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He succeeded. The facade was constructed—The Main House—from limestone that had been quarried in France and shipped stone by stone to America. Ivy climbed the walls in perfect formations, as if nature itself was trying to embrace the building.
Inside, no expense had been spared. The entrance hall featured a chandelier that had once hung in a Parisian palace. The main staircase was carved from a single piece of mahogany, its banister worn smooth by generations of wealthy hands.
On clear days, you could see for miles, watching sailboats drift across the horizon like white butterflies. During storms, the waves would crash against the rocks below with such force that you could feel the house tremble, not with fear, but with excitement, as if it too was energized by nature’s power. I had been living here for 3 months, quietly settling into a life I had never imagined possible.
I hired a small, discreet staff—Mrs. Chun, who had been Margaret’s housekeeper for 20 years and knew every secret the househeld; David, the groundskeeper who tended the gardens with the devotion of a monk; and James, a chef who had trained in Paris and could create magic with simple ingredients. Most mornings I would wake early and walk the grounds in my silk robe, coffee cup in hand, feeling like the heroine of a novel I was just beginning to write.
The gardens—The Gardens—were spectacular: formal rose gardens that bloomed even into December, thanks to a greenhouse system Margaret had installed; walking paths that meandered through woods filled with towering oaks and maples; and a private beach where I could sit on warm days and feel completely separated from the world. I hadn’t told Melanie about any of this. Not the inheritance.
Not the move. Not the complete transformation of my circumstances. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment.
But if I’m being honest, I was testing something. I wanted to see if my daughter cared about me—Vivien, the person—or just Vivien, the provider of financial assistance and occasional babysitting. The test results were becoming increasingly clear.
2 weeks after receiving that devastating Christmas text, I decided to host a small gathering. Nothing elaborate, just a few close friends for cocktails and dinner. Margaret’s friends who had become my friends.
A former colleague from my consulting days. My neighbor Patricia, who was a retired ambassador and had the most fascinating stories. Harold, an art dealer who had been trying to court me in the most charmingly old-fashioned way.
Mrs. Chun outdid herself with the preparations. A Small Gathering.
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