night it was only us in the world, and we would live like it was ours.

He’d lifted a triple-stranded pearl necklace over my head and set it on my skin, kissing the scar on my collarbone, a relic from the first night we’d found each other. He whispered that the necklace was only costume jewelry, but one day he’d buy me the real thing.

As we hurried toward the theater, it occurred to me that time was made of moments like doorways one could never go back through to the way it was after crossing them. That night was a doorway, but I had no power to stop our passage. Distant church bells ignited my doubts like incense, however, and I dug my heels into the grass. When my love turned to see why I’d stopped, his profile stirred me—the sharp jawline, the fine sheen on his skin from his exertion, his pale blue eyes shining from the light of the theater. I often think of him that way, outlined in the lights, with the grin of the waxing crescent moon over us, leading me toward the most exhilarating night of my life.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ve come this far.”

Cold air tickled my neck from my newly bobbed blond hair. I glanced down at my gold evening dress and touched the matching feathered headband I’d sewn in secret, night after night, hiding it from my father and even my sister, losing sleep because I knew they must not know. They wouldn’t approve or understand, and my younger sister would have wanted to come. In the eighteen years since her birth, just a year after mine, I’d never kept anything from Marie, but that night I wanted something for myself, alone.

My love had motored us an hour north and east from our Hudson River Valley town of Chatham, New York, to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to see the Ziegfeld Follies—a daring show featuring the most beautiful girls, talented dancers, and elaborate traveling production in the world. The famous Denishawn Dancers were fresh from the Orient, in company with their well-known leaders, Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn and the glamorous Marilyn Miller, preparing to dazzle the sold-out crowd. The car ride had been thrilling and terrifying—a reminder of the first night we’d officially met, when we’d traveled these roads but things had gone very wrong.

I allowed him to continue leading me toward the theater. Competing perfumes hung in the air over the line of theatergoers we joined that bordered the building. Street scalpers hid in the shadows behind the Colonial, trying to sell their tickets. I squeezed my love’s hand and leaned into him, relishing the freedom to do so in public, away from the disapproving eyes of our town. He wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled my neck.

I noticed a woman of about thirty in a sagging gray dress and coat, wringing her hands and pacing in what looked like indecision. She stood near a scalper and flicked her gaze between the theater and the man before finally approaching him and offering him something from her threadbare clutch. He looked her up and down and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. I could see only the back of her, her unwashed hair in a flimsy bun, and the soles of her shoes so scuffed and worn, I imagined she could feel the chill of the ground reaching through them.

The scalper shooed her away, and when she turned toward me, she nearly broke my heart. She was crying—crying because she couldn’t go in to see a show.

“Laura, why are you so troubled?”

The woman removed a crumpled handkerchief from her purse and wiped her nose.

“She doesn’t have enough money to go in,” I said, “and she looks as if her life depends upon it.”

He followed my gaze and saw her. His eyebrows knitted together.

“Do you have any cash?” I asked. “I have two dollars. The tickets are five, though who knows how much he’s charging for them?”

He hesitated a moment, but when he saw the look in my eyes, he pulled a five from his wallet and said, “Let’s give her a night like we’ve given ourselves.”

He walked over to the man and bought the ticket, and brought it back to me. “You give it to her. You saw her. And I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of chisel.”

She had started to walk away, so I hurried after her. “Ma’am.”

She turned, and looked with curiosity over my headband and dress peeking through my open coat. I could see her wondering what a ritzy gal like me wanted with the likes of her. I nearly told her that I was usually dressed as plainly as she, but I didn’t want to insult her.

“I have an extra ticket, and noticed that you wanted to go in,” I said. “Please take it.”

She looked to the left and right and then back at me with a troubled expression, as if she thought I was trying to frame her. This was a woman unused to kindness.

“Please,” I said, smiling to reassure her. “The doors are opening. We don’t want to miss any of the show.”

She hesitated a moment, and then took the ticket. “Thank you. May I give you what I have?” She held out a dollar bill.

“No,” I said.

“Laura,” he called.

“Enjoy,” I said, and hurried to him. When I looked back at the woman, I could see her eyes glistening in the marquee lights.

•   •   •

A
s white spotlights rolled around the theater, the music of the fifty-piece orchestra began with the brassy majesty of a Hollywood production. I clenched my love’s hand, dizzy with excitement and awe. The heavy red velvet curtain rose, revealing a long, curving staircase in front of a shimmering silver curtain. Three chandeliers lifted, and lights embedded in the arches over the fixtures and woven through the silver curtain twinkled in time to the music.

The procession of the famous Ziegfeld girls began down the stairs, women of extraordinary beauty and grace parading like swans in white-feathered headpieces and sequined bodysuits. I was astonished to see their long, bare legs, and covered my mouth while meeting my date’s gaze. He smiled and squeezed me close to him before he turned back to face the stage.

They began singing the opening number, while a seemingly endless parade of male dancers crossed in front from either side, pairing up with the women as they reached the bottom of the staircase, and leading them to the four corners of the stage. I could barely stand to move my eyes off the performers, but I wanted to take in the audience around me. I scanned the boxes and rows, and found the woman from outside who almost hadn’t made the show. She wore a look of ecstasy that moved me.

I returned my focus to the stage, not moving for the rest of the production. From birds to angels, gods and goddesses, I was transfixed by the transformations of the dancers. As the finale approached, Ruth St. Denis danced “The Gold and Black Saree” in a costume tinkling with gold charms and lined in fringe. Watching the way the lights caught the fabric as it clung to and flung away from her body in response to the movements, seeing this American girl transformed into an Indian woman, noting the near hypnosis of the audience, I knew that I wanted be a part of this world. This symphony of sound, light, fabric, and motion aroused a deep longing inside me.

When the show ended with a crescendo, the audience held its collective breath for a long moment, and finally erupted into an ovation. I gazed around at the eager, happy faces and spotted the woman from earlier. She appeared relaxed, exuberant, lit from within. I caught her eye and her smile warmed me. No matter what the critics said about the bare skin, exorbitant production costs, and provocative dances, the show had transformed her, as it had me, and I was glad to have seen it.

•   •   •

S
ilence filled the car on the drive home. We traveled along dark winding roads, watching the shiver of the breeze through the shadows of budding branches, feeling the melancholy of reality again burdening us. I removed my headband and ran my fingers over the silken feathers, wondering if I’d ever again get to wear such a beautiful costume. I realized it was the costume that had changed me to act in ways I normally would not. It gave me the courage to take the dare, to see the show, to disobey my father.

My mood was so low by the time we drew close to home that I insisted he take me to Bash Bish Falls. My father had led Marie and me there on frequent weekend hikes, but we would never have attempted such a dangerous climb in the dark. Recklessness still pumped through my body, and I wanted some truth to my excursion so I wouldn’t betray myself to my father, and especially to Marie.

“Are you sure?” he said. “You’re not too tired?”

I was tired—to my bones—but I couldn’t stand the thought of the night ending and of no longer being with him, and having to pretend we didn’t love each other.

“I’m sure.”

The light from the moon did little to illuminate the deep shadows in the woods. I removed my high heels and slipped on loafers while keeping on the dress. The car crunched to a stop on the gravel, and we got out and started off on the path to the falls. A false spring had tricked us with early budding, until a cold snap sent us reeling back to winter. Frost encased the trees. My teeth chattered, but I stormed ahead, feeling the energy from earlier reassert itself.

“Laura, wait!” he called.

I lunged back and grabbed his hand, pulling him behind me on the path, feeling the wind in my hair, allowing a laugh to rise in my throat. I looked back at him, and his smile had returned.

The forest closed in over us, and it wasn’t long before the rushing of the falls grew. He struggled to keep up with me as I ran forward. I slid to a stop in the clearing before the magnificent waterfall as a great slab of ice plummeted over the edge above us and crashed into the pools below. Frozen chunks sat like puzzle pieces on the banks, dislodged and crowded, bobbing in the river’s thaw.

I strained to hear the sad ghosts’ cries, but heard only the water. According to legend, an Indian woman had been sent over the falls in a canoe to her death for committing adultery, followed by her daughter years later by suicide because she could not have children. Their spirits were said to haunt the shallow pools of the falls, and because people had died by slipping on the rocks or diving into the shallows, many thought this place held a curse.

I felt no curse that night. I felt only my lover’s arms around me as I fell into him. He grabbed my waist and pulled me close. Our passion, left smoldering by months of stealth and guilt, had finally ignited from our excursion of drinking, adventure, and abandon. I threw my arms around his neck and gave him my love without reserve. No caution or wariness held me back now. No one was around to judge me, and at that moment, I didn’t care for the opinion of another soul in the world. I only knew that this night was a gift we had agreed to give to each other, and by God, we gave it—the fullest expression of our love. We joined ourselves forever in ways we hadn’t taken time to consider or weigh. We knew only that we had to consummate our love, no matter what the cost.

•   •   •

VINCENT

O
ur guests’ train arrives late, so we are already tight when they come. My husband, Eugen, holds up a torch he’s made of hickory, parading the party up the walk and through the sleet. I carry the gin outside and make each of them take a healthy swig from the bottle before gaining entrance.

Elaine runs her hands up the sides of my costume, grazing my breasts before pulling me into her. She suddenly pushes away and says with fierceness, “How I’ve missed you.”

I do not embrace her back, but instead, give her my cruelest smile. “Tonight, I am an houri
,
so I’m for the men. Not you.”

She pouts, while Floyd, one of my old lovers, pushes around her and lifts me off the ground. I wrap my legs around him as he pretends to ravage my neck. I laugh and allow him to carry me into the house and to the parlor, where he drops me on the settee, and I drop the empty bottle of gin on the rug. He kisses me full on the mouth, and I feel him stir through the thin fabric of my dress.

“I must stay pure,” I say, “if I’m to escort you to paradise.”

He laughs with wickedness as the poet Elinor Wylie pulls him off me and exchanges her body for his between my legs. She nuzzles me and I feel
myself
stir.

“Surely you’ll make an exception for me,” she whispers.

I look into her eyes from inches away. I want to tell her that I’ll always make an exception for her, but my demon returns. “Time shall tell.”

Her face hardens and she stands, allowing me up from the couch. I adjust my headdress and climb onto the sofa so I can see all of them. The rest of the group comes singing and tumbling into the room, and once they are in, the small crowd gazes up at me. I know I am impressive in my costume, and I can feel the desire humming in the room as so many of my lovers, current and past, male and female, watch me, wanting to possess me.

Using the flaming bundle of hickory in a daring and dangerous fashion, Eugen, dressed as the Maharaja, lights sticks of incense we brought back from our Oriental travels, and then tosses the bundle into the fireplace. While my guests warm themselves, I jump down from the settee, approach my old lover Margot, and slip my arm through hers.

“Come,” I say. “Let us fetch the costumes. Dressing
up
allows inhibitions to fall
down
.”

Margot smiles at me with downcast eyes, and I see a blush creeping up her neck. I reach up to stroke her skin with the back of my right hand, and feel Elinor’s gaze fixed on us. I speak just loud enough for Elinor to hear.

“There is nothing as captivating as a woman who still knows how to blush,” I say. “You are remembering that night at the Rotunde in Paris, when we were introduced and ended up spending the night with each other.”