The Secret to Southern Charm

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  I knew I was going to cry. I wanted to turn and run, but he was walking toward me in his perfectly pressed khaki shorts and blue-and-white-checked Peter Millar button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Despite his age, his hair was still the same lush dark brown it had been when we were kids, the same color as his eyes that, just like Sloane’s and Caroline’s, had tiny flecks of yellow that made them impossible to look away from. As he walked across the yard, I noticed he was wearing a new pair of driving shoes—and he still had the same strong, muscular legs I had watched run across the sand to catch a football for countless hours as a teenager. Forty-three years later, the man could still take my breath away. I tried to quickly wipe my tears and scolded myself. This was a situation of my own making.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  His voice lacked its usual warmth, which made me cry even harder. This had now crossed the line from bad to humiliating.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to maintain a smidgen of my dignity. “It’s harder than I thought that Mr. Solomon is gone.”

  I really was sad about him being gone. But that wasn’t what had made my emotions overflow. That was reserved for seeing Jack for the first time since we had parted ways.

  He smirked and shook his head. “Just the reaction I was looking for.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt frozen to the ground. I had never experienced this from Jack, never imagined that someone I loved so much, whom I had so much history with, could turn so cold toward me.

  The last time he had acted like this, in fact, had been the summer I turned seventeen, right here, in Peachtree Bluff, on the boardwalk across the street. Jack and I had had a summer romance. No. More than a summer romance. A summer love, the kind that, once you left it, woke you in the middle of the night, yearning for something, searching for it, reaching for it, until you realized that what you really wanted, what you were really asking for, was someone who lived several states away. Too far to visit, too long distance to call. A love too impractical to try to keep, though your heart had really been his since the first time his hand brushed yours.

  I hadn’t seen or talked to him in nine months that summer, and as you do when you’re young and insecure and unaware that crushes fade but true love lasts a lifetime, I had convinced myself he wasn’t interested in me. And so, when I found out the boy I had been dating for the past two months was going to be in Peachtree Bluff for the first week of summer, sure, Jack crossed my mind. But I scolded myself for thinking he would still want to be with me. So, there I was, walking down the boardwalk to a local seafood restaurant, holding the hand of Stan whose last name I can’t even remember, when I caught a glimpse of Jack. My blood ran cold, and I dropped Stan’s hand. But it was too late. Jack had seen me. I couldn’t walk away. So I smiled and said, demurely, “Hi, Jack.”

  Time stopped as I looked into his eyes. Something had happened to him in the nine months since I had last seen him. He had grown into himself, transformed from an awkward teenager with limbs too long for his frame to a tall, broad, handsome man. He looked from Stan to me and back to Stan, and it wasn’t so much that I saw his jaw set; I felt it. “Hello, Ansley,” he said, without venturing a smile. He turned his cold expression to Stan, who took a step back. He wasn’t wrong to be afraid. Stan was, after all, a good five inches shorter than Jack.

  Something broke inside of me as I realized the boy I had kissed good-bye through tears and promises of next summer only months earlier hated me. When he said, “Looks like your summer plans were different from mine,” and walked away, I could scarcely breathe. I realized then, knew in my head what my heart had felt all along: his summer plans had been me.

  It took me a moment to catch my breath before Stan and I continued walking down the boardwalk in silence. As we reached the door of the restaurant, I looked at him and said, “I’m so sorry. You’re very nice, but I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  I slipped off my sandals and took off running down the boardwalk. I could hear Stan calling behind me, “Don’t you at least want to get some shrimp?” But I was already gone. In fact, I realized, I’d never really been with Stan to begin with.

  I still remember how rough the wood felt underneath my feet that night, the warmth of the boards that had spent all spring sunning themselves. I didn’t know where Jack had gone, but I felt like if I ran fast enough, I would catch up to him. At the end of the boardwalk, my gut told me to turn right, and when I did, I could barely make out his tall frame in the setting sun. I sprinted down the sidewalk, the crowd parting like seagulls so I could get through.

  Someone called, “Hey, where’s the fire?” and, if I hadn’t been so out of breath, I would have replied, though it was intolerably cheesy, “In my heart!”

  When I got close enough, I managed to eke out, “Jack!”

  He turned, and I stopped running, gasping for breath. I was sweating and sure my hair was a mess. The spaghetti straps of my sundress had slipped down my shoulders, but I didn’t care. I jumped into Jack’s arms, and I kissed him like I would never stop.

  He laughed and, putting me down on the ground and pushing my disheveled hair out of my face, said, “So you missed me after all?”

  I smiled, so relieved to hear his laugh.

  “Hey, Ansley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know I haven’t seen you in nine months. But I think it puts me in a pretty good position to be able to say I love you.”

  I felt my jaw drop. All those nights I had lain awake, pained over the loss of this boy, wanting to say those very words to him, I hadn’t been alone in my feelings. I kissed him again and said, “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I hope you know I love you too.”

  The mere memory of that night made me want to cry all over again, standing on Jack’s new lawn. But I didn’t. Instead, I said, “It was so nice of you to let the girls take your boat. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “Well,” he said dully, “two of them are mine even if they don’t know it. Seemed like the least I could do.”

  I looked around and hissed, “Jack!”

  He shrugged and whispered, “OK, OK. It’s not like anyone can hear me.”

  A silver BMW convertible with the top down pulled into the driveway, a foot from where I was standing. The car stopped, and squinting in the sunlight, I watched the driver get out. A woman. Not a sister or an aunt or a harmless friend. A beautiful woman with a tight skirt, well-highlighted hair, and far fewer wrinkles than I would have liked.

  Jack waved. And smiled. He smiled at her. Couldn’t muster more than a grimace for me, his first love, the mother of his two secret children, the woman who, not five weeks ago, he had wanted to marry. Now here he was giving my smile to a woman in Valentino pumps. Who wore Valentino pumps in Peachtree Bluff? Well, except for me. I did, of course, but that was only because Caroline made me.

  The thought of Jack being with this other woman turned my stomach. But this was what I got. I had let the best man I had ever known go.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said, walking toward him.

  I wondered if it would repel her if I threw up in the yard or if it would bring them closer together, make me the common enemy. All I knew was that I couldn’t stand around and watch this. But it was the proverbial car wreck from which I couldn’t look away. They exchanged an air kiss.

  It had only been five weeks. Five weeks, and he had already found someone else? Of course he had found someone else. He was gorgeous and well off and didn’t have children—well, that anyone knew of. Very little baggage. What a fool I had been to let him go!

  “Ansley,” Jack said, the warmth he had given to her gone when he turned to me, “this is Georgia.”

  I laughed, and she joined me.

  “I know,” she said. “What are the chances I would have moved to Georgia?”

  “Georgia is my decorator,” Jack said.

  I couldn’t hide my shock. It was a blow when I thought he was w
ith another woman. But he had found another decorator? This was entirely too much.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. Did you say she was your decorator?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

  “So, I don’t know.” I had suddenly lost all sense of propriety. “It’s not like I’ve been talking about how much I want to decorate this house since 1974 or anything.”

  Georgia with her annoyingly perky breasts looked from Jack to me, confused. “Oh, right,” I said. “You probably weren’t even born in 1974.”

  “Yes, I was,” she fired back. “In 1974.”

  I felt genuinely hurt, not only that he might be moving on romantically, but also that he couldn’t put our differences aside. Jack knew, unequivocally, that this would hurt me almost as much as being away from him. He could stand there all frigid and angry in the yard, but the man knew I loved him. He knew turning away from him to take care of my family and protect the secret that could destroy all our lives was the single hardest decision I had ever made. In the top five, anyway. To do this to me was petty and cruel.

  And I said so.

  “Petty?” he said. “Really? OK, Ansley. Think whatever you want. But why on earth would you think I would let you decorate my house after all you put me through?”

  “Wait,” little miss tan legs said. “You aren’t Ansley Murphy, are you?”

  I crossed my arms, sizing her up. She readjusted her skirt, which I found satisfying. I had made her uncomfortable.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know. Startling that there is only one decorator named Ansley in a town with a population of three thousand people.”

  She put her portfolio over her heart. “Oh my gosh!” she gasped, all breathy and girlish. I wanted to say, You’re over forty. Give it a rest. “You are my inspiration. That shoot you just did for House Beautiful. The yacht. It was unbelievable. The before and after.”

  “My yacht,” Jack chimed in.

  I had softened to Georgia a bit now.

  “Oh,” she gushed. “Wow. I was excited about this job, but now to know that I’m following in Ansley Murphy’s footsteps . . .” She ran her free hand through her hair. “It’s just too much!”

  I smiled tightly. “Well, thanks, I guess. If you need any pointers, I’ve been dreaming of decorating this house,” I turned to Jack, “since I was fifteen years old.

  “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, though it was anything but nice to meet her.

  I turned to walk away and was almost back to my gate when I heard Jack call, “Ansley.”

  I ignored him. I was done for the day. I had a shred of self-respect still intact, and I wasn’t going to lose it now. “Ansley,” he said.

  Damn it. I could tell he was walking toward me now. And I had nowhere to hide, so I turned around. He was smiling. Not a Jack-and-Ansley smile, but not a hideous grimace, either. I wasn’t sure if it was menopause or the emotional stress I had been under lately, but I teared up again. As long as he would still smile at me, it would all be OK.

  “I’m teasing you,” he said.

  I wrinkled my brow.

  “Georgia isn’t a decorator.”

  She shook her head. “I’m a Realtor from Atlanta. I’m the one who sold Jack the house.”

  Now I was confused. “What?”

  “But I really am a big fan of yours,” Georgia said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jack chimed in. “That was a great addition to the script, G.”

  “What do you mean, ‘script’?”

  “It’s a joke, Ansley. I haven’t hired a decorator, but if you would like the job, I would certainly love to see what you have in mind before I make my decision.”

  It was ridiculous, considering I had just turned his half-sunk and fire-ridden boat into a palace at sea. But fine. I could play by the rules. He was punishing me a little bit, and that was OK. I could take it. I was so relieved. I could tell that if left to her druthers, Georgia would have used the fabric equivalent of a floral-print Hawaiian shirt in there.

  So, no, with the girls leaving me in charge of AJ and Taylor, this wasn’t the ideal time for me to pitch designs for this house I had dreamed of decorating for most of my life. But how hard could it be? I mean, the kids had to sleep sometime, right?

  “I’ll have something ready for you next week,” I said.

  Jack nodded. “Do you want to go inside and get a feel for the floor plan?”

  I waved my hand. “I know the floor plan. I know the whole house by heart. And I know exactly how to make it fabulous.”

  “We’ll see,” Jack said.

  Fine. That was fine. He could be like that. “See you around, Georgia,” I said.

  “Oh, I sure hope so,” she replied. “Call me, Jack.”

  It nearly broke my heart in two when he said, “Thanks, Georgia. I will.” It wasn’t great. But it was better than her decorating the house, which I think said something unflattering about me and my priorities.

  As I crossed back into my yard, I thought again that this wouldn’t be so hard. Little did I know what these next few days held for me.

  * * *

  I WAS ANXIOUS TO get to the store the next morning. I had arranged for my two best friends, Sandra and Emily, to keep AJ and Taylor for two hours so I could get in there and grab all the fabric swatches, rug samples, and look books I might need for Jack’s house. When I had asked Sandra, she had said, “Honey, Em and I will be thrilled to watch those sweet boys. We would do absolutely anything to make sure you get to decorate Jack’s house.” Sandra and I had been close since we were children, so I knew what she wasn’t saying was that they would do anything to make sure Jack and I spent some good, long, quality months together.

  Whatever it took to get her here was fine by me. But I didn’t want Sloane to know I was leaving her kids with sitters—even sitters who were practically family—so I needed her out the door. And fast. I went out to the guesthouse and called, “Caroline!” But I ran into James first.

  He put his fist out. I bumped it with mine and laughed.

  “It’s you and me, Ans.”

  “It sure is,” I said, feeling a little conflicted about that. “In fact, could you do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” he said, obviously, because he seriously needed to get back into my good graces.

  “Could you please take AJ and Taylor out to breakfast?”

  He went a little white. “All three of them?”

  I slapped him on the back. “Oh, James. I know you can handle it. I’ll have Emily and Sandra pick them up from you. It’ll only be like half an hour.”

  I had lain awake all night thinking about fabric and furniture, and I had to get moving on this right now.

  “Caroline,” I called again. “I’m leaving.”

  I heard her footsteps on the stairs. “But don’t you want to see us off?”

  “Yes, darling.” I grinned at her. “I want to see you off very, very much.”

  She opened her mouth in shock and swatted at me. “Mom! That is so rude! I can’t believe you want us gone!”

  “Kiss your sisters for me. See you in a week.” As I opened the back door I yelled, “And call me!”

  Just like that, I was out the door, the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. For two entire hours, I was going to be free.

  ELEVEN

  real living

  sloane

  November 16, 2009

  Dear Sloane,

  There is no substitute for the sea. I feel its absence when I’m away, tugging at me, even when I’m landlocked for months on end. I can feel the tide within my soul.

  It’s the same with you, Sloane. I see it already. Like the sea, you are a part of me, a loss I would feel indefinitely, the rolling tide for which I would eternally search . . . We’re not supposed to admit it, but there’s this fear that runs through us all the time, this low level of dread. What if I don’t make it home? What if my mother has to fold the flag at my funeral? And then, even worse, what if my wife has to? It certainly comes to
mind from time to time. I wouldn’t be human if it didn’t. Even still, I know in my heart that I will always return home to you.

  All my love,

  Adam

  THEY SAY HEARTBREAK IS soothed by the sea. Well, not they. Jimmy Buffett. It would have sounded more intellectual for me to quote Thoreau, maybe Shakespeare. Anyone, really. But it was Jimmy Buffett’s lyrics I thought of on that trip.

  And Adam’s words in that letter that I remembered. I knew them as well as the sound of my own breath as it entered and left my body. How many times had I read those words? How many times had I handled his letters?

  I have always thought I could feel Adam, that his pulse and my pulse were connected, that his soul and mine were one. It eased my fears when I woke up startled in the night, searching for him on his side of the bed, because I could feel him. Whether he was in Iraq or Afghanistan, off the coast of Carolina or the mouth of the Danube, my heart beat in time with his. Maybe it was his letters that made me feel that way; maybe it was his words, the rhythm of them, that made me feel his presence.

  That’s what scared me the most. Once those uniformed men visited me to deliver the unthinkable news, I quit feeling Adam. So I read and reread his letters trying to feel him, to bring him back to me, wherever he was.

  When Caroline pulled me out the door that morning, I felt conflicted at best. As we walked through the front yard to the gate, I started to feel a tightness in my chest. My head felt light and woozy, and my breath came in short gasps. Emerson, who was on my left side, supporting me while Caroline pulled, stopped suddenly, alarmed. “Caroline,” she scolded. “Stop!”

  I leaned over, trying to catch my breath.

  “No,” Caroline said. “No. We are fifty yards from the boat. We’re not stopping now.”

  “Are you OK, Aunt Sloane?” Vivi asked.

  I stood, about to cross the street to our dock. I could turn back. I could get into bed, close the draperies, and go on like I had been. I could continue to neglect my children and obsess over the myriad ways in which my love might be suffering. Or I could take Caroline’s hand. I could cross over, not only to the other side of the street, but also to the other side of my life, real living.