I called Isabelle, but she insisted it was probably pregnancy hormones and that I should call my doctor, which I was in the midst of doing until Marta barged in with a question about Hudson’s packing list—like I would have the answers anyway.
But I don’t think it’s hormones.
It’s nerves. Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me it’s not too late to back out as long as I do it now.
“Here.” Hudson hands me a chilled bottle of Fiji water from a built-in cooler.
I remove the cap and try my hardest not to chug the entire thing in one go. The forecast today was calling for a high in the upper seventies, but it may as well be a scorching ninety-nine degrees the way my body’s behaving.
Fanning myself, I press the window button until the glass drops and I’m greeted with a burst of tepid city air.
“Mari.” Hudson laughs. “Good God. You need to stop getting yourself worked up. My family doesn’t bite. I promise.”
Turning to him, I swallow a lungful of air and take a generous swig of water. “It’s one thing to toss a ring on my finger and buy me a new wardrobe and meet my parents and take me on a few dates and kiss me and … everything else … but—”
“Mari, Mari. Stop.” Hudson scoots closer, placing my water in a nearby cup holder and taking both of my hands in his. It’s sweet, the way he’s trying to calm me down, and I still find myself wondering if I’m imagining this kinder side of him or if it’s been here all along. “Everything’s going to be fine. We can do this. You and me. We’ve got this.”
The limo crawls to a stop outside a wrought iron gate about three hours later. I can’t see beyond the wall of manicured shrubs and towering foliage, but I imagine what lies on the other side is nothing short of majestic.
A sign on the left reads Sea La Vie – A Private Residence. Rocco presses a call button, and within seconds, the heavy, polished gates welcome us in.
“Sea La Vie.” I read the sign quietly. “Cute.”
“It was my great-grandmother’s idea,” Hudson says. “This home has been in the family for generations.”
He gives my hand a squeeze before clearing his throat and narrowing his brows. It’s taken me this long to realize he changed out of his suit and tie get up and into a pair of crisp navy chinos and a white button down covered in a gray cashmere sweater. He’s finished the look with a pair of boat shoes, and he looks every bit the part of a Hamptons resident.
Glancing down at my ensemble, which consists of a white eyelet shift dress, nude sandals, and a floppy beach hat, I realize I do too.
Rocco navigates the limo around a circular drive. A bubbling sculpture fountain temporarily distracts me until we pass into the shadow of the mammoth estate. Covered in weathered shingles and three times as wide as it is tall, I have to wonder if Sea La Vie comes complete with its own zip code.
“Four … chimneys?” I ask. “Is one of them just for looks?”
I crack a chuckle, but clearly my Titanic joke falls on Hudson’s deaf ears.
Rocco wastes no time climbing out and grabbing the door for us, and the moment I step onto the brick-paved drive, the front doors swing open and a smiling Helena ushers her way toward us with open arms.
“Hudson,” she says, moving toward her son first. She deposits sweet, grazing kisses onto his cheeks before cupping them in her hands. “You look rested, dear.”
Rocco unloads our luggage and Helena strides toward me. It’s only when she takes my hands in hers and tilts her cherry face that I wonder if this is remotely the same woman I met before.
“It’s very nice to see you again, Maribel. I’m so glad you could join us,” she says. Hooking her arm into mine, she leads us past a woman dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform and through the main doors, which are even bigger than they looked from the driveway.
“Thank you for having me,” I say, trying not to gape at the sweeping entrance and the unobstructed view of the ocean. Two curved staircases flank the foyer, and straight ahead lies a wall of windows and sliding doors leading to a covered patio with billion dollar views. “Your home is lovely.”
“Why, thank you. You’re very kind to say that.” Helena places her hand over her chest, and I wonder how many times she’s had to pretend to be humble in this home. I don’t even think the Dalai Lama could be humble in a place like this.
“Mrs. Rutherford, where would you like me to take the bags?” Rocco asks from the doorway.
“Oh, yes. Hudson will be staying in the Roosevelt room,” she says it so nonchalant, like it’s nothing, like everyone names their bedrooms after dead presidents. “And we’ll be putting Maribel in the Kennedy suite.”
“Separate rooms, Mother?” Hudson chuckles, lifting a brow. “Is that really necessary?”
Helena’s smile fades. “It’s all in good taste. Anyway, I’m going to show Maribel to her room. Why don’t you meet us on the patio in a little while? The Sheffields will be here soon. I know they’re dying to meet our guest of honor.”
Helena links her arm in mine once more and leads me up the left-hand staircase, past a long hallway with portrait-covered walls, around a corner, down another endless hallway, until we stop outside a polished wooden door flanked by ocean-view windows.
With a quick twist of the door knob, she flicks the door open, her lips smiling wide as her hands lift at her sides.
“Welcome to the Kennedy suite,” she says, a proud yet scaled-back beam on her face. The room, shaped like half of a hexagon, has sweeping views of the sea below, a gorgeous four-poster bed, a writing desk, and a sky-high ceiling. “You have a private bath. This way.”
Helena takes me into a bathroom clearly ripped from the pages of Veranda magazine. I trace my fingertip along the white marble counters before eyeing the sparkling claw foot tub in the corner, resting beneath a crystal chandelier.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Helena gave me the best room in the house. Maybe it’s her way of apologizing for our last encounter?
“I hope you’ll be comfortable during your stay,” she says, turning to me.
I don’t realize it until I try to respond, but my jaw is hanging wide open.
“This room, this suite,” I say, eyes wide. “It’s stunning. Thank you so much, Helena.”
“Almost forgot,” she says, placing a finger in the air and striding back to the bedroom. “These flowers are for you.”
I hadn’t noticed the giant bouquet of white peonies until she said something.
“You’ll have fresh flowers in your room each week during your stay,” Helena bends slightly, bringing her nose to the top of a stem. “If you prefer another type of flower, just let me know.”
“Peonies are my favorite.”
“A girl after my own heart.” Helena winks. I think I like Helena now … at least this version of her. I can only hope it’s genuine.
“I wanted to tell you,” she says, placing her hand over her heart, “how truly sorry I am for the way I must have seemed when we first met. I guess … I guess I was in shock? And I felt somewhat disappointed that my only child had kept such a big, important announcement a secret from me. I didn’t mean to be so cold to you, Maribel. I hope you can forgive me.”