The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  Lucy’s face fell. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  My mother realized her mistake immediately. “I know, sweetie. You’re right. Of course you couldn’t.”

  “Shea, you take them,” Lucy said. “They’re your size.”

  I shook my head, wishing I could come up with an excuse.

  “Why not?” Lucy said, still looking hurt. “Don’t you like them?”

  It was a no-win question, as I couldn’t very well insult her mother’s taste. “I do—but … they’re not really me.”

  “What do you mean they’re not you? They’re beautiful, classic heels. How could they not be you? And why won’t you take anything of my mom’s?” Lucy said right as Coach Carr appeared in the doorway of his bedroom.

  “How’s it going, ladies?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Lucy said, blowing her nose and looking anything but fine. “Do you need your room? We’re finished … for now.”

  “Take your time,” Coach said, glancing at the silk scarf still around Lucy’s neck.

  Lucy took it off and swirled it in the air, then watched it flutter to the floor. “Do you remember this one, Daddy?” she asked, looking forlorn.

  “Of course. Mom wore it a lot.” His voice was sad and very far away.

  “Daddy?” Lucy said. “Are you sure you’re ready … for this? Is this too soon?”

  Coach swallowed and said, “It was too soon for her to leave us … but she did. So we gotta keep going.” His gaze shifted from the scarf to the box of shoes splayed open between us.

  “Daddy, shouldn’t Shea take these?” Lucy lifted both shoes out of the box, hooking the heels over her pinkies. “They’re her size. Don’t you think Mom would want her to have them?”

  I watched him process the question before slowly nodding. “Yes, Lucy. I do believe she would.”

  “So. Here,” Lucy said, dropping the shoes onto my lap, the matter settled.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking down at them, then carefully putting them back in the box. I still couldn’t imagine ever wearing them, but I would keep them in my closet, tucked neatly away.

  Six

  After the closet cleanout, the next big hurdle was Lucy’s birthday. Her grief surfaced at unexpected moments, whether at the grocery store or in church or playing with Caroline in the park, but I knew that special occasions were going to be especially difficult, given that Mrs. Carr had always been so over-the-top about holidays and birthdays. She had thrown lavish parties for milestone birthdays, and, for all others, there had been extravagant presents, fancy dinners out in Dallas, homemade cakes (Mrs. Carr had taken both a pastry class and a cake decorating class over the years), floral arrangements sent to Lucy’s shop, and balloons tied to her mailbox first thing in the morning. Because of Mrs. Carr’s diligence and enthusiasm, Coach had always been able to mentally check out of birthday prep, as he did with so much else, knowing that his wife would make things perfect for their children. Even Neil let his mother-in-law take charge; his only duties included buying Lucy a piece of jewelry and bringing her breakfast in bed (a tradition that Mrs. Carr had begun years ago).

  But obviously this year—and every year that stretched ahead of us—was going to be different, and a mild panic set in among Lucy’s inner circle the week before she turned thirty-three. We all knew we couldn’t begin to fill her mother’s shoes, but we wanted to at least try to get things right.

  Lucy, however, was adamant that she didn’t want to celebrate this birthday. When I pushed back, she pointed out that I hadn’t wanted a fuss this year either. I refrained from enumerating some key differences, including the fact that I had never been big on birthdays, and that she had about five times more close friends than I did, including all the girls at her shop, her sorority sisters from UT, the wives of Neil’s friends, and her fellow mommy friends. Instead I said, “We at least went to lunch for my birthday. And you gave me beautiful gifts—even though I told you not to get me anything this year.”

  “Gifts from my shop. Unwrapped. That hardly counts.”

  “Of course it counts. I love that wrap dress—and the chandelier earrings are gorgeous.” Buying clothes for a friend was usually a risky proposition, but Lucy nailed it every time. “Can’t I at least take you to lunch?” I asked.

  Lucy shook her head and said she just wanted to forget her birthday altogether this year; that it didn’t even feel like a birthday without her mother, the person who had given birth to her. At that point, I acquiesced, but, later that afternoon, I had second thoughts and called Neil, both of us worrying about the same thing. Even though Lucy thought she was telling us the truth and giving us the right instructions, what if she felt differently on the actual day when nothing special was planned?

  “Do you think we should call Coach and ask him?” Neil said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think we should just inform him of the plan, or lack thereof … I don’t want to bother him …”

  “Because of the spring game?” Neil said with the slightest trace of disgust. “It’s not even the real season, Shea. And this is his only daughter’s birthday.”

  He had read my mind, of course. The game was precisely the reason I thought we shouldn’t bother Coach, but I could tell how trivial Neil thought the whole thing was, at least in the context of Lucy’s first birthday without her mother, and I felt slightly ashamed as I tried to cover up.

  “No. It’s not the game per se,” I said. “He’s just overwhelmed right now … and sad enough without having to make these sorts of judgment calls. Besides, guys don’t really get these nuances. Other than you … Anyway, I say we have something small. A casual dinner?”

  “I agree,” Neil said. “Just family, you, and your mother. I’ll barbecue some ribs … Just keep it really simple.”

  “Perfect,” I said, selfishly relieved that we didn’t have to include Lucy’s gaggle of friends, and told Neil that my mom and I would handle the cake and all side dishes.

  “And the party hats?” Neil said, only half kidding.

  “And the party hats,” I said, smiling. “ ’Cause we all know how much Lucy loves a good party hat.”

  On the evening of March 21, thirty-three years after J.R. was shot on Dallas, I drove to Lucy and Neil’s house with a custom two-tiered birthday cake, Lucy’s gift (a coffee table book on runway fashion), and a half dozen party hats. I arrived about thirty minutes late, finding Lawton’s and my mom’s cars parked in the driveway. There was no sign of Coach.

  When I walked in the front door, balancing the cake on Lucy’s present, Caroline greeted me in red leggings and a clashing pink glitter top. It was a far cry from the traditional prissy way Lucy usually dressed her child, and I could tell in an instant that it hadn’t been a good day over here.

  “Hey, Care Bear,” I said, as she clamored for a peek of the cake, which I granted, and a taste, which I denied.

  Then, just as I feared, Caroline announced in her high, squeaky voice and oddly clear diction for a four-year-old, “Mama’s crying because Poppy forgot her birthday, and she misses Gigi. Because Gigi was better on birthdays than Poppy.”

  She was referring, of course, to Coach, and my heart sank.

  “What do you mean Poppy forgot her birthday? Isn’t he coming tonight?” I asked as Lucy emerged from upstairs in faded yoga pants, a spandex workout tank, and a lifeless ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry except for her watch—and not even the nice watch that Neil gave her last Christmas. A digital one. It was worse than I thought.

  “He’s on his way,” Lucy said, trying to take the cake from me. I turned my shoulders so she couldn’t get a glimpse of it before it was time to blow out the candles.

  “So, then! He didn’t forget!” I said brightly.

  “Neil had to call and remind him.”

  Speechless, I glanced down the hallway to see Lawton, Neil, and my mother in the kitchen, huddled together, looking somber.

  “It’s okay,” Lucy said. “I get it. He has a lot
on his mind, with spring practice and all that … shit.”

  No matter how many times she had alluded to football being “just a game,” this was the first time she had overtly called it shit—and I saw a flash of anger in her eyes that alarmed me.

  “Are you sure he forgot?” I said, wishing that I had called to remind him this morning. It had actually crossed my mind to do so, but I’d decided against it, thinking that it might come across as presumptuous or insulting.

  “Well, he never called. Not once, all day,” she said. “I checked my voice mail ten times, thinking maybe I’d just missed it. But no. There were three sweet messages from you and about thirty other messages from other friends and random acquaintances. Including …” She ticked off the list on her left hand—her old ballet teacher, our favorite bartender from the Third Rail, and a handful of ladies from her mother’s Sunday School class.

  “Mom must have told them to call me,” Lucy said, getting choked up. “On her deathbed … They had all these wonderful things to say about her—and how proud she was of me and Caroline …”

  “Wow,” I said, getting chills, marveling at how Mrs. Carr had thought of everything, even as she stared down death.

  Lucy seemed to chase away her tears with another wave of anger. She shook her head, her mouth becoming a hard line. “A bunch of Sunday School ladies. But nothing from my own father.”

  I opened my mouth to try to find an explanation, but Lucy interrupted. “Look. Just forget it. It’s no big deal. I said I didn’t want any fuss … so … there you go. No fuss.”

  She forced a tight, fake smile, then turned and walked into the kitchen. I followed her, putting the cake and gift and hats on the island, and saying hello to everyone. My mother whispered, “This isn’t good,” as I noticed the pink and white peonies I had sent this morning, a cheerful note amid the heaviness of the room. I had used Mrs. Carr’s flower shop, and even looked up her order history. After debating with the owner whether it seemed morbid or moving, I opted to send the same arrangement that Mrs. Carr had chosen for Lucy last year—the two hues of peonies with sparse greenery in a square vase. The detail wasn’t missed on Lucy, who gestured toward them and said, “At least I have you. I can’t believe how sweet you are to send … the same flowers …” Lucy’s voice cracked again just as Coach burst through the front door.

  “Hello, everyone!” he yelled, barreling into the kitchen, clearly straight from practice. He was wearing gray sweats, a film of dust over his white baseball cap, his whistle still around his neck, and a crumpled gift bag in his hands with a sorry little curled ribbon around the handle. With all of us watching, he deposited the bag on the table next to my flowers, along with his keys, then gave Lucy a big, one-armed hug, kissing the top of her head, and said, “Happy birthday, Lu. Thirty-three.” He whistled for effect, but I could tell he was flustered, not a common state for him.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, as the rest of us watched uncomfortably.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him adjust the bill of his cap, a nervous twitch. “I’m sorry the day got away from me … Crazy day. Crazy.”

  “You forgot Mommy’s birthday!” Caroline chimed in after wedging herself in the space between her mother and grandfather and looking up sweetly at both their faces.

  “No, I didn’t, honey,” Coach said, gesturing toward his gift bag. He stooped down and picked her up. “I was coming. Of course I was coming.”

  “Mommy said you forgot,” Caroline insisted as Lucy turned her back on both of them and began setting the table with her everyday flatware, simple plates, and paper napkins.

  “Caroline,” Neil said in a reprimanding tone, which we all knew would only make her entrench more. “Don’t contradict your grandfather.”

  “But she did,” Caroline replied as I realized that I was literally holding my breath, in agony over the fact that Lucy looked so upset, and Coach so guilty.

  I exhaled as Coach cleared his throat and defended himself. “Sweetie pie, I most certainly did not forget your mama’s birthday. I was just … busy until now.” He glanced toward the rest of us and said under his breath, “Lawton, help me out here.”

  “He was just busy,” Lawton echoed. “Until now.”

  Coach cast him a frustrated look that said, That’s the best you can do?

  Lawton shrugged as Caroline pressed on. “Busy coaching football?”

  “Yeah, he was busy coaching football,” Neil said, pulling her out of Coach’s arms and tossing her in the air.

  She giggled and forgot the debate for a few seconds, as Coach addressed no one in particular. “Okay, then. No more football talk for the night,” he said.

  “Until tomorrow?” Caroline asked, glancing his way with judgment and mischief. It was almost as if Lucy had given her child a script and a course in twisting the knife.

  “Until tomorrow, yes, sweetie,” Coach said, pretending to be relaxed. I wondered who else could see through his act, as he looked at my mother and me. “Hello, Marie. Hey, Shea. How’s everyone doing?”

  We both murmured that we were fine, then transitioned to breezy small talk. At one point, Coach asked if I’d heard back from Smiley.

  “Not yet,” I said, part of me relieved that I hadn’t.

  “Call him again,” Coach said. “You gotta be persistent.”

  I nodded, then said, “So how was practice?”

  “It was good,” Coach replied, glancing at Lucy, then giving me a strained smile. “But no football talk tonight. Remember?”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” Lucy said, removing condiments from the refrigerator and handing Caroline a few carrot sticks. “I mean, whatever else would there be to talk about?”

  I don’t think Lucy meant the rhetorical question to sound as biting as it did, because she followed it up with a shrug and said, “I mean, it is the week of the spring game. I get it. It’s okay. You can tell Shea—and all of us—about practice.”

  “Practice was fine,” he said. “I just had to deal with some other stuff today … It’s always something …”

  “What happened, Dad?” Lawton asked, tossing Caroline over the back of the sofa. She bounced, laughing, then giddily circled around for more.

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” he said with a sigh. “Just a little issue with Reggie … Probably nothing.”

  “Who?” Lucy said.

  I think I must have gasped, because Lucy glanced at me and said, “What? Like I’m supposed to memorize a hundred players?”

  “Reggie Rhodes, honey,” Neil said. “You know who he is.”

  “He’s only the biggest recruit we’ve had since Ryan James,” Lawton said.

  “Oh, him. Yeah. I didn’t recognize the first name,” Lucy said. “I know him.”

  “Of course you know him, dear,” my mother said, tossing her tomato and onion salad.

  “So what happened?” Lucy asked. “Did he get hurt in practice?”

  Lawton laughed and shook his head, twisting off the cap of a Bud Light. “He’s not here yet, Luce.”

  “What do you mean he’s not here?” Lucy snapped back.

  “Lawton means … that he’s still in high school,” Neil said. “He’s coming next year.”

  “Well, wherever he is … He could still get hurt!” my mother said, rushing to Lucy’s defense. “He could have gotten in a car accident. Or … had a random slip and fall—”

  “On a banana peel?” Lawton quipped.

  “What happened, Daddy?” Lucy said, scowling at Lawton.

  “Nothing, really … Just a little mud in the water … It’ll be fine.” He shook his head, then shifted into his faux upbeat voice and said, “So, who’s hungry? Neil, let’s fire up that grill, son!”

  We all agreed that was a very good idea—because everyone knew that there weren’t many things in Texas that barbecued ribs couldn’t fix.

  Seven

  A few days later, Walker played its annual spring game, which also counted as our fifteenth and final NCAA-permi
tted spring practice. More than thirty thousand fans turned out for the glorified scrimmage, also televised on ESPN2, offering the first glimpse of our team minus the recruits. Technically I was working, making my usual rounds between the press box and the sidelines, ensuring that everything was running smoothly. But because nothing was really on the line, it was more party than game, a two-sided showcase of our offensive and defensive talent. We looked good, more fluid and crisp than I’d ever seen us play in March—a sentiment that I heard paraphrased behind me in a smooth Texas dialect, with just a subtle elongation of vowels. I recognized the accent and voice right away, knew it was Ryan James, Walker’s golden child, even before I looked over my shoulder. His voice was that distinct, even if I hadn’t just heard it on SportsCenter the day before, discussing the Cowboys’ upcoming season.

  “You boys have to convert here,” he mused aloud. “Let’s get it done, fellas.”

  “Hey, Ryan,” I said, as he took two steps forward and stood flush with me, watching the drive.

  “Hey, Rigsby,” he said. He crossed his arms as we watched the next play. Second and three, but Mark Everclear, our quarterback, stared down the primary receiver for one beat too long, and took a sack.

  “Dammit,” I said, happy that our linebackers were looking good but more disappointed by Mark’s hesitation.

  “Phil Medlin was wiiide open,” Ryan said, reading my mind. I was impressed that he knew our roster so well—and touched that he still made it a priority to return to Walker for the spring game.

  “You would have hit him with your eyes closed,” I said.

  He made a modest face, as if to say maybe, maybe not, while I sneaked a quick once-over. Always clean-cut and smartly dressed, Ryan looked especially good tonight, in a navy sport coat with a white polo, dark-washed denim, and brown suede loafers. From a wealthy oil family in Midland, he had always reeked of old money and good taste, even before he turned pro and started raking in his own millions. Both George Bushes had attended Ryan’s grandiose wedding to his now ex-wife, Blakeslee Meadows, a gorgeous socialite from Houston who transferred to Walker from SMU, in the opinion of many, so she could marry Ryan. Her plan worked, and the two were engaged just days after the Cowboys drafted him as the first overall pick. Lucy had gone to the wedding, along with her parents, and said she’d never seen anything like it—Blakeslee’s family’s ranch crawling with Secret Service agents, celebrities, and regular people who were so beautiful that they looked like celebrities. I wasn’t invited, which didn’t hurt my feelings but surprised me a little, not because Ryan and I were that tight in college but because I would have thought we were friendly enough for me to make a nine-hundred-person cut. Lucy told me to take it as a compliment, that Blakeslee must have seen me as competition. I told her that was preposterous. I might have had a few attributes that certain guys appreciated, but I was no Blakeslee, that was for sure, and Ryan was way out of my league, the biggest man on campus when we were in school, and now an NFL star. Big fish, big pond. I’d even heard a tabloid rumor that Giselle had flirted with him at a party in Hawaii during Pro Bowl weekend last year, which led to an exchange of terse words with Tom Brady. When I thought about it, I was pretty sure Ryan was the only person on the planet who could rile Tom Brady, both on the field and off. It was yet another accomplishment in a long list.