The Wedding Veil(82)
Yes. That. That was exactly how Cornelia felt. “I think I’m looking for meaning.” She paused. “So what did you do, Jack? When you felt like this, how did you solve the problem?”
“Well, darling, I married you and I moved to Biltmore. We had our sons. There is no doubt that my life changed completely and, much to my surprise, it felt like the perfect fit.”
She wished he had said something else because, truth be told, Cornelia had expected those things to solve her problems. Whenever she was feeling restless and searching in her early twenties, she had believed it was because she hadn’t found her partner. Then, when the itch struck again, she thought having George would fix it. Then William. It was only now that she was realizing her problem might be bigger than all that. Well, not her problem. Maybe her passion, the life she felt she was supposed to lead.
She was entranced and spellbound by the people she was meeting in New York, their alternative view on life, where art—not things—was what mattered, the study of numerology. It made sense to her; the numbers made the pieces of her life add up. But it was more than that. These people understood her art and her writing, they understood her need to do something different with her life. But, then again, it seemed that her dear husband did too. Cornelia smiled as William practically flung himself at George and the two giggled, falling to the ground. Her heart swelled with love and pride for those precious children. And she remembered that she had a place here too.
“Jack, do you ever wish we could just sell it all? Sell Biltmore and walk away? Can you even imagine a life where we aren’t weighed down by the constant struggle of keeping up this house, the grounds, the village? We would live like royalty anywhere else.”
Jack smiled down at her. “I believe we live like royalty now.”
Cornelia sighed. “You know what I mean, Jack. No panic about property taxes coming up again. No constant roof maintenance or leaks or peeling wallpaper. No moving money around to finance another disaster.”
“I get it, but the woman I met was dead set on staying at Biltmore forever.”
“The woman you met was a naive child!” Cornelia snapped back, suddenly infuriated that he expected her to always be the same, stay the same. “That woman had been handed everything on a silver platter. She had no idea the toll it would take to keep this ship afloat.”
He rubbed her cheek. “Ah, yes. But I am committed now, I am afraid. As of now, my love, I must go down with the ship.”
Cornelia let out a small laugh. Of course. And wasn’t that what she wanted?
“I love you, Connie. From those first walks around Washington until forever. I will do anything I can to make you happy.”
She brightened. “Even come to London to help me look for a publisher?” It was becoming clearer to Cornelia that the New York publishing scene wasn’t going to be it for her. Her book was, after all, about an Elizabethan girl. London was a better fit for that story.
This was a common course of conversation between them. Cornelia couldn’t understand. Wasn’t it Jack who had been homesick for London for years? Why, now, could he not give in to her requests to spend time there—for her?
Instead of arguing, he just smiled. “We’ll see, Neely. We’ll see.”
Like that little girl running wild and untethered through the vastness of this stunning estate, Cornelia knew what we’ll see meant. For now, maybe forever, his answer was no.
BABS Love Is Blind
I was too old to be afraid. And yet that’s precisely what I was. As I packed my bags to get ready to go home, Julia lounging in my unmade bed going through my jewelry, I was scared. What would I say to Miles? It was all I could think about.
Julia held an earring up to her ear and got on her knees to examine it in the mirror hanging over the bed, her short exercise skirt falling into place as she did. Reid had hung that fifty-pound mirror with two hundred-pound hooks because he had been so terrified it would fall on us while we were sleeping. So far, so good.
I smiled at my granddaughter. “Those look good on you. You should keep them.”
“I can’t keep them, Babs. They’re yours. Besides, where would I even wear them?”
“Everywhere.” I winked at her. They were small clover studs that didn’t look good on me anymore. No one told me that in the disastrous process of aging even my earlobes would begin to sag. It was very unfair.
Julia smiled. “No. I think you’re going to have slightly more occasion to wear them than I am.”
I rolled my eyes and, putting the last pair of pajamas in my suitcase, sat down on the bed. “Jules, I am an old lady. I was married to the love of my life. What am I even thinking? Maybe your mother is right. Maybe I am a little senile. I’m eighty years old. I can’t date.”
She put the earring back in my bag. “You know, Babs, I’m not an expert on love—which should be very, very clear by now. But what I am an expert on is how hard it is to find. And I have to think that once you’ve found it, once you’ve been given a second chance at something really remarkable, you shouldn’t let it go. You deserve to be happy.”
“How did you get so smart?” I asked, cupping her chin in my hand. Ah, that face. That milky, unlined skin. Those taut, fresh earlobes. The things you miss do surprise you.
“Good genes.” She winked at me.