Cornelia smiled sympathetically. “Of course I’ll be there, Mother. I adore Peter. You know I think he is a perfect match for you.” She reached over and squeezed Edith’s hand. “Albeit a little young,” she added, under her breath.
Edith cried out in consternation and Cornelia laughed. Her mother had been overly worried about the few-year age gap between herself and the senator. Cornelia began reeling in her line. “We should get a move on. We have work to do!”
“The wedding isn’t for a time, dear girl. Didn’t you hear? And it’s barely an event. No plans needed.”
“We need to dedicate a new room at Biltmore to you and Peter. We’ll spruce it up a little, make it fresh.”
“No, no. Peter and I have plans to build a new home in Biltmore Forest.” The very idea of moving into Biltmore with a new man made Edith queasy. The house was George’s first love, and when she was inside it, she was his wife. Edith couldn’t abide the thought of sharing a bedroom with another man under that roof. When she had told Peter, he had been supportive, agreeing to build a new house so they could start fresh in a new place. The creation of Biltmore Forest, the sale of the tract of land on what had become Vanderbilt Road, had been yet one more way in which Edith had managed to keep Biltmore House running.
Cornelia balked. “Mother, we have two hundred and fifty rooms, many of which are falling apart and in desperate need of an infusion of capital, and you want to put your money into something new? I thought we were on the same team here. I thought we wanted to save Biltmore at all costs.”
“Not at the cost of your father’s memory and dignity,” Edith snapped.
“You’re being hysterical. It’s the 1920s, for God’s sake. Women remarry all the time. You aren’t dancing on his grave about it.”
Edith peered at her daughter. “How can you not see that moving into Biltmore is precisely what that would be?”
* * *
Hours later, when the house was silent and all were asleep, after the anger had worn off and mother and daughter had made up, agreeing that the process of building a new Mediterranean stucco mansion would be quite the project, Edith did the thing she had been dreading most: She ventured to the library. She had to tell George.
Her rational mind found this exercise inane and potentially crazy. But her heart found it necessary. She had been trying mightily to quit smoking as of late. Peter didn’t like it, and she had to admit that, sometimes, her lungs felt a little full. But, back in the library, she couldn’t help herself. She removed the cloth covering her usual chair and end table, sat down by the fireplace, and rested her sterling cigarette case on the end table. The bachelors’ wing had been the real living space of Biltmore for so long now that she could scarcely remember what it was like for the main house to be her home. She removed a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply, her frazzled nerves calming.
“Ah, my dear, will you never learn?” The voice came almost immediately.
“Hello, George,” she whispered, exhaling the smoke that felt smooth and calming after an entire day without it. She looked around the library. “George, can you believe it? Can you imagine that our baby girl is going to be the rightful owner of Biltmore in just a few weeks?”
The voice—which she could still never be quite sure was George’s or her own—replied, “I remember holding her for the first time like it was yesterday.”
Edith smiled and felt herself relax. Cornelia would be twenty-five. The house would be hers. The money George had left would be hers. Their troubles would finally be over. But that wasn’t why she was here. Edith cleared her throat.
“My dear George, I’ve come to give you some news,” Edith said quietly.
There was no reply so she responded quickly, before she lost her nerve. “You know you are my great love, the father of my girl, my one and only. But the time has come for me, George. With Cornelia married and Biltmore’s fate all but sealed, I need to move forward. I want to make changes in the world.”
Edith paused, tears coming to her eyes. She whispered, “I want to get married.”
“Then I wish you well” was the instant response. She wasn’t sure what she had expected. An argument? An insult?
“You were the best husband a woman could ever ask for, George. Kind and loving, warm and generous, brilliant and thoughtful. I will never, ever forget you. Not for a day, not for a moment.” It was true. Eleven years had passed since she had lost George and, for Edith, he was still the one who made her heart happiest.
“I loved you wholeheartedly, Edi. But I see that the time has come for us to part ways. I wish you well and send you all the love and luck in my heart.” There was a long pause. And then came the end. “Goodbye, dearest wife.”
Just like that, the silence was so thick, so deafening, that Edith wondered if she’d lost her hearing. Only the sound of her puff on the cigarette in her hand let her know that her senses were still intact. She snubbed the cigarette forcefully into the ashtray. She knew that it was her last one. And good riddance.
Tears filled her eyes again as she realized that it was the only good riddance that night. A knowledge washed over her: This library had gone quiet. She had made her decision, drawn her line in the sand. And she was certain she would never hear the voice of George Vanderbilt, her great love, ever again.
JULIA Until We Meet Again
There is something almost indescribable about the way time passes when you are completely engrossed in the person that you know you might be falling for. The hours on the clock don’t matter. A rumbling stomach is the only indicator of mealtime, and exhaustion so pure that you fall asleep in the other person’s arms is the only sign that it’s time to sleep. That was what happened to Conner and me. Waking up in his arms on his borrowed boat—the light streaming through the windows overlooking the glorious sea, making love before breakfast—beat the pants off waking up to a bumped head in the bunkhouse.
But I had to face reality. My flight to Asheville left the next morning. I had to go back to a world where I had no safety net.
“Tomorrow,” I said, my face buried in Conner’s chest.
“Tomorrow isn’t real,” he said. “Tomorrow is a construct of someone else’s time, and I think we should live in ours.” I looked up to see if he was serious. He was not. He sighed. “I know. Tomorrow. Then Monday, it’s back to the real world. Back to schedules and meetings and client pitches.”
I felt a rush of excitement. “I’m suddenly jealous of all those things.”
He sat up. “You don’t need to be jealous. You’ll be doing all that soon.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I hope so.”
“Hey,” he said. “You should come to New York. Transfer to Cornell or Columbia or Pratt.”
I laughed. “Come on, Conner. I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You have to finish school somewhere. Why not New York?” He took my hands in his. “We can see what we’re like. Outside of paradise.”
God, it sounded magical. But I couldn’t do that. “Conner, I don’t have some huge nest egg to fall back on. I’ll be taking out student loans and teaching yoga to support myself if I go back to school. I can’t afford a place in New York.” My face fell. “Reality is super unsexy.” I sat up cross-legged across from Conner. “Plus, don’t you see?”