Bellagrand: A Novel (31 page)

“Do you know,” Fernando said, “that the man who built the railroad is the
same
man who also built this house? His name is Henry Flagler.” He nodded, proudly as if he himself had built these things. “It is true. Don’t look so surprised, señor. It is a little-known fact. Local history, a special service I provide.” He smiled happily.

Harry, his own mocking grin stretched from ear to ear, opened wide his hands to his flummoxed wife and sister. “Bellagrand is a gift that just
keeps
on giving, isn’t it, ladies?”

Gina and Esther stood like marble columns.

“I wish you
could
come to the market with me, señor. You would be amazed.”

“Believe me, I’m already plenty amazed, Fernando. As are my women. Look, you’ve stunned them into silence. Not an easy feat, my friend.”

“Fernando, no matter how much Harry jokes,” Esther said, recovering her voice, “he is not to leave this house.”

“Who is joking?”

“I know my duties, Mrs. Barrington. Do not worry.”

“Gia,” Harry called to his wife. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

She had dropped out of the conversation entirely. She was examining the butler’s pantry, impressed with its many cabinets and drawers. She opened the cabinets. White china stared out. Crystal glasses. Silverware. Serving dishes. She realized she was hungry. Maybe instead of idly chatting they could eat soon. Was there any food in this house? Or just china?

“Harry, you know the limits,” Esther was telling him. “You can’t leave the house for any reason. Fernando works for the Florida Department of Corrections. He knows the rules better than you. Your probation officer will visit you this Monday to introduce herself and she’ll explain the rest to you. She’ll be making scheduled weekly visits, but also dropping by unannounced.”

“Like in the middle of the night?” Harry asked. Lightly his eyes twinkled at Esther.

Lightly her eyes twinkled back. “Don’t be impossible,” she said. “I know that’s a Herculean feat, but can you try?”

“Fernando,” Gina said, returning to the kitchen. “What can we do to help you get us settled? Because I’d like to eat soon.”

Quickly Fernando excused himself to go fetch their suitcases from the Tourister. Gina motioned to Harry to go help him. Harry ignored her. She continued to verbally press him about helping Fernando, until even Esther shushed her, unperturbed that Fernando and Rosa were carrying five trunks upstairs all by themselves. That’s when it occurred to Gina that she could not internalize even this simplest of all rules of etiquette: the servants served. They were paid for fetching suitcases and cooking and going to the market. Harry, raised with his father’s money, simply sat on the floor. Gina began to understand a few things about her husband. He didn’t get up in their Summer Street house either. He spent thirteen years sitting. Because
she
was the servant.

Slowly they made their way upstairs. Dazed, Gina stumbled around the bedrooms, six sleeping quarters, each with its own bathroom, some with adjacent sitting rooms. Each room was decorated in its own color. There was the rose room, the red room, the gold room, the green room, the lilac room, the blue room. She who had lived sharing one tiny half-in, half-out washroom with her mother, her cousin Angela, her aunt Pippa, her brother Salvo, and then her husband.
Each room with its own bathroom.
Overwhelmed, she placed her palms on her blooming belly.

Harry appeared by her side. “What’s the matter? Why are you holding yourself? You don’t feel well? Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Something hurt?” He looked around for a chair to place her in.

“Nothing hurts. I just touched my stomach. I feel all right.”

His hand remained at her elbow.

The master suite was a series of connecting blue rooms. The bedroom itself was decorated in intricate lace-like wood trim. It had a giant white four-poster bed in the middle, mirrors everywhere, light yellow paintings of flowers and water. It had a sitting alcove by the balcony, a spiral staircase that led to the lawn below, and a library with a fireplace. Gina asked Harry if he wanted to make the library a nursery. Harry said he preferred to keep it a library. “Reading is the only joy that has not been taken from me,” he said. “And now you want to take that away, too?”

“Who said you couldn’t read? But the baby has to sleep somewhere.”

“There are five other bedrooms. Can’t it sleep in one of those?”

“No,” she mimicked. “
It
can’t sleep in one of those.”

He rolled his eyes.

She rolled her eyes right back at him.

But she forgot all about him when she entered the sprawling bathroom, an open seafoam-blue room with two sinks, a large porcelain tub, and in the corner a shower, half enclosed by a marble wall. She had to lean against the marble wall to get her bearings. “Harry, can you believe this? There’s even a place for me to sit and put on my makeup.”

“Hmm,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “There are too many fireplaces. There’s even one in here. Why would you need a fireplace next to a bathtub? Why do you need fireplaces at all in Florida? It’s a waste of money.”

But when evening fell, he himself built a fire for them downstairs. Fernando found cords of wood in the horse stables.

“Seems a shame that Fernando will be staying in the barn with the horses and the wood,” Harry said, sitting alone at his malachite table as Esther walked by with the crystal goblets. “Doesn’t Marie Antoinette have her own private quarters near the lake? Maybe Fernando can stay there instead.”

“All right, Robespierre, enough,” Esther said, motioning to him. “Come eat.”

Two

OUTSIDE ON THE STONE PATIO
, they sat down to cold shrimp and crab, to fresh-baked bread, a cucumber salad, and strawberry shortcake. It was slightly chilly in the evening January air, but the roaring fire made it easy and comfortable to remain outside. In Boston, Rosa usually didn’t eat at the same table as Esther, but here, the three women all sat together. They spent the evening planning tomorrow and the week ahead, how they would make the house smell better, get some cleaning supplies, wash the tables and chairs. Gina said she wished she had a bench to sit on, not just chairs, and maybe a hammock. They would need bathing suits to swim in, though Gina wasn’t sure anyone made bathing suits for pregnant women, so perhaps she could make one, if only she had a sewing machine. They would get some fresh flowers, vases, new sheets . . .

“Wonderful, now you’ve all become maids,” Harry cut in. “Especially you, Esther. Doesn’t anyone have some elevated concerns?”

“The house
is
the concern,” said Gina. “The house is everything.”

“On this we disagree,” he said.

“Just on this?”

He took a sip of wine. “I will admit the house is in better repair than I expected. Not that I expected much. But still, being vacant for over a quarter century, I’m surprised.”

“You have Father to thank for that,” Esther said. “To protect your trust, he hired a building manager, who looked after the house. Every five years Father paid to have it repainted. He also paid a grounds crew and a cleaning crew twice a year.”

“He kept that up for all these years?” said Harry. “Why?”

“Because if he didn’t,” Esther replied, “it would be worth nothing but the price of the land. Which is not insubstantial. But your wife is right, the house has value separate from the land.”

Harry stared up into the bedroom balcony, the fireplace on the patio, the lights in the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like a house built in 1890,” he said, not looking at Esther, who wasn’t looking at him either. “I can’t imagine they had indoor plumbing back then. Electricity?”

“They did, they had some things.” Esther paused. “Bathtubs. But you’re right. Three or four years ago, around the time the war started and you served your first major stint in prison, Father decided to make major renovations to the house. You know Father can build houses, too. He wasn’t to be outdone. He was going to improve on it. He put in all new plumbing, resurfaced the swimming pool, switched from coal to oil for heat, which made it easy to keep the white house from turning black. He ran new electric through it, and modernized the kitchen appliances. You can see how up to date it is.”

“Father did this at the beginning of the war? Why?”

“I don’t know.” Esther pulled the silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. “He thought you might come to him, ask for help. He wanted it to be ready for you.”

“Even after 1905?” When he and his father parted ways, Harry thought it was forever.

Esther nodded. “It’s your house, placed in his trust. He took care of it for you.”

“Also, you are still his son,” said Gina. “Nothing you do can change that.”

“Gina is right, Harry,” Esther said, tightening her mouth as if disapproving of Gina’s being right. “You are Father’s only son. Men tend to place an importance on such things. As opposed to, say, daughters.”

“No, Esther,” Gina said. “Fathers adore their only girls. Believe me.”

“I don’t think you and I have the same father, do we?” Esther said.

“You’re right, we don’t,” replied Gina. “Because your father is still alive.”

They sat quietly in the cool evening, drinking tea, watching the fire burn out. Rosa had excused herself and gone to bed. “How are we going to live here?” Harry asked Esther. “We are Versailles-rich, but penny-paupers. How are we to buy milk? Rattles for the baby?”

Esther and Gina smiled at each other across the teak table.

“What? What are you two grinning about?”

“I’m proud of you, Harry,” said Gina. “This is the first time in our marriage you’ve asked how we are going to pay for anything.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve never asked before. You must’ve assumed it would be taken care of somehow.”

“Leave it to you to turn that faint praise into a backward compliment.”

“I didn’t realize,” Gina said, “it was ever either.”

Harry spun to his sister. “Will
you
answer my question? How do we pay Fernando?”

“Fernando is taken care of,” Esther said. “Father is paying for your security. After all, his word, his good name, and half a million of his dollars are on the line. He can’t have you behaving how you normally do.”

“Moving forward,” Harry said, “is how I behave. What about for everything else? Is he going to give us a stipend?”

Esther shook her head. “Bellagrand
is
your stipend. Billingsworth has set up a line of equity for you at the local bank, against the value of the house. What that means, is you cannot withdraw from the bank more than the house is worth.”

“I know how it works, Esther. I graduated from Harvard.”

“Book-smart, but life-stupid,” said Esther. “The way it works is, you use the house account for your living expenses, for everything from your food to your clothes, to your wife’s sewing machine, to a car you might want to buy. Eventually, when Father passes, many years from now, and ownership of the house transfers to you, you will be responsible for that open account. And what that means is . . .”

“Esther! I know what it means.”

“I don’t think you do. If you decide to sell Bellagrand . . .”

“But why would we?” Gina interrupted.

“Let my sister finish, Gina.”

Esther continued. “If you decide to sell it, the bank will first pay off your outstanding house account, and then issue you a check for the balance, provided there’s anything left.”

“Why wouldn’t there be?”

“I say nothing. But the more you spend, the more frivolously you use your line of equity, the bigger your cars and your household budget, the less you will have on the other side if you ever do decide to sell.”

“When you say nothing,” Harry said, “you sure say quite a lot.”

“Why
would
we sell?” Gina repeated.

“Wait, Gia. Esther, what happens to the open account if we don’t sell?”

“Run it up and up, if you wish,” Esther replied. “Every piece of food you put in your mouth is charged against the value of this home. The bank extends to you a secured line of credit and charges you interest on the money you borrow. The more you borrow, the more interest you pay. The house is how the bank knows it’s going to get its money. Eventually you will have to pay the bank, either by selling the house or getting a job.” Esther smiled with bitter bemusement. “So by all means, live your life, spend away. But remember, there’s an end to everything.”

Harry glanced inside the dimmed palatial house, built for diplomats and kings. “Not to this.”

Three

THEY WERE BOTH EXHAUSTED
when they finally closed the door to their blue room to get ready for the night. She unfolded the new sheets and made the bed by herself while he sat out on the balcony. She wanted the French doors open for the fresh air. He wanted them closed. She disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back inside he left the doors open for her. He sat in a chair by the fireplace leafing through a book on Spanish architecture. He glanced at the cold fireplace.

By the time she reappeared, in a thin robe, her hair loosely tied back, the fire was alight and crackling. “Why did you put on a fire in Florida?” she asked, walking past him to get her hairbrush.

“I thought you might like it. You’re not too chilly with the doors open?” He glanced at the silk robe around her shoulders.

“No, I’m not cold.”

He ignored her for a moment, pretending to be fascinated by the Doric columns and marble porticos, by the pillars, poles, supports, and stakes. But then—

There was a glimpse of fragile roundness, a fullness, a ripeness he wasn’t used to. There was a woman alone with him in the bedroom, sitting on a vast white bed, flushed, warm, his. He wasn’t used to that either. Something tugged at his heart, other places. Opened. Blood rushed in. He closed the book, carefully laying it on the low table.

“Hey,” he said. “Come here.”

She was in the far corner, brushing out her hair.

“What?”

“Come here.”