CHAPTER THREE

Anna

The architect works like a man possessed through much of the summer—or so I’m told—Robert’s excitement over Marbrisa’s progress reaching a fever pitch each time he returns from a journey to Miami. We might as well have already left New York for how invested he is in our new life in Florida. Sometimes when I’m talking to him at dinner, it feels as though he is only half with me, his attention and his passion down south.

It’s a strange sensation to be jealous of a house, but one that I am now uncomfortably familiar with. I may be Robert’s wife, but Marbrisa is his mistress, and she holds his interest with an intense focus I cannot break. He pores over books on architecture, art, and the management of an estate into the early hours of the morning, signing off on the heaps of bills that arrive at our residence as he brings each of his dreams to fruition.

There is the copper winged horse fountain in the driveway that Robert insisted on. Why any house requires a Pegasus, I’ll never understand. Ornate gates made of bronze were brought in by boat from Italy to greet visitors upon their arrival at Marbrisa, the towering structures flanked by even higher coral walls.

Now that Robert’s great secret is out, he delights in updating me with each of his conquests, regaling me with tales of treasures he has collected from all over the world to send to Marbrisa. His daily business seems to have shifted from his usual affairs to his newfound avocation, and I often find myself wondering—and worrying—just who is running the investment company he worked so hard to build, the dream that was once his sole focus and that has now been cast aside in favor of the house on Biscayne Bay.

It would be easy if it were a matter of competing with a heap of stone and a magnificent view of the bay, but it’s more than that. In building Marbrisa, Robert is confronting his own mortality; this is the legacy he is determined to leave behind long after we’re gone, the mark he makes on the world.

Finally, it becomes clear to me that if I am to have my husband back, I must support his interests, shifting my focus to this house that has consumed him so. I do my best to share in his enthusiasm, looking over the renderings and photographs Mr. Harrison sends to update us on the progress, struggling to cover my panic and dismay with something akin to approval.

While Robert is drawn to the marble and gilt, the priceless treasures his agents source from around the world, it’s the grounds that I enjoy the most. Mr. Harrison has taken to sending me pressed flowers from Marbrisa’s gardens, each of his packages carrying a piece of Miami with it.

With every update, the estate transforms as Mr. Harrison marries the natural foliage with his vision for how the exterior should complement the mansion’s interior. Sometimes, he’ll ask my preference, sending me two specimens to choose from, or invite me to inject my own wishes. The main house is a creature entirely of Robert’s making, but the gardens are the one part of Marbrisa where my husband has been happy to abdicate responsibility.

And so, over the months, the estate wears me down, letter by letter, image by image, pressed flower by pressed flower, until finally it is done and, despite all my earlier misgivings and threads of worry, I must admit I am more than a little eager to see the finished product in the flesh.

We move in amid popping champagne bottles, our house in New York shuttered, the furniture covered in billowing white sheets, Mr. Flagler’s mighty train carrying many of our remaining worldly possessions south.

It was a fight over what we should do, Robert eager to sell our New York home and make our Miami residence permanent. Finally, he relented, giving us the option of maintaining our home in New York in case his South Florida dreams soured—not that he would brook the possibility of anything other than total success.

As soon as we arrived in Miami, Robert set about planning the largest, most opulent party this town has seen, ordering champagne by the caseload, and barking orders at every member of the staff to ensure that everything goes off without a hitch. We entertained but occasionally in New York, and it’s immediately evident that the sort of party Robert has in mind here is a different type of affair altogether.

He has recruited Mr. Harrison for his cause, and while I get the impression that the architect has little use for parties, it’s evident that he’s determined to make sure the house looks its best. They pass hours in Robert’s newly completed study, putting the finishing touches on the mansion before they unveil it to the rest of the world. I’ve made it a point to spend as much time as I can in their company, interjecting when their plans inevitably become too grandiose.

“And what did Deering use in Vizcaya?” Robert asks, his voice bristling as he speaks of his newly found architectural nemesis, James Deering. Whether Mr. Deering is aware of it or not, Robert has made it his personal mission to best the man at all costs, and the looming specter of Vizcaya—James Deering’s palatial estate north of us on Biscayne Bay—has become the target of my husband’s ire. Sandwiched between James Deering’s home to the north and the house his half brother Charles Deering is building to the south of us, Robert’s dreams of notoriety face steep opposition.

Perhaps it was the elegant cut of Mr. James Deering’s impeccable gray suit, his reputed fluency in multiple languages, and his impressive portfolio of real estate that shook Robert so. More likely, though, it was his vast wealth—inherited—that affected Robert; the reminder that even as far down as Miami, where society is being reinvented, there is still an unspoken hierarchy. That a man like Robert who came from nothing and built himself into a fearless businessman is still weighed and measured as slightly less than a man who was born into the right sort of family.

Florida is a promise to men like Robert, a place where fortunes could be made and pasts erased.

The architect replies to Robert’s irate question in a routine that has become altogether too familiar since we arrived in Miami. Even though Marbrisa’s construction is complete, it seems as though a house of this size and stature is never truly finished. Robert is constantly directing Mr. Harrison and his crew to make changes, his perfectionism rearing its head the more time we spend in the house. Mr. Harrison might as well be on permanent retainer for all the time he spends here. I can’t help but wonder what his personal life is like, if he’s married or has a family, how his wife must feel about his complete and utter devotion to Marbrisa. He doesn’t wear a ring, his home temporarily in the small cottage on the border of the estate, and he and Robert have indeed proven themselves to be a match made in heaven, their enthusiasm for the house and the splash it is to make on Miami unparalleled. Each request Robert makes is more absurd than the last, but while a less devoted—or less ambitious—man would likely be exasperated by the demands, the architect never fails to rise to the occasion with equal amounts of zeal.

Tonight is as much a celebration of Mr. Harrison’s efforts as it is our announcement to Miami that we have arrived.

I dress with care for our debut, as though I am a debutante to be presented to society—a slightly ridiculous event for a woman of my years—the silver spangled gown I bought in New York for the occasion one I know Robert will appreciate. The color makes my hazel eyes appear gray in the reflection staring back at me in the mirror Robert had shipped from Paris.

I fasten the diamond earbobs Robert bought me for our twentieth wedding anniversary, the bracelet he gifted to me for our tenth. I wear our marital history on my body, in the mementos that adorn it, in the lines that have developed in my face since I was a young girl when we met, in the threads of silver woven through my hair. There are memories contained in the curve of my fingers, the way they interlock with his, the wrap of my arms that fit perfectly around his shoulders. There’s a familiarity, a recognition of sorts that occurs when we are together, when we are in the same room; my body has learned his, can predict his moods nearly as well as my own.

Tonight, he is nervous.

I stand on the threshold of Robert’s adjoining suite, admiring how dashing he looks in his evening dress. His hair has gone from black and silver to fully silver over the years, and while I often catch his look of surprise when he studies himself in the mirror, as though he can’t quite believe time had the audacity to catch up with him, my husband is a handsome man. In fact, I prefer this version of him to the one I met all those years ago. He looks better to me now that life has left its mark on him, now that I can appreciate all those changes, all the experiences he’s lived, now that I know I have played a part in some of the moments that have shaped him. Despite the inevitable bumps along the road, the way life has twisted us up at times, he has given me a companionship and friendship that far exceeds any complaints I could have about our differences.

And perhaps, in the construction of this house, he was indeed correct.

Maybe Miami will turn out to be a lovely place to live.

I take a deep breath, a smile spreading on my face, enjoying the sensation that we have once again passed another hurdle in our marriage and come out together unscathed. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that these differences between us have tested our mettle and defined the essence of who we are. It would be boring if we were too similar, if Robert played it safe as I always yearn to do. We are better for the ways in which we are different, for the inherent challenge in fitting our lives together, albeit not as neatly as one might often like.

Robert’s fingers shake as he fiddles with his evening tie, a curse escaping his lips.

“Here, let me,” I say, stepping out from the shadows of his room.

He turns, relief in his gaze.

“You look lovely,” he murmurs, and it’s silly, but even after all these years, the approval in his voice fills me with joy, my heart swelling with love and pride for the life we’ve built together.

I have spent over half my life being loved by this man.

His hands drop to his sides as I straighten the rumpled fabric. Tension emanates from him.

“It’s just a party,” I whisper, my hand sweeping down to caress his chest beneath the fine linen of his crisp white shirtfront that I selected for this evening. “We’ve hosted countless parties.”

“Not like this.”

I lean back, studying him, trying to comprehend what has him so rattled, this man who is a titan in the boardroom, who built his fortune from nothing by refusing to entertain any objection, single-handedly steamrolling over the competition.

“What’s different about tonight?”

“Everything. Everyone has been talking about the house, coming by out of the pretense of being neighborly just to sneak a few peeks at the construction. You don’t think I haven’t heard the whispers? That I’ve gone mad to spend so much? They’re snickering behind my back, I tell you. Waiting to see me fail. Some hoping that I do. They all want to see if the reality lives up to their imagination.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I thought I knew every facet of Robert’s personality, but I’ve never seen my husband like this. How can a man who is so confident in the business arena be so shaken now? “It’s just a house. A beautiful one at that, but still just a house.”

He pulls away from me. “It isn’t just a house. Don’t you see—this is what I will be remembered for. It’s not as though I have a son to—”

I take a deep breath, steadying my racing heart, suddenly feeling as though this conversation is careening into unfamiliar territory. The truth is, Robert never seemed to care much for children, accepted our inability to have them with an equanimity that matched my own. There are people who dream of being parents, of having large families, but our marriage never lacked in that regard. We were partners, and in our partnership, I found a quiet peace. So why would he bring up such a thing now?

Hurt fills me, blossoming in my chest like a wound. It’s not necessarily what he said as much as it is the thought that perhaps I have been laboring under a misapprehension this entire time, that Robert has wanted things he has kept from me, that secrets have existed in our marriage that I never knew were there.

It hardly seems fair to hold something against me that I never knew he desired.

“I never knew you wanted children,” I say, my voice faint, a thread of recrimination winding its way through me despite my best intentions.

Strange how the tiniest of holes can prick something that seemed so impregnable.

“What? What are you talking about?” Robert turns, facing me, and for a moment, it feels as though I am staring at a stranger for all that I can decipher the look in his eyes. He blinks, shaking himself from his stupor. “I don’t. Want children, I mean. Of course I don’t.”

Not for the first time in our marriage, we seem to be speaking past each other, having two different conversations simultaneously, and I must take a deep breath lest my temper get the best of me.

I’ve found the secret to a lasting marriage lies in the breaths I take—the ones that calm me, centering me before I say something I might regret; the ones that allow me to pause the world and slow down the tempo of my marriage when it feels as though it is hurtling toward something unpleasant.

“Then what is it that you want?”

“I want to be respected,” he admits, his voice nearly begrudging in the honesty contained there. “I want to be envied.”

I can’t claim to understand or have the same desires, but when he says it like that, I want those things for him. Still—how can you build respect on something so changeable? If we are defined by Marbrisa, what happens when someone inevitably comes along and builds a bigger, grander house? It seems like a game that’s impossible to win and a sure recipe for disappointment and disaster.

I wish he could see himself as I do, understand that none of this matters, not really. The things I love about my husband aren’t as flighty as the opinion or respect of others; I admire his constancy, his determination, his commitment. And at the same time, it’s impossible to deny that I cannot have the good in Robert without accepting the challenges, that a man cannot work as hard as Robert has for as long without wanting to see some of the fruits of his labors come to fruition.

“You will be,” I whisper, praying I am correct, the alternative momentarily unthinkable.

What will happen to Robert if he is not?

---

The party is already in full swing when we descend the elaborate staircase, my fingers gliding across the banister for purchase, a slight tremor in my knees, the unease that has filled me since we spoke upstairs lingering. I am at once surrounded by bright young things laughing and dancing, making me feel impossibly old. Where did Robert even meet these people? Or did they just come, dazzled by the glittering lights sparkling over the bay and the promise of free-flowing champagne and a chance to see the notorious mansion up close? This may be a dry county, but no one seems to care too much about following that particular law—or enforcing it for that matter.

Robert pauses for a moment, surveying the crowd below us like a king holding court. Curious gazes are cast our way, whispers reaching my ears.

“. . . that’s the wife . . .”

“. . . made his money in railroads, I think . . .”

“They say all the furniture came from Italy.”

“I heard it was Spain.”

“Have you seen their architect? I wouldn’t mind having him design something for me.”

This comment is followed by laughter, a group of women lingering close to where Mr. Harrison stands at the bottom of the staircase.

His cheeks are slightly pink as though he has heard their words and is more than a little embarrassed—and annoyed—to be the subject of such attention. I study him for a moment, trying to see what the women must see, to understand their admiration. He is young and pleasing enough on the eyes, I suppose, but for so long he has been a thorn in my side, the architect of all this folly, that it is impossible for me to view him as anything else even if I must begrudgingly admit that the house is indeed the feat he promised.

Robert takes a deep breath next to me, and then he releases my hand, the crowd rising to meet us, and he is immediately engulfed in congratulations and praise.

Relief floods me.

This is the response he craved, and I am grateful that people were able to see and appreciate what he and Mr. Harrison have built. Perhaps they were right and Marbrisa will succeed in bringing jobs to the area, will help in Miami’s development now that the Great War is over and so many have returned home. Maybe this is the way in which we will be remembered, a place in which we can do some good despite my fears.

I descend the rest of the way down the staircase, into the mass of people.

A woman brushes past me dressed in a daring gown the color of crushed plums, an intricate necklace of bejeweled snakes wrapped around her neck. She’s lovely, and so very young, this crowd in Miami different from the friends we usually socialize with, the couples we’ve known for ages. Our gazes connect for a moment, a hint of interest in her eyes as she takes in my dress, my necklace and earrings, before her regard lingers on my face. I get the sense that she is cataloging the cost of everything on my person, trying to see how it all stacks up against the splendor that is Marbrisa.

It’s not so different from how things are done in New York, but there’s an openness—a frankness—

“. . . that’s the wife . . .”

I shift to the side, away from the crush, happy to let Robert have his moment alone, eager to fade into the background for the remainder of the night.

Mr. Harrison stands near the balustrade sipping his glass of champagne and looking at me.

I raise my champagne glass in a silent toast. For all my personal feelings on the matter, Mr. Harrison did all he promised and then some, and he deserves every ounce of praise for his hard work and talents.

I move toward him, exchanging an obligatory air-kiss. He’s grown on me in measures, perhaps for the fact that he took such pains to ensure I was pleased with the house, listening to my thoughts and respecting my opinions. So many men are reluctant to consider a woman’s perspective on so many things that his inclination to do so was enough to restore him from mortal enemy to something marginally higher in my esteem.

“It’s a triumph tonight,” I say in greeting. “You should be very proud of your work. I’ll admit, when Robert shared this whole plan with me, I struggled to see the vision. But what you’ve created is extraordinary.”

He flushes. “Thank you.”

I’ve noticed that unless he’s talking about building, he’s often a man of few words, and while he is clearly proud of Marbrisa, he’s not one to draw the spotlight on himself. It’s an interesting juxtaposition between his professional ambition and personal reticence.

“Surely, you aren’t nervous, too, Mr. Harrison?” I ask.

“I confess I am.” He shoots me a wry smile. “Your husband has exacting standards, and I’ll admit, a time or two I was afraid that I wouldn’t live up to them.” He tugs at his collar, casting his gaze away from the group of women who were admiring him. “I hate parties,” he adds. “Socializing goes with the territory, of course, when it comes to getting new clients, to making the right connections to enable me to do projects like this one, but I can’t say it makes me enjoy them any more. Then again, maybe it’s all the pressure that goes with them.” His gaze sweeps the room before returning to me. “I guess I should consider myself in good company, then, seeing as everyone here is on the make in some way or another.” He smiles. “Present company excluded, of course.”

I laugh. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, Mr. Harrison.”

“I wasn’t trying to. Just calling it like I see it. It’s clear that you’re one of the few people not trying to hustle your way through Miami.”

“I’m flattered.”

He laughs. “To be honest, I wasn’t trying to flatter you, either. After all, when you own all this, what’s left to hustle for?”

“Touché.”

“It hasn’t escaped my notice that you have an aversion to my presence,” he says, his candor catching me off guard.

Embarrassment floods me. “I’d hoped you hadn’t noticed.”

“I did.”

“It wasn’t personal. It’s just—this house from the start felt like a terrible idea. And I saw all the incorrigible zeal in your eyes and feared the influence you would have on Robert, that if I wasn’t careful, before too long, well—I’d be living like—”

“Like this?”

I flush. “It is an absurdly grand house.”

“I’d say it’s a work of art,” he counters.

“You love it.”

The pride he feels for the project is etched all over his being, and in this moment, I realize that the house is more his than it ever was mine and Robert’s. It feels as though we are the interlopers here.

“I do.” His gaze drifts over the crowd. “In spite of whatever discomfort I might feel at affairs like this, it seems like the house was made for parties, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed, it does. That’s how you met Robert, isn’t it? At a party?” I ask.

“Yes. He told me he was looking for a piece of property to build an estate that would change Florida. I showed up at his hotel room the next morning with the plans. I stayed up all night drafting them. Then I took him for a ride in my automobile to show him the plot of land I had in mind. I knew the previous owner—he had run into some troubles and was looking to off-load it for a song.”

“Robert would have liked that.”

“He did. Told me he appreciated my initiative. I didn’t have much experience, but he was willing to take a chance on me.”

“I’m not surprised. Robert built his fortune from scratch. He was the oldest of eight, and he started working when he was just a little boy to bring home money for his family.”

Robert’s history was one of the things that attracted me to him. There are those in New York society who look down on men like Robert, the clash between new money and old playing out in boardrooms and ballrooms. But I always liked that Robert knew the value of things, that no one handed his fortune to him, that he wasn’t afraid to make sacrifices and work hard to get what he wanted. It gave me the hope that he would be the kind of husband who wouldn’t be afraid to dig in when times in our marriage inevitably became tough, that he would understand and respect the sacrifices that came along in life.

My gaze sweeps across the ballroom as I realize just how far we have come, my origins hardly more auspicious than my husband’s.

“Where are you from?” I ask, curiosity filling me. In building our home, Mr. Harrison is privy to the intimate details of our lives, and at the same time, we know so little about him. Perhaps he and Robert have struck up a friendship of sorts and discussed more personal things, although knowing my husband and his businesslike manner, I somehow doubt it.

“Chicago.”

“And how did you find yourself in Miami?”

“I fought in the war. In Europe. When I came back, I wasn’t well. The doctors thought the warm climate down here would do me good. Chicago winters no longer suit me.”

He offers each sentence reluctantly, biting off each piece with the bitterness of a memory he doesn’t care to relive. There are things they experienced overseas that they clearly wish they had left behind, haunting moments that have inextricably followed them home. I’ve seen the same thing in cousins and childhood friends who returned, in those whose loved ones did not.

I reach out, gently resting my hand on the sleeve of his evening jacket, and something about the motion seems to pull him back to the here and now, a flash of gratitude in his eyes.

My hand drops to my side.

“Were you an architect in Chicago as well? Before the war?”

“I was.”

“Well, if I had to make a guess, Mr. Harrison, I would say that you will have your pick of projects after tonight.”

“I’m grateful,” he replies, his expression earnest. “I couldn’t have done it without your husband’s faith in me. I owe him everything.”

“I’d say you did a fair bit yourself. I don’t know that many would have seen a bare plot of land and envisioned this in its place.”

“The vision is the easy part. It’s the execution that’s tricky.” He glances around the room. “Everyone wants to be in Miami these days. Your husband was right; construction has exploded at a pace we can barely keep up with. Money is pouring into the state. Everyone’s moving south.”

“Will you be leaving us, then? Heading on to other projects?”

“No,” Mr. Harrison replies. “I won’t be leaving you. There are still some things that your husband wants me to finish, projects he has planned now that you’re in the house. Sometimes it takes settling into a place to put your true mark on it, to learn its wants and needs.”

I’m struck again by the way he describes the house as though it is a living, breathing organism rather than an expensive heap of stone. What is the relationship like between creator and creation—does it border on obsession, will Marbrisa sink her teeth into Mr. Harrison and never let go, or is it possible for him to move on to the next project with little more than pride and fond memories?

“I imagine you’ll receive many offers after tonight.”

He smiles. “And here I thought you didn’t like my architectural style. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look quite so horrified when I showed them a set of plans as you did that first day.”

I flush. “I have little interest in architecture, Mr. Harrison.”

“Michael, please,” he interjects.

I smile, feeling a bit silly clinging to such formality with the man who designed the home we live in. “Michael. You must call me Anna, then.”

He takes another sip of his champagne. “Anna.”

“I know what I like, I confess, but I don’t have the right vocabulary to explain why I like it, to identify trends. I want my home to feel comfortable. I want to be at peace there. Beyond that I’m unsure,” I say.

“And here? At Marbrisa? Do you think you could be at peace here?”

“I hope so.”

It’s difficult to imagine finding peace within the walls of a museum.

My life is not a peaceful one, my husband not a restful man. When you are busy building empires, you do not spend a great deal of time worrying about your own comfort because you are constantly looking to the next thing, the subsequent conquest.

“I see you walking around the gardens in the morning,” Michael adds. “You look at peace there. Sometimes you even smile. You can’t completely hate it.”

“I do like the gardens,” I clarify, feeling ungracious considering I know how much they have been a pet project of his. “When I’m outside, I feel like I can breathe a bit more. Inside this house—”

I wrap my arms around myself, a chill sliding through me despite the sticky humidity in the air.

“Do you have a family back in Chicago?” I ask, eager to change the subject from my silly feelings about the house.

He shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. “No, no wife who is eagerly awaiting my return. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m dedicated to my work. I have little time—or interest—in other things. I’m certain I would make a terrible—and absent-minded—husband.”

It hits me then, full force, that in all this time that I’ve resented the architect, I’ve also secretly envied him. My days are largely my own, but it feels as though I drift from activity to activity without any constant to guide me. Robert comes and goes with work, and he is the clock and calendar around which I order myself, my needs adjusting to his, my schedule conforming to his plans. There’s nothing that gives me purpose, no passion that sparks the enthusiasm in my eyes I see reflected in Michael’s.

I am not concerned with legacy, not in the same way that Robert is, but I can’t help but think that if something happened to me, if I one day left this world, my life would have been defined by very little.

I am a wife, and it brings me peace and joy, but without Robert in my life, who am I?

I push away the maudlin thoughts, the whisper of worry, with another sip of champagne.

Robert isn’t going anywhere.

A scream pierces the night.