Epilogue
FIVE DAYS. How much difference can five days make in the life of a family? So many layers of experience mount up, and the cracks are replastered and new touch-up paint is applied, but the architecture of the relationships remains the same. Still, every now and then there is a moment, a glimpse of what might have been and what still could be. Forget the artifice of redecorating—what if the support beams were demolished and replaced by sturdy new construction? During five magical days in Maine, Brooke Astor, at ninety-eight, knew that something special was occurring. A beatific smile played constantly over her expressive features.
Family visits chez Astor usually occurred en masse, with four generations offering homage at the table. But in the summer of 2000, Tony and Charlene Marshall scheduled their visit to Brooke in mid-July, stayed for three weeks, and departed on August 6. So when Philip Marshall and Nan Starr drove up to Cove End on August 21 with Winslow, nine, and Sophie, seven, in the back seat, they anticipated a rare experience—they would have Brooke all to themselves.
When Tony and Charlene were with them, family tensions inevitably surfaced. “We were freer to be ourselves than when other family members were there,” says Nan. “Being relaxed and happy came more naturally.” Brooke, to be sure, was adept at stoking intergenerational rivalries in the family. She turned things into a competition about who loved her the most; it was as if she couldn’t help herself. Years earlier at Holly Hill, Brooke had offered Philip an old side table from the attic; after he carried it downstairs, Tony spied it and promptly claimed the prize for himself. Brooke let it pass, although she must have noticed the struggle between father and son.
Cove End is full of nooks for children to explore. Once the Marshall family had unpacked—a major production, since Brooke required re-sort wear during the day and jackets and dresses for dinner—at the spacious two-story guest cottage by the water, they made their way along a wooded path to the main house, where Brooke waited. Winslow stopped by the Chinese gong and banged it with delight, an exuberant way of emphasizing “We’re here!”
Brooke was eager to tell them about the plans she had made. It would be a busy few days, but there would still be time for lolling around. Her staff would take care of anything they needed. Chris Ely was there—he was always there—and Sophie and Winslow greeted him warmly. They associated him with fun, since Easter Sunday at Holly Hill was one of the butler’s fortes, and he decorated the house with stuffed Peter Rabbit dolls and toys just for them.
That first night at Cove End, Brooke was in storytelling mode, happily regaling her grandson and great-grandchildren with stories of her globe-trotting girlhood. “She had all these trinkets in the house, and they’d end up being props for stories,” recalls Philip. “She’d pick something up—‘Here’s a box with a little splinter of bloodstained wood from Nelson’s mortal wound at the Battle of Trafalgar.’” When it was time to move into the dining room for dinner, Winslow offered his arm to his great-grandmother. She could not believe it—such perfect manners for a nine-year-old boy. That was Nan’s doing; she worked hard to raise well-behaved children. As Sophie recalls, “Every time we went to see Gagi, we had to be on our best behavior. We had to sit up straight and not start eating until she started and put our napkins in our lap.” Winslow adds, “And not drink the water out of the finger bowls.”
While having breakfast in bed the next morning, Brooke spoke fondly about Sophie and Winslow to her housekeeper, Alicia Johnson. “She loved the little girl,” recalls Johnson. “Mrs. Astor said, ‘She danced for me.’ She thought Philip’s son was such a little gentleman—he had a tie on at dinner. She was proud of Philip.”
Brooke had chartered a boat that day to explore the waters off Mount Desert Island in search of seals. The family posed for a photograph on the waterfront. In a white straw hat, pearls, a green blouse, white pants, and a stylish white coat, Brooke is beaming in the center of the picture. On the left, Philip, balding and tall, wearing a windbreaker, a polo shirt, and shorts, is grinning, his arms around his shyly smiling daughter. On the right, Nan, short-haired and athletic, looks affectionately at the camera, resting her hands on Winslow’s shoulders. On the boat, Philip sat close to Brooke, whispering in her ear as they bounded over the deep blue water with the mountains in the background.
At Cove End the next day, Annette de la Renta arrived by private plane from the Dominican Republic, just for lunch, in an extravagant gesture of affection. “I’d never met any of them,” says Annette. “Brooke didn’t talk so much about them.” Here she was, Brooke’s closest friend, and yet Brooke’s grandson and his family were strangers. Brooke was the queen of New York, the world’s most famous philanthropist, a best-dressed icon, and her family had never come first. But now she was Gagi, an affectionate matriarch trying on a new role extremely late in life. “I saw her having a great time. Her great-grandchildren were all dressed up and performing for her,” Annette recalls. “It was nice to see Brooke that way.”
Brooke wanted to share her family with yet another close friend, so David Rockefeller came over for lunch the next day. The group got into a lively discussion about the upcoming presidential election. As Nan recalls, “Brooke and I were trying to convince David to vote Democratic.” Brooke, once a GOP stalwart, was annoyed that George and Barbara Bush, unlike previous presidents, had not included her at state dinners, although they were social acquaintances. “She was a little offended,” says Rockefeller. “She felt that the Bushes had not paid a lot of attention to her.”
Gagi was not lacking for attention during this visit. Sophie and Winslow tried to entertain her with their athletic talent. “She was impressed when I was doing back flips into the pool,” Sophie recalls. “I did gymnastics in her yard, cartwheels—she liked that.”
At the end of the five days, Brooke had an impulsive inspiration: she decided to give Philip and Nan the cottage by the water. She loved them; they loved Maine; it would make her happy to imagine Sophie and Winslow cavorting for decades to come. Of course, if she had given this gesture much thought, she would have known that Tony would be irked. But the property was hers, and she was already leaving Tony so much—Park Avenue and Holly Hill and the main house at Cove End. What could a single cottage matter?
What stayed with Nan was Philip’s happiness. “It was really, really important to Philip for the kids to have a connection to their great-grandmother, and not for any reason but sentiment,” she says. “He wanted some normalcy. He romanticizes those days, but it meant so much to him.”
Brooke said her goodbyes and the family drove away. The blue sky and ocean water, Brooke’s riotous garden of pinks and purples, Sophie in a blue dress at the swim club, Winslow in a yellow life jacket—all now photos for the scrapbook. Five days in the life of a family is so little time, but sometimes the memories, and their repercussions, can last forever.