Now, my butterflies had butterflies. I had just had my very first New York City job interview. It was at the same firm I had interned at, so I felt comfortable if not totally confident. I had carried a folded-up postcard inside the breast pocket of my suit for good luck. It—comically—had a picture of Garrison Towers, the building that had made Conner famous, on the front of it. The back read:
Darling Julia,
Look at you! Look AT YOU! You have done it. You have fought through so many hard things to get this dream. You have gone through so much to create this life for yourself. You are an inspiration to me, and you will be an inspiration to many. No matter what your future holds from here, please remember how very proud I am of all you are and all you do.
All my love,
Babs
As I put my hand to my pocket, I had a flashback of standing with Sarah in the airport bathroom, removing my wedding gown, of her telling me I deserved someone who wrote me love letters. I realized now that I had had that all along.
As I rode the elevator down to the first floor, I marveled at the idea that I might get to work in this big city with these huge buildings all around me, that I might get to learn from the greats. Jumping off this ledge all alone was a little scary, of course. But I had prepared for this. I was ready.
I walked across the marble floor and out the revolving door. I was looking down at my feet—revolving doors always made me a little nervous—and, as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I almost ran right smack into a man.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, looking up. Then I laughed, my nerves from the interview floating away, the sheer absurdity of this moment not quite taking hold yet. “It’s you,” I said.
“It’s you,” he responded, grinning at me.
I stood quietly for a moment, letting the serendipity of it all, the glow of standing in the presence of Conner Howard, wash over me. “How did you know I would be here?!” I exclaimed.
He laughed. “Well, I received a postcard at my office with very specific instructions from someone named—”
“Babs?”
He nodded.
“My grandmother,” I said. Why was I not surprised? She was the very best kind of meddler.
“You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Your grandmother said I should take you to Sarabeth’s because you really like their pancakes. And she made sure to mention that she’d like you to bring a bottle or two of syrup back home to her.”
I laughed. Oh, Babs. “I can’t bring syrup in my carry-on,” I said.
“Then you’d better mail it,” Conner said, wide-eyed. “I don’t know this woman, but I can assure you I don’t want to cross her.”
Conner reached his hand out to me. I took it, and we started walking in the direction of Central Park—and Sarabeth’s. We stopped briefly in front of the Pulitzer statue across from the Plaza. The bronze nude of Pomona, the goddess of abundance, was located in perhaps one of the most bustling areas of New York. I wondered how many times people walked past her in a day, never realizing that they were passing in front of the work of one of the world’s greatest sculptors, Karl Bitter.
“Have you ever been to Biltmore Estate?” I asked Conner.
He shook his head.
“There are several Bitter pieces there,” I said, thinking of Boy Stealing Geese and the Fashionable Romance exhibit that day with Babs when I remembered how strong I could be, when I realized that if my grandmother could move forward in her life so could I.
“Did you know that it was actually Konti who finished this sculpture, not Bitter?” Conner asked.
I shook my head.
“Karl Bitter was killed the night he finished the plaster mold of this statue. He pushed his wife, his great love, out of the way of an oncoming car, and he was crushed by it.”
It made me cringe. “How awful,” I said. “I had no idea. But just think of that, of your legacy standing tall and proud in the center of the greatest city in the world, of being immortalized in that way.” I gasped. “Like you, Conner. You have created something lasting and real, something that will stand in this city forever.”
He nodded. “Well, maybe not forever… But I bet if you asked Karl Bitter what was the most lasting, the most real—his work in this city, his work at Biltmore, or his life with the woman he loved—I bet he’d choose her.”
I thought back to the boat and our proclamation of how we’d meet again. Of how we’d signal to each other that it was time, that we were ready. Was I ready? Was this it? As if he were reading my mind, Conner winked.
He winked. He remembered. And, just like that, the racing thoughts in my head stopped. He smiled. I locked eyes with Conner. I felt like that gaze conveyed everything I wanted to tell him, everything I needed to say. In that glance was all the nights I’d lain awake longing to feel his lips on mine, to hear his laugh, every morning I’d wanted to call him just to listen to the smooth, calm cadence of his voice telling me it was going to be okay.
It was barely even a choice: I winked back.
It was a perfect moment, a movie moment, and when he touched my cheek, leaned down, and kissed me, it felt so right. A part of me had worried that our romance was just a side effect of being in one of the most beautiful and ethereal places in the world. But here, in this noisy city full of cabs and strangers, cement and grime, I realized that no matter where we were, being with Conner felt perfect.
He took my hand again, and we strolled toward Sarabeth’s for pancakes—and syrup. But I’m pretty sure my feet never touched the ground.
Maybe Conner was right. Maybe the only thing better than discovering what you should do with your life is finding the person you want to spend it with. For me, maybe that was Conner. Maybe it wasn’t. But in life, as in architecture, a little trial and error never hurts.
CORNELIA Companions to the Death
March 31, 1934
Cornelia felt a slight pang when she realized that Gladys and the veil were gone—but of guilt, not loss. She had portrayed the veil as a talisman, an offer of good luck and a bright future. But she knew that it was far from that. Maybe it wasn’t the veil that was ill-fated, though. Maybe it was the life she had tried to live; the life she had been part of. She wished she could blame Jack, but it was she who had fought so hard for a life at Biltmore for so long.
She could feel, even now, how it—along with the impossible, unwavering scrutiny of a public that wanted to know everything about a woman who wanted nothing more than to slip off into the shadows—had driven her to her breaking point, how it had pushed her to the point of madness.
She knew her mother would be devastated if she stayed in England, but Edith had Jack to help her save the estate—a place that had once felt like a beautiful home but had now become a reminder of all her failures.
It was too much for one person to take. And her attempt to disappear was working already. That woman, that stranger? She didn’t recognize Cornelia Vanderbilt, who was, most certainly, one of the country’s most recognizable women.
Footsteps rang through the train car, and she smiled to see her little loves, George and William, running to her. She gathered them up in her arms, kissing their sweaty foreheads. “Did you have quite the adventure?” she asked.