The Wedding Veil(22)

“Julia,” I replied.

“Have you done this before?” he asked. I turned to glimpse his smile.

“I’m an old pro,” I said breezily, losing my balance and regaining it, hoping he didn’t notice.

“So, just yesterday then?”

Yeah. He definitely noticed.

I laughed. “Okay. So paddleboards might not be my forte, but I am a certified yoga instructor.”

“Well, that’s half the battle.”

Twenty minutes later, as Trav stepped from his board to mine to adjust my downward-facing dog, I realized that, despite the lunacy of the past seventy-two hours, I was enjoying myself immensely.

An Island Company sticker slapped to a power pole I had seen the day before ran through my mind: Quit your job. Buy a ticket. Get a tan. Fall in love. Never return.

Hayes flashed through my mind. Then Conner.

“Trav?”

“Julia?”

“Do you think that everyone who comes to the islands has fantasies of staying forever?”

“I don’t know. I came for spring break.” He cleared his throat. “Spring Break 2012.”

We both laughed. I’d never considered myself to be the kind of person who would just flee her life and escape to the islands. But, as was becoming abundantly clear, maybe I wasn’t sure what kind of person I was at all. As I attempted to shift into Warrior Pose, I realized it was high time I found out.





EDITH All Men Are Ghosts

April 11, 1914





The first night back at Biltmore after George’s death felt impossible. Every creak in the stairwell, every plant in the winter garden, every work of art in the tapestry gallery was George. Every inch of it was a reminder of the man Edith had loved wholeheartedly. The man who was not coming back to save her. In these weeks after his death, the blows had kept coming when Edith, swamped by her grief, had learned that the money—at least the money she had access to—had all but run out. There was a large trust for Cornelia, which she would receive when she became the rightful owner of Biltmore on her twenty-fifth birthday, but, until that day, there wasn’t even enough left to cover the bequests George had made in his will—and he had taken out a mortgage, unbeknownst to Edith, on their K Street house in Washington. There was so much to do, to save, to figure. But, for now, there was so much to mourn she couldn’t face it, not yet.

Edith curled up in bed beside her frazzled, exhausted daughter underneath the thick, heavy linens that George had procured before he had even met Edith, and held Cornelia’s tired hand. “I feel him here, Mother. Don’t you?” Cornelia asked hopefully.

“I do, Nelly. Of course I do.” Edith paused. “I feel him everywhere.”

But it was a lie. That was what hurt her heart the very most. Biltmore reminded her of George, sure. But she couldn’t hear George; she couldn’t feel him. She didn’t know what existed on the other side of this life, but over the past few years, her fate had become so intertwined with her husband’s that she thought for sure he would be with her even now that he was gone. But he had just vanished, suddenly and fiercely. He had left her when she needed him most.

Cedric, their giant St. Bernard, jumped into bed with his two mistresses—something that was normally strictly forbidden. Edith laughed. “Did I ever tell you that your father’s friend Henry James described the hair left behind by Cedric and Snow as something akin to piles of polar bear fluff?”

Cornelia laughed too. A welcome sound. Edith usually found dog fur highly unsuitable for bedrooms. But now, tonight, the women of Biltmore needed another warm body.

When Cornelia and Cedric were breathing heavily, taken away by their dreams to somewhere kinder than here, Edith made her way down the grand staircase and buzzed for a cup of tea in the library. George’s library exemplified a dark, heavy rococo style with deep red furnishings, a stunning ceiling painting of The Chariot of Aurora, and Karl Bitter’s “Venus and Vulcan” andirons, chiseled of gilt bronze. Noble, George’s favorite footman, delivered the tea as Edith sank into George’s chair, close to the roaring fire. It occurred to Edith how very young Noble looked. He had been in service at this house since he was fifteen years old and was now maybe in his midtwenties. He was bright and calm, and the other servants had an undeniable respect for him.

“It’s different without him, isn’t it, Noble?”

He nodded slowly. “But we’ll get through it together, Mrs. Vanderbilt. We are here for you, for whatever you need.” He cleared his throat, trying to hide his emotions. “Mr. Vanderbilt will be sorely missed.”

“Noble?” Edith wondered if she was oversharing, but, then again, Noble was practically family. “My only real qualm about interring George in New York was that so many of you who have been faithfully by his side for even longer than I have weren’t able to pay your final respects.”

“It’s okay, ma’am. The service here will do well to put our hearts to rest.”

But Edith was barely listening now, her eyes scanning the rows and rows of George’s books, which, to her, all contained a small part of her husband. Or, perhaps, more aptly, he contained a small part of them.

“Noble,” Edith said, not wanting to talk but also not quite ready to be alone. “Did you know that George was considered one of the best-read men in the country?”