CHAPTER ONE

Anna

I cannot for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to live in Florida.

The house looms before me, a pale stone behemoth jettisoning from the swampy earth. It casts a long shadow, towering three stories high with a parapet on top as though it’s readying itself to guard against intruders. Its palatial size and exterior appear to have been plucked from some European city and dropped on this godforsaken plot of land in Miami. There are arches and flourishes all around the building, the fanciful embellishments reminiscent of a wedding cake’s intricate design. Enormous glass-paned windows dominate the facade, equally impressive doors leading out to a front patio set atop a stone staircase made of the palest coral that matches the house’s exterior walls.

The grass sways a few feet away conjuring images of snakes slithering through the tall blades. What sort of reptiles do they have in Florida? Large ones capable of felling a full-grown person? This feels like the end of civilization as we know it—a far cry from Manhattan and the sensibilities we have grown accustomed to.

The house is nearing completion, the progress an undeniable sign of just how long my husband has been keeping this secret.

Robert took me to Italy for our honeymoon years ago, and it appears he gathered a great deal of his inspiration from the grand houses we saw on our trip there.

There weren’t alligators in Italy, though.

And it wasn’t this hot.

A thin line of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, my already dampened gown sticking to my skin as I trudge away from my husband’s roadster toward our future home. As a little girl sitting in the pews of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, I often thought about the fires of hell as I prayed for my immortal soul. I envisioned the devil’s playground to have a climate like this one, but in all my wild imaginings, Lucifer didn’t have lizards.

Men mill about the property, working on the construction Robert has planned. It looks to be rough work, heavy pieces of stone being carried from one side of the house to another, the radiant sun beating down on the men. It must be hell doing such strenuous physical labor in this stifling heat.

A few cast curious glances our way, no doubt wanting to get a measure of the new owners; some low chuckles drift toward us, and my cheeks burn as I realize they’re likely laughing at me and how out of place I look in such a rugged environment. When Robert told me he was taking me for a trip to Miami for my birthday, I fancied a romantic weekend at one of the luxurious resorts that have cropped up along Florida’s east coast. I thought the surprise he mentioned would be an elegant necklace or perhaps a pair of earrings. After all, forty feels like a momentous occasion that should be marked, albeit with something smaller than real estate.

“What do you think, Anna?” my husband asks, spreading his arms out expansively as though he could encompass the whole of the property in his reach, seemingly oblivious to my obvious discomfort. “Isn’t it amazing? There’s no other house for as far as the eye can see and then some.”

I’m saved from a response by an insect swarming perilously close to my face.

It hovers in midair, likely calculating its plan of attack, before it finally retreats with an irate buzz as though recognizing me as an interloper and reluctantly ceding its territory.

I wish I could hie off with it.

There are those who hate city life, the houses close together, the streets teeming with people, the noise, and the bustle, but I’ve grown accustomed to it, find familiarity in the sounds that play in the background of my days.

The silence here is deafening.

“Anna?” Robert asks again.

I take a deep breath, lifting my skirt out of the swampy muck.

“I would like to see the rest of it,” I announce, biting back a string of blistering curses.

“You should see the best part,” Robert announces, pointing past the house to the view of Biscayne Bay. “You can’t put a price on this location.”

I could, and my price would have one zero attached to it whereas I fear Robert’s has quite a few dangling behind an astonishing number.

I trudge past the house, and I walk toward the water’s edge, careful to keep a healthy distance between me and the bay. I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with the ocean. It’s lovely to look at, but never having learned to swim, I am terrified by the crashing waves.

The closer we get to the bay, the breeze grows, offering a respite from the heat.

The water is undeniably stunning, sparkling beneath the sunlight, nothing but horizon before us. For an instant, a breath, I can understand what drew Robert to the property. I imagine there’s a great deal you would put up with for a vista such as this one.

I glance down at the rocky seawall, a nearly six-foot drop between the land and the water. The turquoise sea crashes against the coral, forming white foamy caps. It’s an abrupt change from land to ocean; should we put up a railing or something for safety?

Robert laughs when I posit the question. “And ruin the view? Besides, to do it the length of the property would cost an absolute fortune. We’d be better off just heaving our money into Biscayne Bay.”

It feels like we’re already doing that.

“What about hurricanes?” I ask, turning back to face Robert lingering behind me.

“The architect working on the house has built it to withstand hurricanes.”

Is such a thing possible? It seems hubristic to assume that anything man makes can meet Mother Nature’s fury.

I turn and peer over the edge of the seawall. Fish flit back and forth beneath the water, their bright colors like vibrant jewels flashing in the sunlight.

You don’t see that in New York, I suppose.

I lean forward—

A bloodcurdling shriek peals through the air.

My shoes slip on the wet ground below, my legs shaking, my body lurching forward—

A hand settles on my waist, fingers curving around my dress, settling just above my hip bones, tugging me backward away from the sea.

I jump, startled by the motion, my heart thumping wildly as I struggle to get my rattled nerves under control.

“Wh—what was that?”

“Peacock,” Robert answers, his voice in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at my waist. “They’re loud birds and they’re all over the property.”

I swallow, the rush of fear leaving a bitter, acidic taste in my throat. “It sounded human.”

He chuckles, his fingers stroking over my waist as though soothing a skittish animal. “I had the same thought the first time I heard them. You get used to it.”

Somehow, I doubt that.

I turn to move out of his grasp, but Robert doesn’t let me go.

“Be careful. We’ve already had a worker fall into the water during the construction.”

I swallow, the sea no longer looking so pretty or the fish so enticing. “What happened to him?”

“He drowned or so I’m told.”

“How horrible. Poor man.”

I glance back at the house, trying to imagine living here knowing that I’m only hundreds of yards away from where a man lost his life.

“It’s not very deep, but if you’re too short to stand and you can’t swim, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Robert muses.

I want to go back to New York.

Oh, it’s beautiful on the bay to be sure, the way deadly things can be beautiful. The water is a lovely sparkling shade of blue, the sun shines brightly, and the trees and palms are a vibrant green. If you cast your gaze in the right direction, it is possible to see nothing but unending sea. It’s a beautiful place, which is likely what leads so many to their folly in the first place—they believe they can make it theirs when it’s obvious Miami is its own entity, stubborn and unwilling to bend to another’s conception of what it could be.

I imagine there is a type of person who would thrive here, one who can see the beauty that lingers amid the danger, who can put down roots in this perilous place where the ever-present risk of a hurricane threatens to upend them, but that person is certainly not me. I don’t belong here.

“It’s surely a grand piece of property,” I say, choosing my words carefully, because undeniably, it is that, with this panoramic view of Biscayne Bay, and given the state of near-finished construction and Robert’s nature, what choice do I have? His mind is clearly already made up. “And a far too generous birthday gift.”

I wrap my arms around Robert and press my lips to his. His whiskers are coarse against my skin as our mouths meet, twenty-two years of marriage in the gesture. I like to think that I know Robert better than anyone, that as a wife I can predict his moves before he makes them, but here he has caught me entirely unawares.

If my husband can hide a plan as enormous as this one, what other secrets does he have up his sleeve?

Robert releases me, his hands lingering on my waist for a moment before setting me aside. I duck my head, embarrassment filling me as I remember the workers lingering around the property privy to this emotional display.

Love and frustration wind their way inside me like twin snakes. If twenty-two years of marriage have taught me anything, it’s to choose my battles. I wish he’d asked what I thought before he bought the damned place, but the genius of all of this is that in bestowing the property to me as a birthday gift, he neatly backed me into a corner. To refuse or complain would make me appear ungrateful. If he had consulted me, I would have told him that I have no desire to live among bugs the size of small dogs, the lace fan I brought woefully inadequate to combat the heat and humidity. If he had consulted me, I might have been able to head this impending disaster off at the pass as I have so many of Robert’s other more questionable ideas.

“We’ll have the largest estate anyone in South Florida has ever seen,” Robert announces.

What will it matter if no one ever wants to visit us here? And truthfully, I can’t imagine why anyone would. The ocean is beautiful, yes, and the sun is shining brightly even if it is abominably strong, but we have sun and sea in Newport, and our bugs are a more respectable size. This place looks as though it would just as soon kill you as welcome you, and I half expect to see an overgrown alligator tottering by. For all intents and purposes, this might as well be the end of the world, and if it must be Florida—why must it be Florida?—I for one would vastly prefer to head north a bit and brave the wilds of Mr. Flagler’s Palm Beach over Miami.

Part of marrying a man who builds things, who invests in the future, who sees opportunity where others view obstacles is that your life becomes a lesson in going along with plans you don’t quite agree with yourself, in keeping quiet when faced with something that could be either a fantastic stroke of genius or utter folly.

Robert is a talented businessman whose hunches nearly always pay off, but this vision of his seems far too ambitious.

“It’s a bit remote,” I say hesitantly. “Although, I’m sure the warm climate will be welcome when winter comes,” I add when he frowns.

We’re both getting older—Robert twenty years my senior—so perhaps the more temperate weather will be a welcome change. With every year, it feels as though my body becomes more vulnerable, more susceptible to the strange aches and pains that come with time, the blistering cold certainly no friend of mine.

Robert smiles. “That it will. Mark my words—in a few years, everyone will want to come to Florida, and we’ll have the most magnificent mansion in all of Miami, perhaps even the entire state.”

Considering Whitehall, the impressive estate that Henry Flagler built in Palm Beach prior to his death, it’s a lofty goal.

Robert’s enthusiasm is nearly infectious, his charm such that I can almost believe him that anything is possible, that if anyone can transform this wild landscape into a manicured estate, it’s him.

Robert’s gaze drifts beyond me to some point off in the horizon. “Here he is now, the man who is going to bring this vision to life. The architect.”

I turn, and Robert gestures toward a man standing over a makeshift table off in the distance with his back to us, hunched over a set of papers. I didn’t notice him at first, my attention firmly on the marital problem at hand.

“Michael,” he calls out.

The architect turns away from his sawhorses and plank slowly, reluctantly, almost. He’s a tall, lean man, younger at first glance than I would have envisioned for a project of this magnitude. Unnervingly young.

Is this the first house he’s ever built?

The architect smiles, making his way to us in quick, sure strides I can’t help but envy considering the challenge of traipsing around the swampy ground in my impractical heels.

He exchanges a friendly greeting with Robert—his coconspirator in this audacious plan—before turning his attention to me.

“Michael Harrison at your service,” he says, extending his hand to me.

“Anna Barnes,” I reply, the warmth in my voice closer to New York than Miami.

You can gauge a lot about a person from their hands, and his tell the story of a man who isn’t afraid to work with them, rough calluses adorning his skin. His long fingers are covered in smudged ink, and he has a bit of a zealous, dazed look in his eyes that calls to mind Frankenstein at work in his laboratory. Mr. Harrison isn’t really looking at me; he’s too busy surveying the landscape around him, and it’s fascinating the way I can practically see his mind working on the project before him even as he’s forced to engage in the social niceties at hand.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Mr. Harrison releases me, reaching into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out a tattered brown leather notebook, the edges cracked and peeling, a little pencil attached to the side, and begins scribbling something on the creamy pages, pausing every so often to gaze out at the water and back to his writing again.

It’s obvious why Robert liked him for the project.

Instantly, I see our bank accounts dwindling, our days spent in this monstrosity of a home. It’s clear that in this Mr. Harrison, my husband has found the partner he longs for, someone who sees his vision in a way I will never, and I have no doubt they will fuel each other until this house becomes bigger, grander, until it ruins us.

Mr. Harrison must go.

“What do you think of your new home?” Mr. Harrison asks after he has tucked away his notebook, whatever inspiration seized him swept aside.

“It’s certainly large,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “A project of this scope must take a great deal of time.”

And money.

I have no concept of the wealth Robert has amassed in his career—there are some things husbands do not speak of with their wives—but it certainly appears to be comfortable enough to sustain us in our days and care for us when we have no children to do so. Hopefully, it’s enough to support me once Robert has left this earth and I am all alone.

That is, unless we’re beggared by ambition.

Mr. Harrison’s eyes widen slightly, seemingly registering the chill in my voice that doesn’t match the smile on my face.

My high heels sink deeper into the muck, the wet ground darkening another inch of hemline.

It rained last night while Robert and I made love in our hotel room on Miami Beach, a violent, lashing storm that had me clutching the snowy white covers to my chin afterward while Robert lay beside me, the sound of his snores punctuated by the rolling thunder.

“Here’s the gardener,” Robert interjects. “Why don’t you stay and talk to Mr. Harrison about the plans for the house while I speak with the gardener about some trees I’m having shipped in?”

He’s already striding away before I can respond.

“How was your journey down to Miami?” Mr. Harrison asks as I stare after Robert’s back. It’s not the first time I’ve wished to strangle my husband, and it won’t be the last, but the desire is there, swift and unrelenting.

Are there not enough trees surrounding us? Why on earth would he have to ship them in? And from where?

“Long, but comfortable. We came by way of Mr. Flagler’s railroad, of course,” I answer, my mind already untangling the massive problem of scaling down Robert’s ambition. Mr. Harrison isn’t the only one capable of achieving multiple aims at once.

“We owe Mr. Flagler a great debt for the effect his railroad has had,” Mr. Harrison comments.

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

Henry Flagler’s Florida East Coast Railway has done much to boost tourism to the state, connecting the country in ways previously unimaginable. Now, passengers can travel by rail to Key West, enabling tourists to enjoy the resort towns that have cropped up along Florida’s coast. Whether the railroad will convert the state into the tourist destination my husband believes it to be remains to be seen.

“What would you like for your new home to have?” Mr. Harrison asks me, turning his attention back to the house.

An address in Rhode Island.

“What did my husband suggest?”

The entire backside of the estate is almost entirely made of glass to showcase the view of the bay. The ground floor of the house opens to an enormous patio that, judging by the stones being laid out by some of the workers, is nearing completion. It’s a house built for lavish parties and entertaining, an estate that is made to show off, to impress, to awe.

“He said he wanted a home fit for a king—and queen, of course.” He says the last part with a smile that suggests Mr. Harrison isn’t wholly unaware of my growing animosity and somehow, impossibly, now thinks to charm me. “We shared some ideas for the construction of the main residence, but he’s said little about the rest of the property. I have some thoughts on that front, but I’d like to get your input as well. After all, you’ll be living here, too. He mentioned that this was a surprise of sorts for you.”

“It certainly was. A birthday present, if you can believe it.”

He whistles low. “That’s some birthday present.”

“Robert has always been prone to grand gestures.”

It’s a trait my friends have forever envied. When their husbands were too tight to buy them that necklace they had been dreaming of, Robert invariably would present me with a grand pair of earrings that rested in a glass jewelry case next to a more modest pair I loved.

“Have you been to Florida before?” Mr. Harrison asks me.

“No. My husband has. In fact, Robert came down here on business several months ago.” At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but clearly, that was what set this whole thing in motion, the trips that followed his opportunity to keep up with the construction progress.

“That’s how we met,” Mr. Harrison replies. “At a party at Vizcaya hosted by James Deering.”

“It must have made an impression on Robert to have led him to do such a thing.”

“I think it did. He was quite staggered by the place. Then again, Vizcaya tends to have that effect.”

“Is the home that grand?”

“It is. Vizcaya has brought the Mediterranean to Florida.” A small smile touches Mr. Harrison’s lips. “Now others must follow suit.”

“Don’t tell me my husband intends for this house to rival Vizcaya?”

“I think he does.”

“And you, Mr. Harrison? What is your professional opinion?”

“Well, Vizcaya is lovely. And your estate will undoubtedly be so. But your new home should be unique. I’ve always thought that the projects I build should reflect the people who live in them. Up until now, I’ve only had a chance to get to know your husband. I’ll confess I was curious about your desires for the house, to make sure that I was meeting your needs as well.”

My face must show my true emotions because he asks—

“Would you prefer something smaller?”

“Maybe. Something cozy, I suppose. I always thought you should go to the beach to escape the stifling nature of society. To be alone with your thoughts and to simply enjoy the sun and the sea.” I shrug. “It seems like the fashion is to make each beach home more formal than the last—after all, look at Newport.”

“I wasn’t aiming for something as austere as those mansions. More a house that is open, that enables you to enjoy the natural landscape around you. Gardens and the like. Glass windows so that you can admire the sea from the house’s main rooms.”

“A project of this scale must be challenging.”

“It is.”

“Robert told me that one of the men involved in the construction drowned.”

Mr. Harrison frowns. “He did. It was a terrible day. Fortunately, we haven’t had any other deaths. It can be a dangerous business. It isn’t the first accident we’ve had.”

“What else has happened?”

“A man fell off a scaffolding while he was working on one of the second-floor windows. Miraculously, he escaped with just a few broken bones. It’s grueling, demanding work being out in the heat, going from sunrise to sunset.” He gestures toward the papers on the makeshift table before him. “Would you like to see the plans?”

There’s a word scrawled on the papers, the name for the house.

Marbrisa.

I trace over the letters there, recognizing the finality of them, the permanence. This house is here to stay whether I like it or not.

“Who came up with the name?” I ask him.

He flushes. “I did. I thought it was a name that suited the house. I was standing here looking at the sea and I wanted to capture the essence of the breeze on my face, the bay before me. One of the men working on the seawall helped me find the right words in Spanish. Your husband liked it, but if you wish to change it, we can.”

“No, you’re right. It suits.”

My gaze drifts down to his renderings, trying to make sense of the proportions of the rooms, the layout that he has envisioned for how our life will be arranged. It’s such an intimate thing to order someone’s life like this, and Mr. Harrison has done it down to the inch.

Our home in New York is nowhere near this grand, but then again, I suppose in a tightly packed city, a sprawling manse of this size is too difficult a proposition. Those who have made their mark on New York have already done so, their legacies in brick and stone, their names forever memorialized on libraries and museums, streets and homes.

“Do you like the plans for the house?”

It feels somewhat indelicate to criticize a man’s work, but I can’t summon the passion for this place that he and Robert have.

“It seems silly to have a house this size for just two people. And to be honest, I’ve never been overly fond of elaborate parties.” I know how I must sound—how boring I must seem. But the truth is, I have always been happiest when my life was simple. “Oh, I know it’s what is done, and I know how badly Robert wants this, but—”

“You don’t share his vision?” Mr. Harrison finishes for me.

“No. I don’t. I’m not even sure this is his vision anymore. It seems like this place has taken on a life of its own.”

Mr. Harrison smiles. “You’ve caught that, haven’t you? Homes, great homes, tell their own stories. Their past, their present, and their future are written on their walls, etched in their stone pavers, dangling from the rafters in glittering chandeliers that twinkle like stars.”

“I had no idea building was so poetic.”

He laughs. “Maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves when we spend so much of our time and labor on a project that it naturally takes on a life of its own. I like to think of the houses I build as having their own personalities. Oh, there’s the people who are their custodians to consider, of course, a symbiosis in the relationship between the house and its owner, but sometimes these grand estates have a way of forcing their residents to their will, of bending and shaping the trajectory of their lives. After all, when our bones turn to dust, these walls will still stand.”

“My, Mr. Harrison, with imagery like that, I almost feel like I should half fear the house. You speak of it as though it is an almighty power indeed. Will it bring about my destruction or be my salvation?”

I try to inject as much humor as I can in my words, but there’s also an undeniable truth in them, the feeling that we are hurtling toward some danger I wish we could avoid. This house looming behind me seems like the physical manifestation of the legacy Robert was never able to create on his own—the children we were unable to have.

“The latter, if I have my way. Everyone is hoping the house will do for the area what Vizcaya did for Miami—bring jobs. A project of this size can support a great many households. Now that the Great War is over, there will be a considerable number of men in search of employment.”

“Yes, but who knows what the world will look like now that the war has ended. It seems like a dangerous time to take a risk like this one.”

“Is there ever truly a good time to take risks? After all, the greatest reward comes from daring in times of uncertainty.”

“Has he convinced you yet?” Robert asks, striding toward us.

“Mr. Harrison is clearly passionate about the project.” I take a deep breath. “I just hope it’s not too much house for us.”

“Anna’s always the practical one,” Robert says with a smile for his architect, more amusement than affection in his voice.

I was raised to be practical, in a household that wanted for nothing but also brooked no excess. My clothes were always well-made, but never too fine, our house comfortable but never garish.

“Is there anything you’d like me to add to the house for you?” Mr. Harrison asks me.

“I like to garden.” It’s not a hobby I’ve had much occasion to indulge in the city, but when I was a child, my mother and I loved working in her small garden.

Mr. Harrison smiles. “Then gardens you shall have.”

We tour the inside of the estate, each room seemingly larger and grander than the last. Robert and Mr. Harrison speak about their plans for the house a bit longer, and I listen half-heartedly, scrambling to keep up with all the ways in which my life has changed in the span of a few hours.

On our way out, as I climb into Robert’s roadster, I glance back at the house, the wind blowing my hair in my face, slashing in front of me, obscuring my vision for a moment. The house stands before me, taunting me, looming large over the men working on the grounds.

How is this to be our future home?

I keep looking back as we maneuver down the long driveway, the house growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Someone had the idea of flanking the entryway with towering palm trees, several already planted, many more to go.

The car slams to a stop.

I lurch forward, my arm jutting out to brace myself.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, turning to look at Robert, my heart pounding as I think about how close I came to hitting the windshield in front of me.

“Peacock crossing,” Robert announces, amusement in his voice as he watches the feathered animals prance and preen in front of our car as they cross from one side of our street to the other. “You don’t see that every day in New York.”

I take a deep breath, trying to still my racing heart, to catch my breath. I blink, my eyes playing tricks on me, and for a moment, I can hear the loud thud that would have sounded if my head had hit the windshield, can see the sharp crack that would have run down the glass.

How can Robert be so calm? How can he be so careless?

I open my mouth to complain about him braking too recklessly, to ask him to be more careful when he drives, to remind him that the roads are unfamiliar to us here, unused to automobile tires treading over them, all sorts of perils and twists in our path.

I’m saved the effort by more peacocks, my husband’s attention firmly on their progress to the side of the road.

The male peacock passes by us, his colorful plumed feathers standing proudly as he struts in front of the car, and then we’re off, my husband’s folly behind us.