“What’s that?”
“Your budget.”
I’d told Urban I was prepared to spend $1 million on the construction of Mar-a-Lago. Now it was my turn to look like the stern governess. “Yes, Mr. Urban?”
Urban shook his head, his lips thinning as if he’d bitten into something sour. “It will not suffice.”
I stared at him, arching an eyebrow, unsure whether to receive his candor with admiration or offense. Unvexed, Urban squinted into the bright sun, sighing as he looked at the sparkling surface of the Atlantic. “It will be the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. A work of art, Madame Hutton. But we will need more—how do you Americans call it?—cash.”
I exhaled, looking out over my untamed, sprawling oceanfront property. Already I could imagine the masterpiece that Urban had spoken of. I could see it rising up between sea and lake. I yearned for it, and I knew that it could be ours. The man who could give it to us was standing in front of me, the man who had given Austria its imperial fa?ades and Broadway its dazzling Follies stages. But there was only one answer for the moment: “I’m going to need to speak with Mr. Hutton.”
* * *
After much discussion—a few of the discussions growing more heated than I would have liked—Ned agreed to let me bring Urban on board. Wyeth would stay, though, as well, and I got the sense that Ned saw Urban as my man on the job and Wyeth as his own. “Otherwise, this lovely cottage that you’re building us is going to send us to the poorhouse,” Ned said. He had good reason to fear Urban’s influence on the project: the man wanted every fixture in the house made custom and hewn of solid gold.
The project took a full year and then a second one, the bills quickly soaring past our million-dollar allotment, and even I began to grow frustrated as we continued to stay in rented properties for multiple winter seasons. Ned’s frown grew more deep-rutted with each check he wrote. But both Urban and Wyeth reminded us that the project was so colossal, so innovative, and so complicated that it was more important that we get it done correctly than that we get it done quickly. I begrudgingly agreed.
Finally, after three years, they did finish. The main mansion, the outbuildings, the gardens, the terraces, the beach, and the lakefront—it was all ready. Mar-a-Lago stretched from sea to lake as a breathtaking compound boasting Spanish, Moorish, Venetian, Egyptian, and even classical European influences. The place was right to every last detail, from the moment one rolled through our front gate onto a lane hemmed by stately palms. I’d wanted eclectic, and that was what the home was, with its salmon stucco walls, Moorish archways, hand-painted tiles, and whimsical parrot and monkey drainpipes. But the best aspect of the property, in my opinion, was how the home blended so seamlessly with the stunning beauty of our natural setting. In every room, tall glass doors opened out onto the grounds, where palm-dappled sunlight shone in the day and golden Spanish lanterns twinkled at night. The gardens burst with fragrant tropical plants: orchids, lemons, oranges, kumquat trees where parrots perched, adding their bright colors and music to the surroundings. Thick hollyhocks climbed the columns of the stone patios. Fountains gurgled as fish pools flashed with the colorful Caribbean specimens stocked within.
We’d held Urban back from all that he’d recommended, but in the end he was correct: even with Ned watching the budget and approving every one of my decisions, the price tag was many times more than we’d hoped it would be. Ned was exasperated, especially when he had to sell some of my General Foods stock in order to keep the project going. But it was worth it, I countered. Palm Beach had never seen a private home as grand or original or creative.
When we were finally finished, I threw open the doors and announced that I was at last ready to welcome the ravenous members of the press for a visit to Mar-a-Lago. All the major magazines sent photographers, as did all the newspapers. They moved with me from room to room, a swarm of flashbulbs and questions, and I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as the representatives for Vanity Fair jostled with writers from The New York Times and Town & Country. I stood before the grand new fireplace in my living room and gave them my best smile, happy that I’d had the vision to set out on this project, and deeply relieved that it was over. I’d begun the building with the intention of breaking all molds and setting society tongues to wagging. I’d done just that. I’d shown them all that Marjorie Merriweather Post did not follow trends—she set them.
Chapter 28
New York City