Page 48 of The Holiday

"Oh," Carmela said, tilting her head to one side thoughtfully. "Just one thing? Hmmm." She paused, thinking about it for a beat. "Well, I think the way she always treated my kids was a true indication of her character. She came here when we first met and took a real interest in their education and where they went to school, and over the years, she's never once forgotten their birthdays--any of them. She sent cards and gifts. She took a special interest in Felix and how he was doing, and I always appreciated that. I thought it went above and beyond the call of duty.”

I considered this. Perhaps for a former First Lady, some relationships were duty-bound; maybe some of the communication and good deeds Ruby had done were because she felt an obligation of sorts. And maybe a part of her connection to Carmela and the kids was because she knew it was what Patty would have wanted. And I would have understood that entirely. But knowing Ruby as I did, I felt in my gut that when she took an interest in someone—especially a child—she meant it from the bottom of her heart.

“I know she was exceedingly fond of all of you,” I said to Carmela sincerely. “And I can tell you that on the table in our living room—the one where she kept framed photos of her girls, her parents, her friends, her family—she had a framed photo of you and your kids.”

“Oh!” Carmela said, putting a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with surprise. “She did?”

“She did. Always. And I think she would have wanted you to know how much she liked and admired you as a woman and as a mother, and how her contact with you was not solely out of a sense of duty to her mother. She really thought of you as an extension of the family.”

Without warning, tears began to stream down Carmela’s face, and for a long moment, she couldn’t speak. With her hand pressed to her chest, she simply nodded. “That’s…wow, Dexter. That’s amazing. It means so much to me to hear that.”

We leaned against the railing together, both facing the water so that Carmela could let her tears dry. I’d known that seeing her in New York was just going to be a brief hello, but what I hadn’t expected was that our chat would give me a glimpse into another part of Ruby’s heart. I had to admit to myself that there were times when I wondered how she truly felt about her mother’s relationship with Carmela, or even the nuts and bolts details of Patty gifting Carmela an expensive piece of real estate, but I’d never asked. It wasn’t truly my business.

But seeing Carmela in New York brought me something different than my visits with everyone else so far. Rather than sitting down with someone who could tell me fabulous, amazing, flattering things about a woman who I’d already known was a stellar human being, it had given me the opportunity to deliver to Carmela some words of comfort. In essence, rather than meeting her to gather more tidbits about Ruby that warmed my own heart, I got to see Carmela and give her a piece of Ruby that settled something in her. And it felt good.

It felt like something Ruby would have wanted, and it turned out to be one of the highlights of this journey, if I’m being honest with you and with myself. This was most definitely the kind of thing Ruby would have approved of.

We watched the East River together that Saturday morning until Carmela had to get home to relieve Felix’s caregiver at noon, and then I headed to the airport.

I had a few more people I needed to see.

* * *

London was rainy and chilly. The streets were slick with rain, and people ducked under eaves, hiding their heads beneath umbrellas. I spent three days in a Hilton in Hyde Park that was just nice enough to keep me comfortable, and just cozy enough against the rain, that I never wanted to leave. I wrote, I ordered room service, I watched bad TV—basically, I hibernated. I’d always been cerebral and solitary, but, since losing Ruby, I’d found that I needed to be alone sometimes and just power down from the world. It kept me going.

At the end of the third day, I had over a hundred pages of this manuscript done, and it felt good. It felt like I’d cracked open my heart and my skull and poured everything onto the page, and I knew I had something worth keeping. But I’d gone to London to see two very important people, and so I showered that evening, shaved, and put on something other than sweatpants for the first time in days.

Marigold and Cobb lived in Hampstead Heath, an area situated high above London, and in one of the city’s biggest parks. The houses were beautiful, the area picturesque, and as my taxi dropped me off in front of their stately brick home. I stood there for a moment in my dark jeans, dark blazer, and white shirt, just staring up at their four-story home as the rain speckled the lenses of my glasses. Marigold and Cobb had left Shipwreck Key about ten years prior to live the rest of their lives (these were their words at their farewell party on the island) in Cobb’s home country, and as far as I could see, they were doing it in style.

“Dexter!” Marigold stood in the doorway, beaming down at me. I climbed the four brick steps up to the front door, which was painted black and had an impressive amount of gold hardware, as well as an ornate carving overhead. “You look amazing,” she said, pulling me into a fragrant hug.

Marigold, a former supermodel, was still absolutely stunning in her mid-70s. She had taken up an intense regime of yoga at some point, and her moves now seemed fluid and unbroken by time. After writing a book about aging gracefully and the difficulties of doing just that in our society, she’d really doubled-down and made it a lifestyle, eschewing any sort of artificial anti-aging treatments. In her softly lined face, I saw a world of life experience, of sadness, of joy, and of living. Her hair, cut to her shoulders and still tinted a light red-brown, was wavy and gentle, and she wore light makeup and heavy jewelry.

“Come in,” Marigold said, stepping back so that I could come in out of the rain.

The foyer was grand, with marble floors, high ceilings, expensive-looking artwork, and a blooming orchid so well-cared for that it looked like it might be a member of the family. “Thank you for having me,” I said, holding out the bottle of wine I’d picked up in the hotel’s gift shop. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you, Dex,” Marigold said, walking through the foyer and into a bright, shiny kitchen. I followed her, and there on the marble island was a charcuterie board and an open bottle of wine already breathing. “Our cook has the day off,” she said apologetically, “so I kept things simple and made a huge garden salad, fresh bread, and a cake for dessert.”

“Goldie,” I promised her, “this is far better than I eat when I’m alone. I’m pretty much doing soup out of a can and a grilled cheese sandwich most of the time.”

“Oh, you are not!” she said with a tinkling laugh. I watched her moving around her kitchen in a long, cashmere sweater that hung from her still-sharp shoulders. Her posture was impeccable, the gold on her wrists, neck, and ears shining beneath the soft canned lights in the ceiling. I found it hard to be around Ruby’s contemporaries sometimes, imagining what she might have been like had her body not been ravaged by illness, her life cut short by the disease.

I swallowed against this sensation, trying to send it away. “It’s true. I’m good at being alone, but I’m not good at being on my own, if that makes sense.”

She paused, her back to me as she stood at the open refrigerator. “Actually, it does. I can spend a fair amount of time in my own head, even being alone in the house, but having no one to answer to…” She closed the fridge and turned to me with watery eyes. “I don’t know, Dex. I kind of live in fear of that.”

It was a bold admission, and I didn’t want to sweep it away carelessly. “Don’t live in fear of it,” I warned her, “but just be aware that it might happen. And it’s not easy. You need people.”

“Like us?” she asked hopefully, busying herself with pouring us each a glass of wine. “I’m so glad you’re seeing old friends.”

“Me too,” I said, accepting the glass of wine. I looked around her open kitchen, with its immaculate countertops and cabinets, and the stately table and chairs sitting beneath a chandelier. In a house like this, I imagined there was also a formal dining room somewhere, but the kitchen appeared to be the heart of the house, and the table was set for three. “How is Cobb?” I sipped my wine.

Marigold took a deep breath and picked up a cracker and a small sliver of cheese from the charcuterie board. I did the same.

“Cobb is alright,” she said carefully, nibbling at her cracker. “He turned eighty this spring, and he seems unaware of that fact. He won’t slow down.”

This is not what I expected. Because we were alone in the kitchen, I’d assumed that perhaps Cobb was resting or that he might even be sitting in another room and waiting for us to come to him. I hadn’t been sure of his health or mobility when I’d reached out to Marigold to see if we could meet.

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