Ned was not done. “I’d have no problem spending my own money on such things. But, oh wait, I had to give it all up. So someone could run your old man’s business for you.”
My vision swam. I had nothing to say to this, nothing more to say to him, so I left our stateroom without another word. I found my lady’s maid hovering in the corridor at the threshold. “Madame, is there anything…？” Renée lowered her eyes.
“No, thank you.” I blinked back the sting of tears, touched by her warm loyalty after my husband’s callousness. Or perhaps it was the fatigue of the sleepless night finally catching up to me, but there was no chance I would be getting in bed beside my husband. “Actually, Renée, there is one thing. Please make up the Rose Suite for me. I think I’ll rest for a bit.” But first, I marched straight to the captain. “Back to Florida,” I said, my voice rougher than the waves breaking on the nearby coastline.
“Mrs. Hutton?” The captain looked at me, confused. “I thought we were heading next to Nassau?”
“The plans have changed,” I said, shaking my head. “The holiday is over.”
Chapter 27
Palm Beach, Florida
By the time we returned to Palm Beach, Ned and I had settled into a tenuous truce, the forced civility of superficial pleasantries and tiptoe walking, but I was determined to restore the peace to our marriage. No more aimless floating through the Caribbean, I decided. No more nights in casinos, Flo twirling our cash through the humid, rum-soaked air. Those cruises through the Caribbean were a quest to go find trouble—too many casinos, too much booze, too much riotous revelry.
Ned and I had always been happy in Palm Beach together. It was where we had started. And it was there that we would double down and set things to rights. What we needed was a new project, something to bring us together as the dynamic team we were, a shared sense of purpose for our family and our life. After much thought, I had an idea for what that might be. “Let’s build something really special here,” I said over breakfast one morning in late winter. After years of rentals and temporary homes, it made sense to put down permanent roots here, in this place that brought us both such joy.
Ned considered the proposition, sipping his coffee in silence. I pressed on: “We can find some land on the water.”
“Ocean property means hurricane nightmares” was all Ned offered in reply.
So then, he was in the mood to argue. But I was undaunted. “Then we’ll find a place that’s protected from storms.”
He thought about this. After a moment he said: “The only hurricanes we want are the ones we start.” He was right that we were quarreling more often, more than I would have liked, but I could see that he meant this as a joke, even an olive branch of sorts, so I laughed.
* * *
“How about Mar-a-Lago?” I proposed. “Sea to Lake. We could call the place Mar-a-Lago.”
I made the suggestion as Ned and I sat with our architect, Marion Wyeth, who’d already made a name for himself as society’s preeminent builder, designing luxurious properties from Manhattan to Palm Beach and everywhere in between. We had purchased twenty acres of lush jungle on the ocean, not far from our friends who frequented Mirasol and The Breakers and the Everglades Club. I loved the property because it not only boasted sweeping views of the Atlantic but also abutted Lake Worth, stretching from sea to lake.
“Sea to Lake. Mar-a-Lago,” Ned said, trying out my suggestion. “I like it.” Then he looked at Marion. “You’ll soon learn, my friend, that Mrs. Hutton’s suggestions are more like orders dressed up in polite finery. Best to say yes and keep her happy.” Marion laughed at my husband with a knowing tilt of his chin.
And yet, this premier builder was not keeping me entirely happy—at least, not with the building plans he had proposed so far. “Too traditional,” I said as he and I pored over his latest designs. “All these Spanish villa drawings—just like all the other millionaires down here. I don’t want to follow a trend; I want to create one.”
As the weeks passed and I gently but resolutely rejected more and more of Wyeth’s meticulous sketches, Ned grew frustrated. “What more can he do, Marjie?” Ned asked me one night. “You say you want to defy the trends, build something wholly inventive, unlike anything else down here. But Wyeth needs more direction than that.”
“I like what we have at Hutridge,” I offered. “The camp layout.”