Slightly South of Simple

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  “Well, hey there, Miss Ansley. I brought a skinny soy vanilla latte for you today.” He winked at me. “Although you don’t need the skinny.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. He really was so cute. Something in his good nature reminded me of Sloane’s husband, Adam. I hadn’t seen it at first, but Adam was the perfect man for Sloane. She was kind and loving, my easiest child by far. It had hit her the hardest when her father died, made her afraid and, for a while, anxiety ridden. I worried that a man would overpower her, take advantage of her gentle nature. But Adam knew how to love her, how to make her feel safe and special. I always taught my girls that they didn’t need a man to save them. They needed to be able to save themselves. And Sloane could. But, confident in the knowledge that she could stand on her own two feet, I adored how Adam had positively swept her off of them.

  “So what you got going on today, Miss Ansley?” Kyle asked as I handed him his money and he handed me my latte.

  “Page and Stage has a new Southern writer coming in today. I thought I’d run down and pick up her book.” I hated TV. I thought it was the downfall of civilization. I didn’t have one. So I read. A lot. I guessed I would have to get one when Emerson’s next TV movie came out. “Other than that, just work. I’ve got two new yachts down there I’m designing if you want to go check in on them. I’m sure they’d love some coffee.”

  He saluted me. “Yes, ma’am. I believe I will.”

  I was pretty sure that Coffee Kyle was the only barista in the known universe who left his coffee shop wide open and unattended while he made deliveries to his locals. You could buy regular and decaf on the honor system by leaving your dollar in the basket. If you wanted something fancy, Kyle came back every thirty minutes to serve you. But if you lived in town, he knew what you wanted and was probably going to bring it to you anyway, which made it pretty rare to have people in the shop unless they were there for the atmosphere—which, frankly, the place was a little low on, if you asked me.

  Kyle hugged me, which was the best part of my day, sadly.

  I looked down to see a text from Emerson. Call me when you get a few minutes. That really was strange. It was only seven a.m. in LA. My little Emmy was never up that early. She had probably started some new aerial yoga or zum-barre-lates something or other. I had started to dial her when I heard the bell tinkle yet again and had to end the call.

  At first, I thought the man walking through the door was a tourist, which was rare this time of year. He was a little bit overweight, and had a ruddy, dark complexion, that particular mixture of too much sun and too much alcohol that makes a face look aged yet somehow youthful, as though the wearer of said face was still squeezing every square inch of fun out of life. “I’m Sheldon,” he said. I instantly remembered the phone conversation from the day before and realized that while, no, he wasn’t someone I would call a friend, I had definitely seen Sheldon around.

  “Oh, of course,” I said, walking out from behind the counter. “The fifty-three Huckins Linwood. Thanks so much for getting in touch with me.” Sheldon had called to let me know he had a boat coming in for an extensive rebuild. It had been badly damaged in a recent hurricane off the Florida coast, and Sheldon was one of the foremost experts in the country in its particular make and model. While he was taking care of the structure of things, he asked me if I’d like to come alongside and take care of the, as he put them, “girly parts” of the boat. I would have preferred the term “aesthetic elements,” but, quite frankly, it was winter, business was slow, and I could use the cash.

  I could tell already that my new buddy Sheldon was a man of few words. He motioned his head to the door and said, “Well, you want to see it?”

  “Oh, now?” I said, grabbing for my jacket and hanging my camera around my neck, thinking that now wasn’t really great, as I had two daughters to call. But this shouldn’t take too long. I could redesign three staterooms and a salon in my sleep.

  Little did I know that, after today, sleep wasn’t something I would be getting much of for a long, long time.

  TWO

  supermodel husband stealer

  caroline

  I have always, always, for my entire life, wanted to be a mother and nothing more. My sisters find this odd, which I find odd. I mean, sure, I’m honest. But that doesn’t make me unmaternal. I don’t say things to my daughter Vivi like “Don’t eat those Oreos, or you’ll turn into a big fat cow.” I say things like “Sweetheart, too much sugar isn’t healthy for you. It will ruin those beautiful teeth and that perfect complexion.” It’s still true, but it isn’t quite as cutting.

  From the time I was a baby, I was always dragging a doll around with me. So when Sloane was born, even though I was only two, I was probably the most excited anyone has ever been. I still remember going to the hospital, climbing into bed with Mom and tiny Sloane, seeing her for the first time, and knowing that my whole life had changed in the best way. Mom says I can’t possibly remember. I’ve just seen so many pictures that I think I remember. But she is wrong. I remember.

  Sloane and I have always been close, despite the fact that our lives are scarcely relevant to each other.

  So Sloane was the perfect person to drop the bomb on first. She was so selfless. I knew she would soothe my very damaged nerves. We didn’t deserve her, Emerson and I.

  The problem was, I couldn’t quite find a way to tell her about James. Instead, I heard myself saying, “I found this little indoor tent that I thought the boys would love, but I didn’t want to spring it on you because I know it will take up a lot of room.”

  “Oh, they would love that,” Sloane gushed. “There’s plenty of space in the playroom.”

  My phone beeped. “Oh, wait!” I said. “There’s Emmy.” This would be better. I’d tell them together, only have to taste the terrible news in my mouth once. “Hang on a minute, and I’ll merge us all together.”

  “OK,” Sloane said. “But don’t cut me off, because I have to tell you—”

  Too late.

  “Hi there, little Em,” I said. Oh, I loved that girl.

  “The best thing has happened!” You could practically hear her glowing from across the miles.

  That could mean that she had downloaded a great new song or had found the best new manicurist. Em was overly dramatic on both sides of the spectrum, which is a good quality for an actress. I’ve often envied her ability to get so excited over the smallest things, but the joy wouldn’t be worth how upset she also gets over practically nothing.

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “I have Sloane on the other line.”

  I merged the calls and knew they were both there when I could hear Emerson’s giggles and Sloane saying, “I know, love bug. But we don’t eat candy in the morning.”

  The woman was a saint.

  I looked out the window of my apartment. The view of Central Park was going to be hard to leave. I still couldn’t believe I was actually going to do this, move back to a place I couldn’t stand and couldn’t get out of fast enough. But I would love to be in a place for a while where no one had ever heard the name Edie Fitzgerald—or at least didn’t care who she was. Bitch. With her three feet of shiny black hair and eight-foot-long legs.

  “What’s going on?” I heard Sloane say.

  “I have to leave LA.” Emerson practically cheered, although I couldn’t figure out why that would be a good thing, unless, of course, she was leaving LA for New York. Then it would be the best move ever.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I exclaimed. “I’m leaving New York!”

  “What?” Sloane chimed in. “Can you breathe if you aren’t in Manhattan?”

  When I laughed, it felt like a reflex, not true joy. I knew I could be real with my sisters. I knew I could relay my devastation to them, that they would be able to feel it no matter how nonchalant I acted. But I couldn’t go there yet. I had to be strong just a little bit longer. “We’ll see,” I said breezily. “I’m flying south. I have been the victim of a supermodel husband stealer.�
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  “No!” Emerson gasped. “But Caroline!” Her elation had turned to devastation on a dime. “You’re pregnant.”

  The baby kicked right at that moment, as if knowing that he or she was being talked about. I rubbed my belly. I was excited that we didn’t know what this one was. We. It was depressing to realize that “we” just meant Vivi and me now. No more James. I felt my throat go thick. Nope. He didn’t deserve my tears.

  I looked down at my shoes, wondering if they were actually as cute as I’d thought they were in the store. Of course they were, I decided. But once the man who is supposed to be your forever leaves you for a supermodel, you start to doubt every choice you make. What if I’ve been drinking almond milk but I should have been drinking cashew? What if we find out in twenty years that casein really is good for you? Every small decision is suddenly under the microscope, another example of how acutely I have mismanaged our lives.

  Because, it’s awful to admit, even to myself, but I knew James was having an affair.

  I may not be exactly tactful. And there’s probably no good way to hear your husband is cheating. But honestly, there had to have been a better way than the one he chose. James sat me down in our sun-filled living room on our white banquette, the one I had gotten from Mom when Vivi was eight and I had finally felt like I could redo the house because she wasn’t going to spill chocolate milk—the love of which I am certain she inherited from Sloane—on everything anymore. He took my hand and said, “Baby, I know this isn’t the best timing.” He looked down at my stomach. I knew what was coming, really, but I tried to avoid it. In those seconds, I pretended that he was going to say he thought we should move or he was going on a big trip the week before my due date or something, anything that would be bad timing except for this.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “And I don’t really know how to tell you this. But I’m not in love with you anymore.”

  I’m not in love with you anymore. I’m not in love with you anymore. It ran through my mind all day, every day, like the refrain of a horrible pop song you wished the radio would quit playing. Twelve years of marriage, thirteen years of being together, an eleven-year-old daughter, another baby on the way. How could he not love me anymore?

  Of course, it was only a couple of hours before Jenna Franklin, my “friend,” called and said, “Oh, Caroline, I don’t know how you’re coping. I don’t know how you can stand to stay here when he’s gallivanting all over town with her.”

  My heart sank. I couldn’t act like I didn’t know what was going on. Especially not to her. Which was when I said, “Got to run! I’m late to pick Vivi up from swim practice.”

  It was perfect, because it rubbed in the fact that we were members of Central Park Swim Club, which would not let Jenna in.

  So I called my real friend, Sarah Peters.

  “Is it true?” she asked breathlessly. “Please tell me it isn’t true.”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I am somehow totally in the dark. James has told me he’s leaving me. But who is he leaving me for?”

  “Oh, Caroline. Please don’t make me say.”

  That was when I knew it had to be one of our friends. Probably that whore Alex Martin. Everyone knew she had only married that old man husband of hers because she was going to have to go back to waiting tables if she didn’t find someone soon after her previous husband had caught her cheating with her high school boyfriend. But I always saw the way she eyed James. I actually kind of liked it. Because I believed that he loved me so much he would never leave me.

  I was a lot. I knew it. I had a sassy attitude and a bad temper, but I loved him. Loved him. And he always said that was what he loved most about me. I challenged him. I put him in his place. I made him work. And the way he looked at me, like I was the only woman in the world . . . Well, let’s just say I never imagined that he would do this to me. It made me want to crawl into a hole and die.

  But when Sarah said “Edie Fitzgerald,” I about fell out.

  I mean, James was good-looking, sure. He still worked out every day and had that gray around his temples, which I thought was sexy once a man hit forty or so. Honestly, I only assumed that since he was eleven years older than I was, there was no way he could trade me in for a newer version.

  Evidently, I was wrong. Edie Fitzgerald was the hottest up-and-coming model in the city. She was on every billboard in town and a magazine darling. They ate up the fact that she was, ironically, from Georgia.

  “And Caroline . . .” Sarah added, keeping her voice conspicuously calm, “I found out from my producer friend, you know that one over at HBO?” She cleared her throat. “Well—apparently James is going to appear with Edie on Ladies Who Lunch.”

  When I broke the news to Vivi that night, thinking it was better she hear it from me than those gossipy, middle school socialites-in-training she called friends, the poor thing was totally inconsolable. I’d never been much of a shrinking violet, as Grammy would say, but I had a baby to birth in a couple of months and this daughter to tend to, and for God’s sake, Ladies Who Lunch? The man really had no tact. Unbelievable. Truly. I blamed his mother. I know I said I liked her. But she was the one that made him so weak.

  Suddenly this warm, golden feeling washed over me, like I’d been cold in the air-conditioning all day and stepped outside to warm sun blanketing my body. It hadn’t even occurred to me: We could leave. We really could. At least for a little while. I could get out of town, take Vivi. But where to go?

  I can’t explain why Peachtree Bluff popped into my head. But suddenly, all the things I had hated about it—its tiny size, the quiet streets, my mom not having a TV—seemed incredibly appealing. No TV. Nowhere to watch the damn Ladies Who Lunch. It was perfect, actually. I was sure I could talk that sweet headmistress Mrs. Stewart into giving Vivi a spot in her cute private school.

  I sat down beside Vivi and rubbed her back. She was lying listlessly on the bed like the brokenhearted ex-girlfriend in some teen movie.

  People can say what they want to about me, but I am a terrific mother. I’ve never doubted that. I momentarily wondered if escaping would be teaching Vivi to run away from her problems. But instead, I realized that running away for a couple of months would help to keep her young just a little bit longer.

  “I know this is horrible, sweetheart. And we can talk about it all you want to. There’s nothing you can’t ask. OK?”

  She sat up and nodded. “I hate Dad.”

  I hate Dad, too. No. I didn’t hate James. Not really. Not even in that moment. James had broken my heart. Shattered my world. Shattered my child’s world. There was a difference.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, as though this was an idea I’d been mulling over for months, not the past ninety seconds. “You know how we always say we’re going to spend the summer at Gransley’s? Go out on the boat, learn to fish, take surfing lessons?”

  She nodded sulkily. I couldn’t blame the kid.

  “Well, what if we do that now? We could spend the spring there instead.”

  She jumped up and threw her arms around my neck. “Mom! No, you’re kidding me!”

  I shook my head. “I am not kidding you. Not at all. Every good New York girl knows when to take a break from the fast pace.”

  She squealed. “You are the best mom in the whole world.”

  I relayed the entire scene to Sloane and Emerson on the phone that day and was met with total silence on the other end, suddenly punctuated by a loud sob. I rolled my eyes. Oh, Emerson. “Look,” I said, “I love you both, and we’ll have plenty of time for family therapy, but right now, I need to keep it together and just get home. OK?”

  Nothing.

  “Guys, I mean it. I can’t fall apart, for Vivi’s sake.”

  “OK.” Emerson sniffed.

  I heard Sloane take a deep breath. “I understand, Caroline.”

  She paused. I could tell, even from across the miles, that there was so much she wanted to say. It was killing her.

 
; But instead of grilling me, Sloane said, “Wait. Emerson, why are you leaving LA?”

  “Oh, right,” she said, sniffing again. “I’m filming in Atlanta and around Georgia for a few months. I found this awesome town house to rent.”

  This was the best news I’d heard in a long time. Maybe this wouldn’t just be the pathetic divorcée coming home. It would be fun sisterly bonding. “Wait! No! You should come live in Peachtree Bluff, too!”

  “Well . . .”

  She sounded skeptical. “Come on, Emerson,” I coaxed. “It will be so fun. We can paddleboard and swim and go over to Starlite Island like old times.”

  “You guys know I have major FOMO,” Sloane said.

  “You should bring the kids for a couple of weeks,” Emerson said. “To visit Caroline, Vivi . . .” She paused dramatically. “And me!”

  “Yay!” I cheered.

  “Actually,” Sloane said, “Adam just got deployed for nine months.”

  “Oh, Sloane,” I said, feeling my heart break for my sister. I didn’t know how she did it. “Un-yay.”

  I could hear the tears in Emerson’s voice as she said, “Sloane, no. Not again.”

  “Girls,” Sloane said. “Yes. Again. This is his career. Buck up.” In this regard, Sloane was just like me. She never let anyone see her sweat.

  “So you come, too!” I said. “Bring the kids, and come to Peachtree Bluff. It will be like a fun sisters’ retreat!”

  “I guess I could,” Sloane said. “At least for a month or so. That will be so much better than sitting around here worrying by myself.”

  That was when my heart began to race. Mom’s guesthouse was plenty big for Vivi, the new baby, and me. It had two stories; the upstairs had two bedrooms, and the downstairs had one, with its own kitchen and living room. It was almost as big as our apartment in New York.