Love the One You Hate
“Nope, I’m all set.”
He issues a curt nod and then reaches back to open the passenger door for me. I slide onto the seat, immediately aware of the rich leather smell as he shuts the door behind me.
The cupholders hold an unopened bottle of water and a little bag filled with an array of snacks: English biscuits I don’t recognize, a granola bar that looks like it would taste like bark, and some toffee. I don’t touch any of it. I don’t touch anything, in fact, outside of buckling my seatbelt. When that’s done, I place my hands on my thighs and leave them there.
When the driver retakes his seat, he straightens his rearview mirror then glances back at me.
“My name is Frank. I’m one of the drivers employed by the Cromwell family. If you need anything during the drive, I’d be happy to assist you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“We should arrive in about an hour.”
“An hour!?”
“Yes. Occasionally, I can get to Newport in less time, but not with this traffic.”
Newport.
It occurs to me now that I should have asked where Rosethorn is located, but then I don’t even know what Rosethorn is. Another nursing home? Please god no.
I had just assumed the driver would be taking me somewhere in Providence, but now that I know I’m wrong, it feels too late to pump the brakes—literally. Frank has already pulled away from the curb, and I’d look like a crazy person if I asked him to pull back over so I could leap out of the car. So instead, I sit quietly. We don’t say a word to each other for the entire drive. He keeps the radio dialed in to classical music, and I love every minute of it. I can’t remember the last time I listened to music like this, uninterrupted, with Rhode Island’s early summer landscape whipping past the windows.
The farther from Providence we travel, the more water splashes across the scene. Small pockets turn into expansive bays that stretch to the horizon. Once we’re on Aquidneck Island, we continue south until Memorial Boulevard takes us to the very tip of the world. I look out onto a sandy beach hosting a few brave souls as we climb a steep hill that eventually deposits us onto a road lined with shops that look straight out of a theme park. They’re all perfectly matching, a long line of two-story Tudor-style townhomes with green scalloped-edged awnings announcing cafes and art galleries, tennis shops and boutiques. We pass them by and then continue on into a neighborhood—at least that’s the only word I can think of to describe this place. Each house we pass is slightly bigger than the last. Properties expand. Gates grow toward the sky until it’s impossible to make out what’s concealed behind them.
I’ve heard of Newport; everyone in Rhode Island has. I’m pretty sure the rumors are only half true, but the story goes that there’s no world more exclusive, no property values more expensive. The difference between the Hamptons and Newport, as I’ve heard it, is that the Hamptons are where people move when they have a few million to spare. Newport, on the other hand, doesn’t have a price tag. The mansions here aren’t sold; they’re inherited.
I think of what it would be like to see one of them, almost working up the nerve to ask Frank if we can stop just to take a quick peek behind one of the gates, but then he clicks his blinker on and pulls off the road to the left, onto a long drive.
My first thought is that he’s headed in the wrong direction and needs to make a U-turn, but then he pulls up to a soaring limestone-framed gate with a pair of heavy copper gas lanterns, and he presses a button on the remote mounted on his sun visor.
The huge iron doors swing open and we pass through. At the last moment, before the gate disappears from view, I turn back to glance over my shoulder and notice the delicate word formed by scrolling ironwork at the very top.
Rosethorn.4MarenI’m standing in a room waiting for Cornelia to join me. Just like when I was inside the Range Rover, I’m scared to touch anything. The housekeeper who brought me in here told me to make myself at home, but I don’t dare. I hover near the door, off the carpet. I feel compelled to take off my shoes, but I don’t. I’m not sure my socks are any cleaner, and besides, I’m not sure what the etiquette is when you’re a guest at a palace.
Yes, palace.
One so grand I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was originally built for some long-deceased French king, one of the Louis, probably. From the front gate, I witnessed Rosethorn come into view through a dense forest of trees, nearly unbelieving as I took in its proud two-story marble facade. It boasted thick columns and arched windows accompanied by carefully trimmed boxwoods and soaring cypress trees. A pair of lions ushered me into the front entry with its glistening floors and hanging portraits.