“It would need a lot of work,” Ned said, looking around the compound, the notched-log cabins and scattering of buildings in various states of disrepair. “The buildings are barely livable. And because it’s waterlocked”—he paused, glancing out over the water—“everyone would have to be ferried in by boat. The work crews would have a hell of a time getting everything in, not to mention the horse-and-cart teams that would have to haul everything up to the ridge before we could start building. It would be some job to get this place up to your standards, Mrs. Hutton.”
“A lot of work,” I agreed. “Sounds like just the job for me,” I said, folding myself into his arms. “Please?”
We stood together a moment, looking out over the calm, gray-blue lake. “It smells clean here,” Ned said. I nodded, smiling. As if on cue, a loon let out its low, mournful song, and a gentle breeze skittered off the water, carrying the scent of pine and birch and a distant campfire. I felt Ned draw in a deep breath, and then he spoke: “All right, Marjorie. You say you need a refuge. And I say that I need my wife to be happy. So, if this’ll make you happy, then let’s do it. Let’s become woods folks.”
* * *
—
With Ned’s blessing, I threw myself into the renovations of the camp, determined to make it a place where everyone in the family could be happy. I never felt more enlivened than when I had a large, all-consuming project that demanded my time and energy, and that is what Camp Hutridge became for me. Ned had remarked that the buildings needed work, and he had been correct. The dock and the boathouse would need to be entirely rebuilt. I’d have to hire a full staff to clean and then furnish the place. But, once it was all finished, there would be boating and hunting for Ned, waterskiing, hiking, and swimming for the girls and their friends. Clean mountain air and slower days with the people I loved.
With the expertise of a local architect, I planned the camp around a central lodge, with rustic wooden beams, birch wallpaper, and a large stone hearth. A dozen surrounding guest cabins would offer plenty of lodging for family and friends to visit while still affording everybody space and privacy; every guest building would have a dedicated butler and housekeeper. Our boathouse, I decided, would be remodeled in the traditional Adirondacks style, fashioned of gnarled tree roots and curling trunks of cedar, but the gleaming wooden motorboats housed within would be top of the line in luxury. “We may be in the forest, but we can still live in style. And comfort,” I said.
I approached this project of building Camp Hutridge with a zeal I had not previously felt. It truly felt like the first home that Ned and I were establishing together, untainted by death or the shadow of a lost loved one. I paid attention to every detail, from the morning gong that sounded across the grounds announcing breakfast to the decks of antique Apache cards my guests would shuffle during their after-dinner games.
Hutridge was to be our family’s fresh start, and our first summer there was exactly what I hoped it would be, full of gentle northern sunshine, crystalline lake water, and peaceful rest. We’d sleep with the windows open all night, allowing in the cool breeze of the pine-tinged forest, the gentle sounds of the lapping lake and the nearby loons. By morning the air would be chilly, and Ned and I would find each other’s bodies, soft and warm, under our Navajo blankets.
I was correct to believe that summertime in that place would bring us contentment, for as soon as our first season there was complete, I had cause to celebrate. Ned and I left our Camp Hutridge idyll feeling rested, healthy, and eager to welcome our new baby.
Chapter 24
New York City
We hoped for a boy. We told everyone that we wanted a son together. Having already birthed two daughters, I was certain, as my condition progressed, that this time felt different. That this time it would be a son, and we would call him Ned, Jr. We could not believe how wrong we were.
Our little girl came out plump, strong, and pink, with startlingly blue eyes and downy wisps of golden hair. She arrived in the last few days of December, one final and best Christmas present, a gift for the whole family to carry into the New Year.
Since we had already planned to call the baby Ned, we decided to name her Nedenia, and the family nickname quickly became Deenie. I loved all of my girls madly, of course, but I had to admit that this third daughter of mine was exquisite, her rosy little face such a lovely blend of mine and that of the man I adored—she was ours, she was the product of our love; only with nature’s brilliant improvements. I was infatuated, and so were Ned and the girls.