Finding Eden (39 page)

We looked around for things we might have left there, but there was no trace of anything. The kids played and splashed at the edge of the spring as Eden and I enjoyed simply watching their innocent joy. We sat against the same rock I had leaned against so long ago as I’d sketched. My arm was around Eden, her head on my shoulder. We squinted upwards to see an eagle circling above us, the sky a soft, peaceful blue.

Here, I had fallen desperately in love with a girl and she had offered herself to me with her whole, beautifully tender heart. Here, we had shown each other how to be brave, what it was to truly be known. Here,  we had learned how to
live
. Perhaps the land over the cellar was hallowed ground, but this place…this place was holy, too. This was the place where I had first found Eden.

When we were ready, we gathered our kids and went back through the opening in the rock. As Eden was ducking through ahead of me, she glanced back at the spring and then up into my eyes, her gaze tender and full of love. My breath caught. She smiled a smile I had seen a thousand times at this spring, and a thousand times since. I smiled back, realizing in that moment the depth of heartache and love, hurt and forgiveness we had experienced since the last time we were here. And my heart filled with gratitude for all of it, even the pain, because it had brought us here, to this very moment.

We ascended slowly and took the path to the main lodge. When we reached it, we stood looking up at what once had looked like the grandest place on earth. We walked around to the far side and Eden gasped softly. Morning glories vined up the wood, over the windows and all the way up to the roof, filling in the cracks, and covering up the ugliness. The whole side of the house was covered in deep blue beauty, each yellow center looking just like a light shining out from the middle.

And as I stood there with my family, I realized, in the end, it was the beauty that had taken over. It was the beauty we looked upon. And when we walked away from Acadia that day, it was the
beauty
we attached to our hearts.

July 4

“You look beautiful tonight,” I heard myself say.

“Thank you. I’d hoped you’d like this dress.”

We stopped walking just under the trellis and next to a corner of the house. From here, we couldn’t see the rest of the party, but we could hear everything. Hundreds of people stood just a few feet away from us, and they’d come looking for us soon. We had commitments and expectations to fulfill, but at that moment, my eyes and my attention were on her.

Only her. 

“Did you wear it just for me?” I said.

“Yes,” she said under her breath. “Just for you. I do everything just for you…”

She didn’t say anything more because I didn’t allow it. My mouth covered hers in a rough, intense kiss. I gripped her face with one hand and the small of her back with the other, crushing me to her in a split second of passion that didn’t have any boundaries, broke every rule, and defied everything that made sense in my life. My tongue twisted and shoved against hers, and she opened beneath me as our kisses deepened. Before long, I moved her up against the ivy wall of the house, and there we were, locked together in a moment that somehow we’d claimed as ours and ours alone. 

I only broke the kiss when she moaned against my mouth. Something about the sound made me remember where we were. Who I was. What we were doing. How wrong it all was from the standpoint of everything I had ever been taught.

No. We couldn’t do this. No. No. No.

Someone might see us.

Had they already?

“I’m sorry,” I said as I forced our lips apart. I took an immediate step away from her, but it did little to calm us down. Her breath came out hard and fast, a series of quick pants as if she hadn’t wanted to breathe while we kissed.

And I don’t know what unsettled me more: the kissing or the look of extreme pleasure she had on her face.

“I am… I’m… I should go.” I said.

Without another word, I turned and disappeared down the pathway, leaving her alone against the ivy.

June

The house where I grew up sat at the end of a long, gravel driveway.

Chadwick Gardens had an iron gate at the entrance of the property, a large nameplate, and two long rows of hedges that guided cars up the road and to a circular drive that wrapped around a large fountain. Behind the fountain stood one of the largest homes in Hamilton County. A home that over the years had reminded every photographer who came to the house of a large estate somewhere on the moors of England, not a mansion on the outskirts of a mid-size Midwestern city like Cincinnati. When I saw the house again after two years away, I should have felt the foreboding, menacing melancholy that would come to define my time there. But I didn’t. I just felt impressed and even comforted.

Money. My family had money. A lot of it. We’d never lacked for material things, and the house always proved that to everyone. The land alone cost one million. In Cincinnati, the Chadwick name came decorated in cash, real estate, access, club memberships, exclusive invitations, and antiques. That summer, I stood poised to make my first of many claims to the fortune. After 24 years of just living in the shadows of Chadwick Gardens, the time had come to take a piece of what I always had known would be mine.

I just needed to hold it together long enough to prove to everyone in the family that I could handle it. I knew I could. Would. I would hold it together, get my hands on the fortune, and not let anything—or anyone—stop that.

“Here we are, Mr. Chadwick,” said Henry, our longtime house manager. He sat in the driver’s seat of my father’s 1990 vintage Mercedes, and his clammy, liver spotted hands gripped the wheel as if he worried he’d return it to the garage with a scratch or, even worse, a dent. After all this time, that car had only 15,000 miles on it, and the interior leather had never cracked. My father only allowed it to come out for special occasions, and he loved that car more than he loved his children.

“We’re home.”

“Home,” I said from the back seat. “Home sweet home.”

Chadwick Gardens never failed to impress as the piece de resistance of a family fortune that hit $175 million in the last decade. People who drove up to the front of the house for the first time always had the same expression when they saw the house—open mouths and wide eyes. Some of them even struggled with what to say. Plenty of homes in Greater Cincinnati qualified as mansions, but few could be called “estates.” Chadwick Gardens left no doubt about its rightful place. And oh, how my Dad loved playing Lord of the Manor on this expansive property. Dad relished the idea of a dynasty, and he let everyone know that Chadwick Gardens was the right place to grow one.

Now that I had returned home, I could resume my role as crown prince. As long as things went my way.

They would. There was no other way.

“We’re happy to have you back,” Henry said. He still had his hands on the steering wheel. 

“You are?” I glanced down at the clock on my iPhone. 5:33PM. Saturday. June 15th. Back on US soil for the first time in 24 months, and back home after a day and a half of travel. Whatever home meant now, of course.

“Yes, we are. Thrilled, really. It’s been so long since you’ve been home.” He swallowed, considering his words. “I know Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick were sorry they’re still in Europe for your big homecoming.”

I scoffed.

“Tell me how you really feel,” Henry said.

“They’re in Tuscany, still, right?” They’d emailed me an itinerary, but like most emails from them over the last couple of years, I had only skimmed it. 

“Yes, they’re in Tuscany until tomorrow. Then on to Lake Como. And Mrs. Chadwick says they miss you.”

I caught Henry’s eyes in the reflection of the rearview mirror as the car pulled into the circle of the drive. “We both know they don’t miss me, Henry.”

“Mrs. Chadwick does. She told me last night over the phone.”

“But not my father. He hasn’t missed me a day in his life. And certainly not for the last few years.”

Henry sighed. “You know how your father is. He’s very … particular.”

“That’s an understatement,” I said as Henry parked the Mercedes. “More like unforgiving.”

“He’ll come around, son.” Henry pushed open the car door. “I promise. He’ll come around. Two years is long enough for things to change.”

“You’re telling me.” 

“You could have come home some and tried to talk to him.”

I shook my head. “Wouldn’t have worked.”

“But traveling around Europe on your off time from the Peace Corps did?”

“It was only a few weeks,” I said, flinching. “Amsterdam in particular was very helpful.”

Henry chose to not press me on the implications of that comment, which would have launched me into a couple of watered down stories about the Venice of the North that didn’t include the red light district or the sweet taste of the pot.

“You could have timed your return so that your dad and Linda wouldn’t have been out of town.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” I said. “Too much at once.”

I tasted disgust in the back of my mouth. If I wanted to succeed, then I had to reenter life at Chadwick Gardens on my terms, and not my father’s. I’d only win this poker game by keeping my cards against my chest.

“But I still think—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I folded my arms across my chest. Conversation over.

“You know, I’ve been with this family for twenty years. And I see things…”

“This is the way I wanted it,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Have it your way, son.” Henry sounded defeated.