“Ariana, it’s Maren. Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you to let you know I moved. I’m actually in Newport…” I let the sentence dwindle, unsure of how many details I want to give her. “It’s a long story, but I think I might be here for a while. I got a new job. Kind of.” I shake my head. “Anyway, I’ll leave the address for you just in case. I hope you’re doing okay. I miss you.”
When I set the phone back down and look around the rose garden suite, I’m made aware of the sharp contrast between where Ariana likely is right now and where I am. I stare down at the cream and white striped sweater I’m wearing paired with designer jeans and navy flats. My hair and makeup are perfectly applied. My nails are painted a soft pink. I want to ridicule all of it. How ridiculous that Cornelia thinks she can just put me up in this room and dress me up like a doll, but it’s actually…nice. I like this nail color, and these jeans are better than my old ones.
I want to find Cornelia’s entire world utterly absurd. I try to pick out the frivolity and concentrate on it, but it’s hard. Yes, on the surface, her every wish is granted. Every meal is decadent. Every outfit costs more than I dare to find out. Her world is filled with carnival attractions around every corner, and I doubt everything is as pearly white as it’s made out to be.
And yet, I think there’s more to discover.
One morning, when Collins brings in my breakfast, I ask him if he likes his job here. To me, it seems like an off-the-cuff question, but he stops in his tracks and turns to me with his thick white brows pinched together above his eyes.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious. I… Cornelia asks so much of you all, and I—”
“And if she didn’t ask, what then? I’d be out of a job.”
I blink rapidly, taking in his words.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
His expression softens and he nods. “My parents both worked at Rosethorn before me. My father was Edward Cromwell’s butler, my mother Cornelia’s lady’s maid. They were both rewarded handsomely for their servitude and loyalty, and I’ve found the same home for myself here. Cornelia might be traditional and formal in her home, but she’s also one of the most generous humans I’ve ever known.”
As if the universe isn’t done proving that point, Collins’ words are hammered home over the next few days.
On Monday, Cornelia opens her doors to the children of St. Michael’s Day School so they can use her blue drawing room for music lessons. All morning the sound of children singing fills the house. Tuesday, Cornelia welcomes the Historical Society of Newport for a luncheon and lecture about preserving the Gilded Age mansions along Bellevue Avenue, Rosethorn being among them. I sit in for the meeting and take notes. On Thursday, during tea, Cornelia sits down with a slightly hysterical woman. She’s stressed about the fact that the venue has fallen through for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation annual luncheon, and without missing a beat, Cornelia offers up Rosethorn’s gardens.
“We’ll host it here. Have your planners coordinate with Diane.”
“I can help too,” I volunteer.
The woman turns to me with tears in her eyes, and Cornelia nods. “Yes, perfect. Maren will sit in during our planning meetings and help me remember the details. She’s very good at taking notes.”
I can’t be sure, but I think she’s making fun of me for that historical society meeting. Then her wink confirms it.
“You two are absolute angels. You have no idea how much this means to me and to the organization.”
Later that day, I’m helping Cornelia organize her closet so we can pull a few items for Dress for Success, or at least that’s how it started. We did stack up a large pile of blazers and slacks and sensible heels, but now we’re just playing dress-up, putting on the most ridiculous accessories we can find.
“You look like a movie star in those,” she assures me as I tip a pair of cat eye sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and give her a teasing wink over the top of them. “You have to keep them.”
“No way. They’re Chanel,” I say. “Even I know that brand.”
“Yes, and I haven’t worn them in years. Better that you take them.”
I slide the glasses off and put them right back where I found them, pointing to a small box in the corner of the room as a way to distract her from the topic.
“What are those?”
The box I’m referring to is overflowing with plaques and awards. Two or three have actually tumbled out and are leaning against the side of the cardboard container. When I step closer, I see they’re from all different organizations: the Audubon Society of Newport, the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Words like Top Donor and Woman of the Year stand out along with Cornelia’s name.