We park in the lot and walk the rest of the way up. Then we turn a corner and I catch my breath.
Because this is combining all my favorite things. A large, decorated Christmas tree dominates the manicured lawn. In the background is a graceful French château. Large buses drive up the long drive to deposit their charges right in front of the edifice, their own sounds of wonder audible the closer we get to the entrance.
It’s also a lot colder here in North Carolina than it has been in South Carolina. Which means I’ll need to find a heat source. Oh no. Whatever shall I do?
Snuggle up to Beau and enjoy all my dreams coming true all at once. Even if it could still be a little better, I suppose. If we were in New York. But I won’t say that since this date is still so nice as it is.
“I’m very impressed by this Carolina right now.” I give him a compliment wrapped in a dig, because while he might get all the points for being thoughtful and perfect, I don’t do flowers and fancy words. Too close to a relationship.
Beau takes umbrage, as expected. “We are by far the better Carolina. We have better beaches, almost no snow and have you tried our peaches?” Beau throws an arm around me, but he’s shivering more than me. Poor lamb would not enjoy a long New York winter.
“No. But I hear Georgia is the state of the peaches.” We make the walk up the drive, past the decorated trees and their unlit lights.
“We make more, and tastier, peaches.” Beau gets as close to a huff as I’ve seen him.
“But doesn’t California make more peaches than both of those states? Combined?”
“We don’t say that name in these parts,” he grumbles.
Beau is saved from the intense peach interrogation by us getting to the entrance of the big house. An employee with a reddened nose hands us audio guides.
I lift the bulky phone-looking device to my ear and start the tour to soak up some history as I step into the door, immediately feeling the warmth from the space. We walk into the conservatory, lights streaming in from the glass ceiling, illuminating the garlands and poinsettias set up in the grand space. It’s even decorated for Christmas inside!
I get my phone out in my other hand, ready to document this impeccably decorated home.
Beau tugs at my elbow, interrupting said soaking of history. He gets the stink eye for that. “Ma’am, do you need the trunks brought in from the carriage?” He deepens his accent to heretofore unheard depths.
My eyes relax from their tight glare, and my nose rises in the universal language of high society. “Fortesburry, of course you bring the bags in. Do you think these hands have done manual labor?” I lift my hands, palms up and still holding the electrical equipment, and re-adjust imaginary long gloves. My voice has gotten more nasally and a lot more condescending.
Just like the Vanderbilts of old, I imagine. Or their friends.
“I don’t reckon they have, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.” He tips an imaginary hat at me.
And so it continues, in every room.
In the dining room, as I snap a photo:
“Are there an okay number of fireplaces in this room?” Beau asks.
And down my audio guide goes. “No, of course not. Three is for peasants. I demand one more befitting my station. And another Christmas tree.” I walk past a giant decorated Christmas tree. “And while we’re at it, the fourth deer head from the right is looking at me strangely. Handle it.”
“I’ll get my rifle.”
“See to it.”
By the outside veranda, the audio guide doesn’t even make it to the ear this time, and I start our game: “Fortesburry, make the trees have leaves again. They look so depressing like that.”
In the library: “Ma’am, now don’t go getting all out of sorts, but there’s some shirtless people kissing above you.”
I look up and tsk him. “It’s trompe l’oeil, Fortesburry. Take a class on architectural history before you occupy the same space as me.”
In George’s master bedroom: “Would ma’am like the turndown service?” Beau asks.
“Well, Fortesburry, I don’t know. What does your turndown service entail?”
Beau slides an arm around me and pulls me into his side. “Anything you damn well want,” he growls in my ear, his accent deep but not the fake deep he was just doing. And then, in the same bedroom where George Vanderbilt put the moves on Edith Stuyvesant Dresser, he puts the moves on me.
When Beau’s tongue touches my lips, that’s my last coherent thought for a while. Until the nosy busybody behind me clears her throat like we aren’t in a rich man’s bedroom that has probably seen worse than a tame kiss. We break apart, begrudgingly.
