The Wedding Veil(45)
I figured that, once I got quiet, I would think about Hayes. But instead, I thought about the moment Babs had been about to put the wedding veil on my head and how panicked I’d felt. My entire life that veil had been a symbol of happiness, but I realized that, for me, its significance wasn’t even really about marriage. It was about the connection that touching it, wearing it, seeing it, made me feel to Babs and Mom, to my great-grandmother, and Aunt Alice.
I would love to bring them here someday. I smiled, looking out over the mountains, thinking of Asheville, of that bridesmaids’ luncheon, of Cornelia Vanderbilt and her wedding veil. I knew Babs thought it was crazy, but there was just something about seeing it in that photo, a hum, a feeling. I had to investigate more when I got home.
Home. What did that even mean now? The idea of going back to my parents’ house filled me with dread. But with no money, it wasn’t like I could just get a place of my own. I could stay with Sarah for a while if I went back to Raleigh… And if I was in Raleigh, I should probably finish school. For the first time in a while, the thought of that seemed sort of appealing. Or, at least, necessary.
A small lizard scurried up beside me, completely unafraid. The mere idea of facing my failure terrified me. But being an architect was what I had always wanted. And now I had to start taking care of myself. Even if I did decide to go back—assuming they would take me back—I couldn’t start the summer session for a couple months. So, if I stayed two weeks here, I was getting closer to filling my time. I thought then of Babs, of that mountain house that sat empty and alone so very often. I was sure she would let me stay there for a bit while I got my ducks in a row.
I wondered if maybe my failure wasn’t that big a deal after all. People stumble. I will get back up, I decided, as I, literally, got back up.
As the sun glinted on the water, I felt lighter somehow. Walking down the mountain, I felt better than I had in a while. I was going through a transition phase in my life, but wasn’t that normal? I could salvage things; I could get back on track.
Back at the resort, Trav had pulled his hair into a bun and was wiping his face with a towel. He was sitting at the end of the dock, and I sat down beside him. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at me.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “If it’s really okay, I’ll stay for two more weeks.”
Trav smiled. “Excellent. It’s just two classes a day. I’ll send over the schedule.” He turned back toward the water and said, “Then what?”
I smiled because, for the first time, I was finally okay with not knowing.
Back in my room a few minutes later, I sat down at the dark-stained mahogany desk by the window and pulled out a postcard that had a picture of the sun setting behind the mountain I had just climbed that morning. I wrote:
Dear Babs,
I’m staying for two more weeks. Can you believe it? Teaching paddleboard yoga, clearing my head, figuring out my next steps. But I’d also really love your advice… Speaking of, how would you feel about a trip to Asheville? We could eat at all our favorite restaurants and visit our favorite place? And maybe… I could stay for a bit? Either way, see you soon!
Xs and Os,
Julia
If Babs would let me stay at her house for a while, I could figure out the future. I would need to call the school, first, of course, see if going back was even a possibility. Get in touch with financial aid. Reapply to the program… It suddenly felt overwhelming. But then again, I had plenty of time to make a decision and still be back for the fall semester.
I looked out the open window at the dozens of sailboats dotting the water with their grace and majesty. I wondered if Conner was still on one. It would be, quite frankly, hard to miss.
That old insecurity that I wouldn’t make it as an architect—the one that constantly drove me back to the familiarity of Hayes—set in. But that part of my life was over. Finally. I got up, stretched, and walked out onto the porch, leaning on the rail. I had two choices: I could dwell on what I should have done differently, or I could move forward.
I liked the idea of that.
CORNELIA Queen of the Nile
March 24, 1923
Cornelia leaned toward the mirror in her bedroom on K Street in Washington, took a pencil to her eye with a quick flourish, and leaned back again, examining her appearance. At twenty-two years old, everything about her was vibrant, fresh, and vivid.
“You are the picture of Cleopatra,” Edith said, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arm around one of its four posters. “Perhaps even more beautiful.”
When Cornelia had asked her mother what her costume should be for the fancy dress ball being hosted by Commissioner Rudolph—president of the governing body of Washington—and his wife, Edith’s answer had been almost immediate: “A strong, beautiful woman who is a bit mysterious. Cleopatra!” Edith was the queen of the fancy dress ball, having hosted some of the most lavish ones of the past few years, and she always knew what the best outfit would be.
Cleopatra—the queen of Egypt, the inheritor of Greece’s vast cultural gifts, and, perhaps best of all, a woman who had lived out one of the world’s greatest love stories… Yes, Cornelia couldn’t think of any woman quite so fabulous or fantastical to portray, especially now that, she had to admit, finding a love of her own was on her mind. The war was over, the men were home, and the country’s spirits were as gay and heady as she could remember. The parties were glorious and there was so much fun to be had. This was Cornelia’s time to shine.