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He lifts our joined hands, kissing my knuckles. “But now, I’m not alone.”
“Never will be again,” I tell him, meaning it.
With my free hand, I reach over to tuck his hair behind his ear. It’s longer than he usually wears it, more like it was when we first met, and I feel a sudden rush of affection.
He’s doing this for me. Walking back into the lion’s den because I asked him to. Because he loves me.
Guilt is oily and hot in my stomach.
Tell him,an insistent voice whispers.Tell him now, while there’s still time. Because if he finds out after you arrive…
But we’re almost there. We’re so close now, and soon, everything I’ve done will be worth it. And Iwilltell him. All of it, the whole story, no lies between us, just like it’s always been.
But not now. Not yet.
North Carolina has its share of beautiful homes. This is, after all, where you can find the world-famous Biltmore Estate, palatial home of the Vanderbilts.
Ashby House, just a few miles away in Tavistock, is not as grand and certainly a good deal more private—no tours here, I’m afraid!—but should you find yourself in the area, it’s worth the time to drive as far as the gates. In spring and summer, you’ll be lucky to see a chimney, but once the leaves fall, glimpses of the magnificent McTavish family home can be seen.
Built in 1904 by lumber magnate Alexander McTavish, the house is as eccentric as the family who owns it. Part Victorian, part Palladian, it features smooth gray stone and peaked roofs, marble patios and leaded windows. It should not work and yet, miraculously—almost mystically—it does. Guests of the home have commented that there’s something about Ashby House that makes you feel as if the rest of the world does not exist. As if you could stay safely tucked behind its walls forever and want for nothing else.
Originally called, rather fancifully, The Highlands, it was renamed in 1938 by Mason McTavish in honor of his (much younger) bride, Anna Ashby. Tragedy struck the home in 1943 when Mason and Anna’s young daughter, Ruby, was kidnapped from the forest surrounding Ashby House, but, as is befitting such a magical home, the story had a fairy-tale ending when Ruby was safely returned to her parents nearly a year later.
Ruby McTavish would eventually marry several times, and inherited the home when her father passed away in 1968. Widowed for a final time in 1985, Ms. McTavish resided in the home with her younger sister, Nelle, and several other family members before passing away in 2013.
The current owner is her adopted son, Camden.
––“Hidden Gems: Houses off the Beaten Path”
Southern Manors Magazine,June 2021
From the Desk of Ruby A. McTavish
March 14, 2013
I have to admit, I almost wasn’t going to write this today.
I know, I know, I promised you, but what is that saying? “Promises are like piecrusts, made to be broken.”
I’ve never made a piecrust, actually. Maybe I should learn? Probably too late now. Shocking how soon the “too late now” part of your life arrives. When you’re young, there’s nothing but possibility, just an endless line of tomorrows, and then you wake up one day and realize that no, you cannot move to Paris on a whim because so many of those old buildings don’t have elevators and stairs are hell on your knees now. And besides, you never learned to speak French, and now your brain, once so fresh and spongy and ready to soak up knowledge, feels about as pliable as a peach pit.
I could tell you to learn from an old lady, to not let the “too late now” moments surprise you, too, but it won’t do any good. No one listens to old ladies.
I certainly didn’t.
In fact, if I’d listened to one particular old lady, this next part of the story might never have happened. Which, I think most people would agree, would’ve been for the best.
But even now, evenknowingwhat came after, I can’t bring myself to regret rejecting Mrs. Sidney’s advice when it came to Duke Callahan.
Oh, yes, my dear. We’re finally at the first of my husbands.
(Finally.That’s the word you’d use, isn’t it? Please bear in mind that I have made you read exactlyonefucking letter thus far and that it was only around ten pages. You come by your impatience naturally, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.)
(Also, please note that I wrote that word again. I think I’m going to try to write it once per letter. And now I worry I’ve wasted it here when I could probably put it to better use later. Ah, well.)
I knewofDuke Callahan long before I met him. Everyone did. His father was even richer than mine, a tobacco millionaire with an estate in Asheville, a horse breeding operation in Kentucky, a penthouse in Manhattan, a pied-à-terre in Paris, and, rumor had it, a beautiful mistress installed in each location.
Duke was his eldest son and heir, the crown prince of Edward Callahan’s kingdom, his father’s pride and joy—and also the thorn in his side. The story was that Edward had named his son Duke because that’s how certain he was that the boy would follow his lead and play football for Duke University, but Duke was nothing if not his own man. He went to Yale instead, and his father had, briefly, disowned him.
