Edith smiled sadly at her daughter. “Because the Vanderbilts are all buried in the family mausoleum at the bottom of Todt Hill.”
“Where the Commodore grew up,” Cornelia confirmed, hesitantly. She had heard so many stories about her larger-than-life great-grandfather, the railroad tycoon and purveyor of the Vanderbilt fortune. How different he seemed from her own kind and caring daddy. “But we can’t go see him there, Mother.”
“I know, Nelly. But Daddy spent so much time, money, and energy designing the mausoleum that I know it’s what he would have wanted. His family is in the mausoleum, and he should be too.”
“Weare his family, Mother.”
Indeed they were. “When you get back to school—” she started.
“No!” Cornelia interrupted. “No, Mother, please don’t make me go back. I want to go to Biltmore. That’s where I can be with Daddy.” Feeling absolutely overcome with despair, she added, “It would have been better if we had all died on theTitanic.”
“Cornelia!” Edith scolded. “Don’t say such a thing. Your father would never have wanted something so awful to happen. He would be grateful that we are safe.”
Not two years earlier, in 1912, the family was slated to be aboard the maiden voyage of the unsinkable ship. At the last minute,Edith had felt such a nagging need to avoid the world’s most glamorous and exciting boat that she persuaded George that it would be more fun to go home on theOlympicwith George’s niece and her husband instead; they could all dine together at night. It would be grand. George had been sulky that they wouldn’t be on the prestigious maiden voyage that everyone was talking about—until news of theTitanicbroke.
“Your mother saved us,” he had told Cornelia. “You must listen to her because she always knows best.”
Cornelia leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, picturing herself singing and laughing with her father, reading on the loggia beside him, losing herself in his vast library with him by her side, instructing her on what to read next. More than K Street, more than New York, Biltmore was home; Biltmore was him. The thought of going back to school, even with all her friends there, felt terribly lonely. At Biltmore, she could ride mules with her friend Rose, take Cedric and Snow, the giant St. Bernards who were as gentle as lambs, for walks in Biltmore Village. There were fewer parties and politics, fundraisers and teas. She could have her mother all to herself. Tears slid down her cheeks, escaping from beneath her closed lids. She wasn’t sure if that was what convinced her mother or perhaps something else, but Edith finally said, “All right. If it means that much to you, we will return to Biltmore as soon as Daddy is laid to rest.”
Laid to rest. Laid to rest. The words pinged around in Cornelia’s head for the rest of the train ride and then on the ferryboat that took her and Edith past the southern tip of the city to Todt Hill. She still couldn’t understand how her father could be buried in New York when the place he had created to rest was hundreds of miles away, in a magical forest of his own creation.
JULIABuy a Ticket
As the morning sun streamed through the thatch-roofed dining hut where I was having my coffee and bagel, one of the resort cats tiptoed to a sliver of warmth, arched her back, stretched, and curled up in the triangle of light. I looked out over the white sand, toward the glittering sea, and smiled as a group of children tipped their kayak over, squealing with delight. Their mother, who popped up directly after them, looked less thrilled.
The sun, waves, and gently swaying palm trees had lured me into a sense of contentment so deep that I could almost forget what a complete mess I had made of my life. And it had only been two days. I glanced at the clock in the dining hut and realized it was almost ten. I would have just enough time to scurry down the crushed-shell path to my treehouse room and slip on my bikini before paddleboard yoga began. Paddleboard yoga was my new favorite thing. I had paddleboarded before, sure. And one of the aftershocks of my architecture school dropout flail was undertaking my 250-hour yoga certification. But the brilliance of combining yoga and paddleboarding had never occurred to me—until yesterday. And now I was hooked.
The phone in my room was blinking red with a message when I got there, but I didn’t think much of it. Who would possibly be leaving me a messagehere? Then again, it wasn’t like I had cell reception. It could be my mother or Babs. I almost let it go so I could get to paddleboard yoga a little early like I was planning. But something in that urgent blinking light wouldn’t let me off the hook. What if it was Hayes? Would I call him back?
Deciding I could cross that bridge if I came to it, I picked up the phone and hit zero for the resort operator.
“Yes, Ms. Baxter?” Yesterday, the hotel staff had greeted me as “Mrs. Mitchell”—something that, later, made me dissolve into a sobbing puddle, certain I’d made a mistake, horrified at what everyone might be saying about me back home. I hadn’t been able to get myself together the entire night. But today, somehow, I was too relaxed to worry about it.
“Do I have a message?” I asked.
The receptionist read: “I’m holding a private reception aboardSea Suitetomorrow morning for architecture enthusiasts before the boat leaves for Anegada and our brief time as fake husband and wife ends. Please RSVP. Yours, Conner.”
I laughed. “Would you like me to place the call for you?” she asked.
I hesitated. I almost said no. But even though I wasn’t going to go, I had to at least respond, didn’t I? I mean, sure, I was a world away and owed nothing to a perfect stranger. But then again…
“Yes,” I said. “Put me through.”
I heard her click off as the phone began to ring. I almost hopedConner wouldn’t answer. Then I would have legitimately done my due diligence, but I wouldn’t actually have to talk to him. I could let him down easy via voice mail.
“Hello?” a deep voice on the other end of the line said.
“Conner?”
I could hear him smile. “So you got my message.”
“I did but…” I bit my lip. I was going to tell him I couldn’t go sailing with him this soon after I had broken up with my fiancé, that I had a bit of soul-searching to do. But what if he didn’t mean it like that? What if he was only trying to be friendly? And then I would have made a fool of myself in front of one of my idols.
“So, what do you say?” he asked. “Sailboat, wine, cheese, me?”
I laughed. Okay. So heprobablymeant it like that. “Conner, at the risk of embarrassing myself and misreading your intentions, I just broke up with my fiancé two days ago.”
“Mmhmm. I hear that. I totally do. But we’re in the British Virgin Islands. You can’t sit in your room the whole time. Let me show you around.”
