It was the first time Madeleine had ever heard her mother say the word divorce.
“So, I should just ignore Vincent’s jibes? Offer him kindness for rudeness, all because his parents didn’t get along, even though I had nothing to do with it?”
“Offer him compassion,” Mother said, “even though you had nothing to do with it.”
Madeleine huffed a sigh, thrust out of the chair again to check on the cat. It had vanished entirely, not a hint of tiger stripes crouched anywhere beneath the hydrangeas that she could see.
“I would not want the world to be cruel to you because of anything your father or I had done. I would not want you to suffer for our transgressions, be they real or imagined. For the past few years, that boy has endured a very public humiliation, one that should have been very much private. On top of that, you and he are of the same age, and now you’re going to be his stepmother. Think on it. On how difficult the mere possibility of that must be for him.”
“It really has nothing to do with him.”
“From his perspective, it has everything to do with him. How could it not? His family, the foundation of his life, has been rent. And it is about to be transformed yet again.”
Madeleine shoved her hair from her eyes. “What of Jack? Or even Ava? Don’t we all deserve a chance at happiness, no matter the mistakes made before?”
“A question for the ages, I think. Oh, I do want you to be happy, Maddy. I want you to enjoy fine health, a good marriage, a safe home. A superior man for your husband and gay children of your own. And you have those things now, or soon will, which—” She paused; for an instant, Madeleine caught a hint of her fragrance, delicate vanilla, before the breeze stole it away again. “Sometimes I wake up at night and think it’s all just a fantasy, a reverie in my head I invented for you, drawn from the depths of my fears. All my fears. My terrible nerves. I swear to you, when I awaken like that, it leaves me shaking.”
“No,” Madeleine murmured, and found her hand.
“I would not have the world be cruel to you,” she emphasized. “I would not have Vincent Astor be cruel to you. But if—when—those things happen, I would not have you be cruel in return. Kinder hearts are stronger, I think.”
She squeezed her daughter’s fingers and pulled her hand free; they sat without speaking. Madeleine pushed at her loosened hair again; no matter how many hairpins she added, none held up for long out here. She buttered another slice of toast, added jam—a dense, tangy apricot—then placed it on her mother’s plate.
A hummingbird darted up to them, examined the red-painted anemone on the glazed coffeepot. Flew off.
“Do you think it’s true?” she asked finally, concentrating on the toast. “That he’s had a great many girls?”
Mother frowned. “I think you shouldn’t listen to bitter young men who try to stir up trouble just because they can. Colonel Astor will always be the flame that captures the fascination of all the moths, of all sorts. He was born to be both famous and infamous, poor creature, and those are facts he will never be able to escape, try as he might.”
Poor creature. Her mother might be the only person on earth to look upon John Jacob Astor with pity.
“But, Maddy, here is something that I do not think, but that I know. In all my life, I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you.”
Madeleine stilled.
“Such devotion. Such—relief, I would say. As if you are his own secret sun, warming his innermost soul.”
Madeleine dabbed a clot of jam onto her plate, smearing it around in slow circles with the bowl of the spoon even though she had no more toast. “I hope that’s true. I want it to be true, so, so badly. There have been times I’ve thought—you know, like you—that maybe this is just a dream.” She glanced up, worried. “How can it be real? How can he be real?”
Mother tilted her head, considering it. “Very well. If this is a dream, then I say let us allow it to be a dream, for as long as good dreams may ever last. A forever dream, filled with beauty and joy and light. Just like you, my sweet child.”
*
The sun climbed higher. The sailboats slipped from view, and breakfast became crumbs. On their way back to their rooms, they passed the mirrored doors that led to the ballroom. Madeleine stopped, retraced her steps. She touched a hand to one of the latches; the door swung open on soundless hinges and she gazed inside, silent, drowning in the gold and cream and white of it all, the serene vista in the windows beyond that showed only more light, more ocean, more colors.