I’m not sure I believe in astrology yet, but I am nearing desperation. I have questions I need answered. The Stars Harbor testimonials raving about Rini’s astrological accuracy were as important to me as sunset snaps over the water. Guests boasted that they’d come back year after year for equal parts relaxation and life insight. Ted thought the included astrological reading was nothing more than a parlor trick, but I took it seriously.
This weekend I will secure my future: to have a baby, and to get my brother back.
The car’s navigation alerts us that our destination is one thousand feet ahead. Ted makes a left into the driveway marked STARS HARBOR ASTROLOGICAL RETREAT. He squeezes my hand as we wait for the beechwood gate to open slowly.
“It’s to keep the deer out,” I say, repeating the owner’s words.
“Well, good, because it doesn’t look like much of a match for anything else,” he says, kissing the back of my hand. The gate is tall but flimsy, the mechanics no more sophisticated than a lever and a crank. It looks like it would splinter if Ted pressed the gas and barreled right through it. And we drive a very tame Audi.
The gate exposes a long and decadent gravel driveway, a river of small brown-speckled white pebbles, like my favorite Toasted Marshmallow jelly beans. The edges are lined with bricks of light gray stone.
Ted barely lifts his foot from the brake as the gate recedes and we take in the lush flora. Soon, the white clapboard Victorian home appears as if it’s rising out of the sparkling ocean in the distance. The structure is accented with black shutters, a black roof, and a circular turret. On the ride out east, I felt slightly disappointed that Stars Harbor was not painted Easter egg colors of turquoise and purple with sunshine yellow, like some of the other versions we’d passed. But the truth is, I prefer things in black and white.
My legs stick to the leather seats after three and a half hours of traffic, but I swing my door open and peel myself out of the car. I raise my arms overhead and stretch my spine tall. Behind us sits a tiny cottage where the owner must live.
“Turn around and look at that view,” Ted says.
The manicured lawn sprawls out hundreds of yards to the sparking blue water. Evergreen trees in the distance to the east and west obscure the neighbors. The distant shoreline of Connecticut is twenty-three nautical miles away. Ted wraps his arms around my waist and I lean into him. It’s like we’re the only people in the world.
“Hello,” a young woman calls. She waits for us at the grand front entrance of the house. The double doors are made of dark wood with raised glass panels etched in a vine motif. There’s a projecting pavilion above the entry door laced with greenery. It’s even more stunning than the photos.
“Rini?”
“It’s Ree-knee, short for Serena,” she says.
On the phone I imagined an uptight, snobbish woman who fancied herself “refined.” If I’d had to guess, I would have said she was older than my thirty-seven years. Much older. An empty nester. But in person, Rini barely looks like she could legally buy alcohol.
“Welcome to Stars Harbor, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn,” she says.
I was the one who made the reservations, so she thinks my last name is Ted’s last name too.
“Please, call us Ted and Margot,” I say, electing to keep it casual. Rini opens the front door and waits for us to step inside. My gaze lifts to the candelabra-style chandelier hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling. Below it is a spiral staircase like a strand of DNA. The flooring is a wide blond-wood herringbone. Very elegant.
“This is lovely,” I say.
“I’ll give you a little tour, and then you can get settled,” Rini says.
We pass the sweeping staircase on the left, and on the right, a unique round library I saw posted on BookTok. Outfitted with books in every color from floor to ceiling, it looks like a candy store.
“This will be Adam’s favorite,” I say to Ted, nodding at my brother’s titles on her shelf.
Rini shows us the classic white kitchen with its stocked fridge, and then the stately study that smells of leather and old textbooks.
“This is where you’ll have the private astrological readings,” Rini says.
Ted claims the game parlor as his spot because it has billiards and shuffleboard in addition to full-size Ms. Pac-Man and Frogger machines. I can’t choose a favorite. Each room on the first floor is swathed in jewel tones, emerald green, ruby red, sapphire blue, and citrine yellow, like a real life Clue house.
I notice that some of the windows are small and thick with imposing panes while others are expansive and frameless. I ask Rini about the stark difference.
“These rooms were part of the original house, built in 1894,” Rini says. “This area of Long Island gets summer storms and violent winds during hurricane season. Now, we have better methods of protection, but then, they had little choice but to limit the windows.”
Rini leads us past the formal dining room to another living room.
“Wow,” Ted and I say in unison.
The Stars Harbor showstopper is the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s as if the high tide could bring the ocean inside.
“Ironic, isn’t it? That modern touches allow for the centuries’ old natural beauty to shine,” Rini says.
“That’s the Atlantic?” Ted asks.
“The Long Island Sound, an estuary of the Atlantic,” Rini says. “Shall we get upstairs to the suites?”
The back of the house also boasts twenty-foot ceilings, with a second staircase, this one built into the wall like a colonial, camouflaged.
“Was that a servant staircase?” I ask.
“You know your old houses,” Rini says. “We kept it for subtlety. Is there anything more unsightly than a housekeeping cart blocking your room? You won’t see that here.”
We follow Rini to the grand staircase in the front of the house. I run my hand along the smooth stained wood. At the top we land on plush cream carpet.
“I’ve got you set up in the Gemini Suite,” Rini says. “I assure you it’s the best room in the house.”
Ted and I both nod. He’ll take her word for it and collapse on our bed. I will satisfy my curiosity by looking in every room before the others arrive.
“In case you are inclined to explore, a reminder that the suites in the second wing on the east side of the staircase are not open to your group,” Rini adds.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because you have all you need in this wing,” she says with a smile.
Rini opens the door marked GEMINI with a symbol beneath it. The walls are painted seafoam and the curtains are a bold yellow-and-green pattern. The bed is framed by a gold slat headboard and has an ivory duvet. It’s tasteful, an understated Versailles, but the kind of piece you’d be sick of after a few months at home.
“I’ll leave you here, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn.”
I clear my throat, preparing to speak up.
“It’s actually Margot Flynn and Ted Williams,” I say.
I notice Rini glance at my ring finger.
“You’ll change it when you have children,” she states.
“I don’t think so,” Ted says kindly but firmly.
“It’s fine,” I interject.
Normally I would have engaged in a prolonged debate, dismantling her antiquated ideas around surnames that treat women like property. Or I would have probed into how hurtful her comment could be to someone facing infertility. But neither lawyer Margot nor trying-to-conceive Margot has been invited on this trip.
