“Don't tell me you have someone else to do that for you.”
“Hey, Liz! Hello!”
“Hey, Jack, hello back! Sheeeesh!”
They went to the pub. Jack phoned the illustrator and asked him to join them. He returned. Jack paid him for his work. Pints flowed. Jack took her to a Japanese restaurant, where a chef sliced expensive beef for an encore. She wondered when Jack would make his move. But he didn't. She slept in the guest room.
On the third morning, she found him exercising on the roof of The Tower. She blinked at the sight of his muscular litheness. He told her poetry was physical. She believed him. He read to her from John Donne's collected works, his favorite poet, his favorite poem, The Ecstacy. He read Shelley to her. Byron, Baudelair, Rimbaude. Patti Smith. John Cooper-Clark.
She knew she was not going back to Georgia.
And then he was gone. The next morning, when she woke up, he was just not there. She had no way of contacting him, no phone number, nothing. She was confused, angry, sad, distressed. So this was it. She stayed in The Tower all day. He didn't show. Now what? She decided to go. She decided to stay. Was he testing her? She fell asleep. She awoke at 11.30 p.m. She left The Tower and got a taxi back to Kensington. She felt a crippling confusion. She found a letter from Jihad awaiting her to say he was putting the rent up forthwith. She couldn't sleep. At about three a.m., her phone warbled. She stared at it glowing in the dark, but did not answer. Her ring tone was a Georgia mocking bird. She answered. Silence. She missed the call. No message. She hit dial previous caller. It was him. She could tell from the nature of the silence. Finally, she spoke.
“Want to tell me why you just vanished?”
“You made me smile too much.”
“Forgive me, Jack, but is that so very bad?”
“Yes. I can't do it.”
“Do what?”
“Any of it.”
“Any of what, Jack?”
“You're an American woman; you want it all and you want it now.”
“Damn it, Jack. You walked out on me.”
“You walked in on me. I want to be alone.”
“Well then, why are you calling me? I'm not stopping you from doing anything important. Am I?”
“Then we understand each other perfectly.”
He hung up. She booked a plane ticket to Atlanta. The following morning, a smiling Polish deliveryman covered in a tuxedo turned up with three dozen red English roses, long stemmed and freshly cut. The card attached to them simply said, “Sorry.” She canceled her plane ticket and settled down to wait. She knew she loved him and hated herself for it. She also knew that the son-of-a-bitch was not going to win, whatever his game was. Was she making another mistake? She remembered Pete's wife calling her names on a phone call. How many more mistakes would she make? That said, she was sick of running. And so she waited. And waited.
The call, when it came several hours, later surprised her. She forced herself not to answer too quickly. She was shocked to see her hand was shaking as it hovered over the phone. She answered.
“Are you all right, Jack?”
“Yes, you?”
“Yes. You had me worried. Why'd you take off like that?”
“Your cowboy boots.”
“What?”
“You have to wear your cowboy boots if you're coming.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I've told Malachy.”
“Who?”
“About your boots?”
“Jack, Jack, Jack! I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I'd be honored if you would visit me, outside London. I'm never myself in London.”
“Where are you?”
“On my farm.”
“In Cornwall?”
“The very same. And I've told Malachy about them there boots of yours. It was his idea.”
“Jack, who is Malachy?”
“Liz, you said you'd read my blogs. I'm disappointed in you. Malachy is my shepherd.”
“You're nuts. Do you know that?”
“Yes, yes, yes. But it is true. He is my shepherd. He minds my Jacobs and he puts me straight. Anyway, I told him about your kick-ass, hand crafted Italian cowboy boots and he said he's dying to see 'em. So they'd better be real.”
“Jack, my boots are real. How real am I? If you were as real as my boots, I'd know where I stood.”
“You seem pretty real to me.”
“Most people are, compared with you.”
“Ach, the mean average, Liz love. Let's not go there.”
“And where exactly are we going, Jack?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“The sort this STRONG AMERICAN WOMAN, as you call me, asks. So where exactly is this farm of yours?”
“Cornwall.”
“You've told me that a million times already. Where in Cornwall?”
“Don't worry about that. I'll send a car.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Can I brush my teeth first?”
“Yes, please do that for me.”
“Oh, Jack. I can't just leap out of my apartment because you click your fingers.”
“You've just done it again.”
“What?”
“Made me smile.”
“Okay, send the car, Jack. But no more vanishing, right?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Jack, I mean it.”
“I promise. No more vanishing.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“We have a deal.”
“Jack, I have to say something before we go any further with this. I'm not Indie. You understand that, right? I can never be Indie. I'm Liz, okay?”
“You are very definitely Liz, Elizabeth. The STRONG AMERICAN WOMAN. You are my Lady from Atlanta.”
“Jack, are you joking in some half-cocked English sort of way?”
“You've just done it again. And there's more.”
“More? What do you mean by ‘more’?”
“I do believe you've seen right through me.”
“Jack?”
“Yes, Liz.”
“With all due respect, Shut up when I tell you to, okay? Just shut up.”
“The car's on its way. Spider will be driving. You can trust him with your life. I do.”
“Yeah, I got the message. He's on the payroll, right?”
“Very much so.”
“Another shepherd in your weird life, right?”
“Not exactly. He's more my house carl and I am his thane.”
“What in the world does that mean?”
“He sought me out, Liz. I did a gig with Muse. He just appeared.”
“Out of nowhere?”
“Yes. Apparently, the most important people in my life always show up unexpectedly and unannounced. He's an ex-British army sergeant-major. Airborne. He really does rock. You should hear his iPod.”
“Yeah, with a weakness for mad English poets, no doubt.”
“The thing about being a poet is that you never know who will hear you. Some of my verses mean more to him than they do to me. It's not me, Liz. It's the verses. There's something in them. Spider relates to them in a way I never can. I learn from him. And I train with him. He's into triathlons. You can run with him, Liz. I'm shagged out right now, as you know. He speaks very highly of your Marine Corps.”
“My Marine Corps? Surely you mean the US Marine Corps. How long has it been since you slept? Do you want me to look after you, Jack? Is that it? Am I to distract you through your tiredness?”
“Would you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“I have little to offer in return.”
“Oh, I know. I mean. I'll be the judge of that, Mr. Poet-Man.”
“Yes, boss.
“I think Spider's just arrived, although he knocked. I was expecting him to shoot my door off its hinges.”
“Come to Cornwall, Liz. I'm waiting for you. London Jack is a rascal. Cornwall Jack is the real Jack. Come and me
et me properly.”
“I'm on my way. MWAH!”
“Excuse me?”
“I just kissed you.”
“I was joking, Liz love.”
“Jack, S T F U. I'm on my way. Spider's standing here. I'm just about to step out the door and onto your magic carpet.”
“Okay, I'll get the house tidied up for you. I hated that damn tower, didn't you?”
“No, I loved it. I want to stay there again.”
“Why, for Pete's sake?”
Silence.
“Liz, oh Liz? Are you there?”
“Yes, Jack. I'm on my way to you. Will you hang up, please? The sooner you stop talking, the sooner I can get to you.”
Chapter 15
The Nook Farm, Cornwall, England
Dear Diary,
The love of my life – many sweet, little butterfly kisses to you Jack, if you ever read this. Jack knew exactly what he was doing. He made me wait. Like he was testing me, or letting me know how he was. And so I waited. Or maybe Fate made us both wait. I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it worked.
How time has flown.
When Spider delivered me at The Nook for that first time, I was calm.
I think a part of me knew what I was doing. My heart knew.
I love The Nook as soon as I see it. It's dark, but the lights are on inside the house and up the side of the driveway, too. The gravel scrunched as Spider drove us slower to the front of the manor. I open the car door, stand, and gasp. I feel like I've rocked up in some film set. It's not a massive house and not grand, but man, is it historic. All stone and wood and flowers and ivy. An honest-to-goodness English country home. An old seventeenth-century English manor that would break your heart. Then, the door opens and there he is; silhouetted in the hall light. Long hair, long legs, and a heartbeat in tune with my own.
Spider gives me a little nudge and says, “Sorry, go on, then.” I so needed that nudge.
That's how it was. That’s how it all began again.
Gentleman Jack the Cornwall Farmer is so very different from London Poet Jack the Jerk. We sit and talk the night away. He understands how I am. I hang my proverbial hat at the door of his welcome. I have never been so welcomed in my life.
We sip brandy and watch the dawn arrive.
He is completely calm, no mania, nothing like that. Yes, it is possible to fall in love with the same person in more than one way.
Our first kiss is unexpected.
It's three days later, just after my arrival at The Nook. We are at a farm show. Plato the Younger, one of Jack's rams, wins a prize. It's not even a First Prize. He won Second Place. But Jack is like a kid with a new toy. He vows to Malachy and Mrs. Trellawney that I have brought him the best of luck. He kisses me. At first, it's just a peck on the cheek with his arm around my shoulder, but then our lips meet. Unplanned. Things escalate. I put my arms around his neck. He responds and places his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. Someone whistles. I wave them away with the flick of my hand. He's mine. The kiss seals the deal. I am in love. Jack is in love. We have found the love we have waited for our entire lives. With one perfect kiss on one perfect English summer afternoon, we understand the meaning of all the colors of every rainbow, forevermore.
I leave the world of software and the world wide web for the wide world of words.
That's how it was and how it is.
My Jack. He becomes my Jack. And I am never ever letting go of him. Not ever. MY Jack. And, I am his Liz. His Lady from Atlanta.
We plant a garden. He plants so much lavender, maybe a little too much, because he knows it is my favorite. He has phlox and cannas and Cherokee Roses and irises flown in from the family farm in Georgia. Wild Honeysuckle, too. We plant the honeysuckle in his conservatory, the last plant before you enter into the expansive garden. That way, its fragrant blooms treat us throughout the English winters.
Jack loves surprising me with thoughtful gifts and it means so very much to him. And, he starts to write again. As the flowers blossom and grow, so does our love.
We get married. A spur of the moment ceremony in the garden, following a dreamy vacation in the south of France. He asked one Thursday afternoon. We were in his library. He asked by getting down on one knee and giving me the most beautiful cognac Kismet diamond. Jack says it is the perfect reflection of our love – rare and exquisite. Only later did I find out it is 21 carats. I still can’t believe it. Guess I really am a small town girl!
I could only say Yes! I ordered a white lace dress from one of Jacks friends who owns a shop in London. Beautiful white lace over a sheer lining, long sleeves with a high neckline, yet it’s fitted and it is actually long enough for me. One of the first dresses I have ever owned that is long enough without being altered. The dress arrives Saturday morning, and we are married that afternoon, before teatime, in the garden. Malachy and Mrs. T are our witnesses. Jack insists that I wear the cowboy boots with the lace dress. He is the perfect English gentleman, waiting for me outside the glass and wood conservatory in his dark Italian suit, tailored to fit him exactly. The same suit he wore to serve me coffee the morning after we meet. He wears an English bowler hat for the wedding. He is the most handsome, sexiest man I have ever seen.
We go to country shows with the sheep. I take over the cheese business. Malachy introduces me to Jack's literary affairs. Malachy is a dear, sweet guy, but he is no businessman. I know he is relieved when I take over more of the publishing stuff, as this leaves him more time to focus on sorting Jack's chaotic papers. He writes in longhand because he hates screens. I file the papers for Jack’s Foundation at Oxford, and transcribe the poems to the computer. What a nightmare!
Malachy brings order to Jack’s creative chaos. Spider drives us everywhere and keeps the world at bay. Mrs. T is Mrs. T and continues to be into everyone’s business – a loveable curmudgeon. A lost puppy follows me home one day when I am out running. Just a little black muttley with dark eyes. All love and tail wags and she just stays with us. I know how she feels. I love our crazy little group of misfits and I love my life - for the first time ever. And I love my man, MY Jack, my husband. The world never sees the Jack I see – the Jack we all see at the farm.
We go to London every couple of months. I love going back to The Tower. I finally meet Andy, the owner. There is nothing he won't do for Jack. Jack is just that kind of person. All sorts of people love him for all sorts of reasons. Nothing is too good for me. Andy takes us shopping in London's West End. My favorite shop becomes Fortnum & Mason. Oh, and Tate Modern. I love going to Tate Modern. And Chelsea. I got addicted when Andy takes us to see Chelsea play soccer, or football as they call it, the first time.
We go to France often. Jack gets a little place in Antibes. But my favorite place is Eze. There's a hotel called the Golden Goat. I love swimming in the pool there. Because of it, I get Jack to build a pool at The Nook. It has a shifting star pattern in the ceiling. I love swimming in there with him, just the two of us.
Jack puts another collection together and does some more recordings. He gets pestered to perform, but he will never do that again, not in any big public way. If someone asks him to “give us a verse, Jack” when we are in the pub, he will.
And I am pregnant. You're going to be a dad, Jack. Once the ink is dried on this and you are back from feeding the sheep, I am going to tell you. So there!
Surprise!
Your Lady from Atlanta is going to be a mom.
Chapter 16
Baby Zelda
September 22
Dear Diary, meet Baby Zelda.
Baby Zelda introduced herself to the world earlier today at 6:31 p.m. GMT at our farm in Cornwall, weighing in at a healthy 8 lbs., 4 oz., and an impressive 21 inches long. You were born at what we call Happy Hour in my hometown. Your father says it is now to be called Happiest Hour.
Zelda, by the time you read this, you will already have been “introduced” to my diary. This diary will be my gift to you when you are eightee
n years old. Although I may wait to give it to you on your nineteenth birthday because that is the age I was when I started sharing my secrets within the diary. You should be old enough by then to understand the workings of a troubled teen’s mind, yet have the thoughts and heart of a young woman.
As you know, I have kept this diary sporadically since my college years in Nashville, Tennessee. You will know as much about me as I know about myself. All the secrets and weaknesses, all the pain, but more importantly, you will know about all the happiness. You will know about your father. You will know about how Jack and I met, how we fell in love, and how very much we love you. Our story is your story.
So you will know, your father and I fell deeply, passionately in love. Jack asked me to marry him eleven weeks after we met. Zelda, I remember it all so very vividly. Your father actually proposed in the old fashioned, traditional manner, by getting down on one knee. He reached in his pocket, pulled out the ring box, and presented the diamond to me.
“I'll take the ring.” I smile. “But you are married to your words, Jack. You love me, but you love every woman on Earth. You just happen to love some more than others. Would we both be miserable if we marry? We’ve both suffered heartache before. I love you--the essence of you, but will you be happy if we get married? Have you really thought this through, Jack?” He sat on the floor at that point and ran his fingers through his dark hair.
Jack shook his head in disbelief and said, “But, you love me, right? You came to London to get the message of your life from me. To heal. Have you done that? Have you ever loved this way before?”
“No, Jack. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. There’s a heartbreak I’ve never told you about, Jack, because, like you, I have been hurt so badly by someone in the past. I have loved before and it was all wrong. All wrong. You have shown me how Love Right knows her way when we do not. You have given that to me through your words and your actions. In turn, you have learned from me that someone can love you without placing restrictions on you. We have something special that is just for right now, Jack. The Hour Exquisite, the French call it. That's what we have.”
September Ends Page 13