Tender Was the Night

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I frequently feel haunted.

During our visit to the Minneapolis Institute of Art in fall of 2025, my husband Richard and I were both intrigued by their “Gatsby at 100” exhibition. And I couldn’t shake off thoughts of Zelda Fitzgerald.

So, after returning from traveling through Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, we decided to have one more adventure before life rolled in and knocked us off our feet. It had been doing that a lot lately.

We drove from the shores of Tybee Island to the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. Moving past century-old live oaks bedecked in Spanish moss tendrils, the landscape changed to gently rolling piedmont, dotted with maples and ash revealing the first blush of fall. The hillsides blurred into watercolor sketches of russet brown, burnt sienna, and goldenrod.

I rolled down the window and let my hand touch the wind. Buffeted, it rode the invisible air currents.

We arrived at the historic Grove Park Inn. Opened in 1913, it grandly sits on Sunset Mountain, commanding an expansive view of the valley below. Its huge edifice of stacked granite boulders loomed over us. I pulled open the heavy entrance door to find the massive two-story Great Hall and immediately felt humbled by the lift of its impossibly tall ceiling.

Eye-boggling fourteen-foot-high stone fireplaces anchored each end of the Hall. A masterpiece of the Arts and Crafts architectural style, the Grove Park’s stone and hewn wood interior exuded rustic elegance.

After we checked in, we explored the hotel.

In the early 20th century, it was a sought-after location for the rich and famous, offering healing fresh mountain air and respite. We discovered a wing where F. Scott Fitzgerald’s arts and crafts desk was displayed behind red velvet ropes. He and Zelda had stayed here in the 1930s.

A Deluxe Model typewriter sat silently on its wooden top, and a silver-framed black and white photo of the family sat on the corner. Scott, Zelda, and their only daughter, Frances, were portrayed merrily kicking one leg up in the air in front of a tinseled Christmas tree.

The whimsical picture was a snapshot of a happier time, before their stay at the Grove Park.

Looking for Zelda

We decided to hop back in the car and take a quick drive around Asheville. Richard stopped at a shaggy lawn surrounded by a grove of ancient oaks. What seemed to be an unpretentious park was the site of Highland Hospital, a psychiatric facility. Ravaged by fire in 1948, it was Zelda Fitzgerald’s tomb along with that of eight others who died in the blaze.

I had pulled out my phone to read more. The hospital was not a typical mental institution of the day. Patients were generally wealthy, and the treatment plan relied heavily on the therapeutic value of exercise and outdoor activities, not drugs.

Did the spirit of Zelda flit amongst the long shadows? I had read that she and Scott had stayed at the Grove Park during the summer of 1935 to check out the hospital. By that point, they were essentially living separate lives. A year later, they came back. Not for a visit. She was admitted.

I shivered. It was now dusk, the sun slowly slipping behind the jagged horizon. Long shadows and a chill in the air signaled that fall had tiptoed into the mountains and decided to stay.

We drove back to the hotel. In the distance, the lights of Asheville shimmered. The earth and stars kissed one another at the mountain tops.

We were greeted by the aroma of warm apple cider. A large silver urn sat on a table near the entrance foyer, flanked by cups and donuts.

Dinner was on the outdoor Sunset Terrace; however, an icy rain obscured the view. As soon as service finished, we quickly retreated inside.

Wanting a few more minutes before we retired, we selected two vacant rockers sitting in front of one of the mammoth fireplaces.

A tall attendant heaved four-foot-long logs onto the grate and prodded the flickering flames to life. He stooped slightly as the vast fire chamber nearly accommodated his whole frame. I breathed in a whiff of smoky, woodsy air.

Soon, heat stole the nip from our toes.

Muse

“Tell me what you know about Fitzgerald and Zelda,” I asked Richard as we settled into the high back rockers.

Richard is a history buff, an accomplished journalist, and a writer. He is a keen observer and has a correspondent’s recall of detail. And I get to be married to him.

“Well, we found out today that Fitzgerald had stayed here for a couple of summers in the mid-1930s,” Richard started.

“He was recuperating from tuberculosis and trying to write another novel,” he added. “Zelda was apparently pretty and a party girl. She was also a published author but frustrated because she wasn’t as accepted as Fitzgerald.”

“And he used her works in his, right?” I asked.

“Well, it’s widely thought that he may have done that. Lots of authors in that Lost Generation had wives and partners who were just as talented, just not recognized. At the same time, it’s believed Zelda truly was Fitzgerald’s muse.”

A waitress, clad all in black, leaned over. “Can I get y’all anything?”

“Hot tea for me,” I replied.

“Red wine please,” Richard answered.

“Hm, and today, we saw where she died. Years of frustration. Of mental illness,” I replied, shaking my head.

The waitress returned with our drinks as a three-piece jazz ensemble of gray-haired men started playing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” Laughter punctuated the snap and pop of burning wood.

“So, they had a troubled marriage. He had a terrible drinking problem and by the time he came here, was in terrible physical and mental shape,” Richard said. “In my opinion, Hemingway was a writer who drank, and Fitzgerald was a drunk who wrote. Not a winning formula for relationships.”

“Oh, yeah,” I interrupted. “I read that Fitzgerald stayed here to try to quit his gin habit. But he did so by using a ‘beer cure.’ For him, that meant drinking up to 50 beers a day.”

Richard nodded. “So, Zelda,” he continued. “Author. Painter. Dancer. Muse. Flapper.”

He turned to look directly at me. “You know, Wendy, if you lived in the 20s, I think you would have been one of those female rebels,” he said. “Maybe an original Mary Cassatt.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, my face suddenly reddened, probably from the heat of the fire.

“Well, you are probably the most creative person I know,” he answered.

I sighed. I didn’t see myself that way. I smiled and rubbed his arm.

“The Fitzgeralds. It just seems so sad. A waste,” I said, changing the subject.

“Yep. Tragic. They could have had everything, and for a moment, they did. He died a few years after his stay here. She was in and out of Highland and ultimately died in the fire there. She was only 47.”

We both sat silently for a moment, watching the sparks fly up the chimney.

Richard stood up, squeezed my hand, and said, “I’m going to go ask the band for a song.”

Looking up at him, I smiled and nodded. Turning back to the fire, my chest felt heavy thinking about the destroyed lives of two gifted people. Not being able to recognize what they had in those early years.

Tucking my overly warm feet under my chair and away from the fire’s heat, I yawned.

“Hey, hon,” I said to Richard when he returned. “I think I’m going back to the room.”

“Really?” he asked. “Guess what? They are going to play some Steely Dan.”

I knew this group was one of his favorites, but I was distracted. I needed a moment.

“You enjoy yourself. I’m going to settle in upstairs,” I said, kissing him on the back of his neck as I left. He tipped his glass to me.

He would be okay.

Finding Zelda

Returning to the room, I peeled off my sweater and jeans and donned a comfy fleece robe. Haunted by the ghost of Zelda, I imagined her, also in a robe, tapping on her typewriter in a long-gone room not so far away.

Grabbing a bottled water off the desk, I noticed the Grove Park Inn stationery.

Hmm, I thought. Maybe a good time to write.

Dearest Zelda,

I’m visiting Asheville with my husband. And thinking of you. This place, tucked in the  Blue Ridge, where you spent so many years.

Were all of them sad? Did you feel fractured?

You were a writer. You wrote through illness and sadness and grief — about what was gained and what was lost. And you never quite had the success you desired.

I’ve heard that Scott borrowed your words. And in the process, as he drank his gin and chased other women, maybe broke your heart as well.

Could you not overcome that? Or were your thoughts too tangled?

I live a century away from you. The 20s in my time can also be drenched in excess and greed. In pursuit of the wrong prize. Perhaps that is when creativity and the arts are needed most.

I’m writing now. After a long, wonderful career as a physician, my pen changed from writing prescriptions to writing about life’s interruptions. What it does to push us down, and how we find our way back up.

What makes us tick? The heart, literally. But the spirit, too.

That is what I search for now.

It’s been an unusual year for me. Periods of joy, interrupted by sadness. You may relate. You may understand this — hands linked across time.

I have gotten through this with a steadfast partner. Unlike Scott.

To be supported. To be understood. To be loved. It makes all the difference.

I would love to share a cup of tea and our stories.

Maybe someday. Until then….

Yours truly,

Wendy

The doorlock buzzed indicating that Richard had returned. Looking up at him, I smiled.

He handed me a steaming cup of cider and a donut as he kissed the top of my head.

“How was it?” I asked, reaching out my hand.

Taking it, he said, “You didn’t miss a thing.”