Ron Rash - Serena

The land leveled and then fell as they crossed the French Broad, the river brown and swollen from an afternoon rain. It was eventide and streetlights were flickering on as the Packard skirted Asheville. They crossed the Swannanoa River, then passed through the Biltmore Estate's main gate and began the winding three-mile drive to the mansion. The forest pressed close to the road, blotting out any light other than the Packard's beams.

The road curved and then straightened, revealing a grassy esplanade. Pemberton made the last turn, and the mansion appeared before them like a cliff of lights. Towers and spires surged upward in silhouette. Gargoyles leaned from the parapets, their scowling features backlit by the glow of windows. The limestone veneer bespoke solidity, a confidence that the Vanderbilt family's place in the world was beyond the vagaries of stock markets and industry.

"Chambord transported to the hinterlands," Serena said derisively as Pemberton braked, the Packard taking its place in line behind other cars.

At the mansion's main entrance, an attendant in black tails and top hat opened Serena's door and took the car keys. The Pembertons joined other guests walking up the wide steps. As they passed the marble lions, Serena placed her hand on Pemberton's forearm, held it firmly as she leaned closer and kissed him softly on the cheek. As she did, Pemberton felt some of his disquiet begin to lift.

They waited for three couples ahead of them to enter. Pemberton placed his hand on the small of Serena's back and moved his hand downward. Pemberton felt the silk cool against his fingers and palm as he caressed the flank of her upper hip. An image came back to him with such vividness that it might have been framed before him in glass-Serena in the dawn light of her Revere Street apartment, laying her Ram's Head overcoat on a chaise lounge as Pemberton entered the room behind her. She hadn't offered him something to drink or a place to sit, or even offered to take his coat. She'd only offered him herself, turning with her left hand already on the dress's green strap, pulling it off her shoulder and letting it fall, exposing the pale globe of her breast, the ruddy nipple beaded by the cold. The line shifted forward, bringing Pemberton out of his reverie.

In the entrance hall, a tuxedoed butler stepped forth and offered champagne flutes from a silver tray. Pemberton handed Serena one and took one for himself before they stepped forward to greet their hosts.

"Welcome to our domicile," John Cecil said, bowing after an exchange of names.

The host's left arm opened outward to the expansiveness behind him. Cecil's hand clasped Pemberton's as he kissed Serena demurely on the cheek. Cornelia Cecil stepped closer, let her lips brush Pemberton's cheek, then turned to Serena and embraced her.

"I'm so sorry, dear. Lydia Calhoun told me of your recent misfortune. To carry a child that long and lose it, such a terrible thing."

Mrs. Cecil broke the embrace but rested her hand on Serena's wrist.

"But you are here, and looking so well. That's something to be thankful for."

Serena's shoulders tensed as several other women came forth to offer condolences. Pemberton quickly took Serena's arm and told the women he needed his wife's presence for a few minutes. They walked to the far end of the room. As soon as they were alone, Serena took a long swallow from the crystal flute.

"I'll need another of these," she said as they made their way toward the music room.

In the music room a jazz band played "Saint Louis Blues." Several couples danced but most stood on the periphery with drinks in hand. Serena and Pemberton lingered by the doorway.

"My partners," Harris said loudly as he came up behind them.

Accompanying Harris was a man in a tuxedo who looked to be in his fifties. Both men moved in unsteadily gaits, whiskey in hand. Harris clasped Pemberton's shoulder with his free hand.

"Bradley Calhoun," Harris said, nodding at the man beside him. "I'll go get Lowenstein."

As Harris walked off, Pemberton offered his hand. Calhoun's handshake was firm and confident, but it could not hide the palm's plump softness. Calhoun took Serena's hand and bestowed a kiss upon it, his drink sloshing as he did so. After he let go her hand, Calhoun brushed back a lock of long yellow-gray hair with a flourish.

"The woman who tames eagles," Calhoun said in a cultivated Southern accent. "Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Pemberton."

"I hope as a business partner as well," Serena replied.

Harris returned with Lowenstein, a man younger than Pemberton had expected. The New Yorker wore a dark-blue gabardine suit, which Pemberton assumed had been made in one of Lowenstein's own garment shops. Unlike the boisterous Calhoun, Lowenstein possessed the watchful reticence of a self-made man. Harris, his face already flushed by alcohol, raised his glass and the others did as well.

"To fortunes made in these mountains," Harris said, and they all drank.

"But why limit ourselves to just what's here," Serena added, still holding her champagne flute aloft. "Especially when there's so much more to be gained elsewhere."

"And where would that be, Mrs. Pemberton?" Lowenstein asked, his words precisely enunciated, perhaps to counter the vestiges of a European inflection.

"Brazil."

"Brazil?" Lowenstein said, giving Harris a puzzled look. "I'd assumed your plans were for local land investments."

"My husband and I are more ambitious than that," Serena said. "I think you will be also, once you learn of the possibilities."

Lowenstein shook his head.

"My hopes were something here, not Brazil."

"As was I," Calhoun said.

"Gentlemen, local purchases are certainly a possibility as well," Pemberton said, and was about to say more but Serena interrupted.

"Eight dollars on each dollar invested in Brazil, as opposed to two to one on your investment here."

"Eight dollars to one," Lowenstein said. "I find that hard to believe, Mrs. Pemberton."

"What if I can convince you otherwise by showing you land prices and costs of machinery and workers' pay," Serena replied. "I have the documents to prove everything. I'll bring them to Asheville tomorrow and let you peruse them for yourselves."

"Good Lord, Mrs. Pemberton," Harris sputtered, his tone balanced between amusement and annoyance. "You've barely allowed these gentlemen to sip their drinks before trying to hector them into some South America venture."

Calhoun raised his hand to halt Harris' protestations.

"I'd listen to such a proposal, tomorrow or any day for that matter, just for the pleasure of Mrs. Pemberton's presence."

"What about you, Mr. Lowenstein?" Serena said.

"I can't see myself investing in Brazil," he replied, "under any circumstances."

"Let's hear Mrs. Pemberton out, Lowenstein," Calhoun said. "Harris here claims she knows more about timber than any man he's ever met. Right, Harris?"

"No doubt about that," Harris said.

"But what about the new camp in Jackson County?" Lowenstein asked. "Won't that keep you in North Carolina for quite a while?"

"We're ready to begin cutting timber," Serena replied. "We'll be through there in a year at most."

"Brazil," Lowenstein mused. "What about you, Harris? Are you interested in Brazil, Inca gold perhaps?"

"No," Harris said. "As persuasive as Mrs. Pemberton can be, I think I'll stay in North Carolina."

"Too bad," Calhoun said. "How you and the Pembertons have profited by mining and logging the same land strikes me as rather brilliant."

"Yes," Harris said, signaling a waiter for another drink. "The Pembertons take what's above the ground and I take what's below."

"And what have you found below?" Lowenstein asked. "I'm not familiar with what is mined in this region."