Slightly South of Simple

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  “I’m going to help Sloane get Grammy to bed,” Emerson called cheerily. “You’re the best mom in the world!”

  I felt Jack’s hand on my shoulder as I, with a very weak voice, called, “Emerson!”

  Sloane and Emerson were both at the bottom of the stairs. They turned simultaneously and yelled, “April Fools!”

  I balled up the towel in my hand and threw it at Emerson. To my surprise, it hit her squarely. She and Sloane were laughing so hard they had disintegrated into a pile on the floor at the bottom of the steps.

  “Your face!” Emerson gasped between her hysteria.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Sloane practically cackled. “That was even better than I thought it would be.”

  I sat down on the top step and put my head in my hands. “I am truly traumatized.”

  Jack squeezed my shoulder.

  I turned to him. “Did you know about this?”

  He laughed. “No! I had no idea. But to say it was the best five minutes of my life is not an understatement.”

  “I am not speaking to any of you. Not a single one. You are all on my bad list.” I put my head back in my hands.

  “Why don’t you let me get the boys to bed?” Jack asked. “You’ve had a big night.”

  I noticed with relief that he didn’t call them his grandkids again. Thank goodness. What was I supposed to say to that? We were barely dating. We had kissed one time. He had given one bath. This did not a grandparent make.

  Even still, I couldn’t have done it without him. “Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know why you keep coming back here to this madhouse.”

  Emerson and Sloane were still bursting with laughter like a couple of howler monkeys.

  It made me think of the Simon and Garfunkel lyrics, Something tells me it’s all happening at the zoo.

  I understood now why the zookeeper was very fond of rum.

  * * *

  EVERYONE IN TOWN PLAYS bingo in Peachtree on Tuesday nights. Everyone. It starts at six so the kids can participate and goes on long into the evening. Mr. Jones is the best in the business at calling out letters, there’s a full bar and a fun band, and like I said before, everyone in town plays. Everyone, that is, except for Caroline when we first moved back to Peachtree. Sloane and Emerson would beg her, tell her how much fun it was, come home with funny stories of what happened. But she wouldn’t budge. She’d look up from her Vogue magazine like they’d asked her to help clean fish guts off the boardwalk and say, “These people’s IQs must be even lower than I thought.”

  She wouldn’t go, that is, until she met Peter Hoffman. Peter was Alma Jeffries’s grandson, and he was a god among mere mortal teenaged boys. He would have to have been to catch Caroline’s attention. He came to town that Christmas, and let me tell you, she had one look at him, and he was going to be all hers.

  Caroline was an attractive girl, but she has gotten prettier as she has aged. Even back then, she had something, this power over people. That first time he laid eyes on her, Peter Hoffman asked Caroline to play bingo. She said yes, much to the delight of her sisters.

  Much to the horror of her mother, everyone in town was talking about how Caroline and Peter were making out behind the Shriners building downtown while the final card was being played. But I decided that I would trade the humiliation for the happiness it brought my sullen daughter.

  Peter was from Connecticut, and they kept in touch for a few months, but once the whirlwind of college began in earnest, Caroline had enough attention from enough boys to keep her occupied for quite some time.

  The briefness of their encounter might have explained why I didn’t recognize Peter right off when I passed him on my way to the store.

  “Ansley!” he called, jogging back to meet me at the door.

  I turned and looked, and right about the time he said “Peter Hoffman,” I realized who he was. And then I felt silly, of course, because it was clear I hadn’t recognized him.

  “Peter,” I said, hugging him. “Come on in! I’ve got to get the store opened up.”

  “How are the girls?” Peter asked.

  Was it remotely possible that he hadn’t heard, that he hadn’t passed a tabloid and seen my daughter’s name in it? When he winced, I knew that was not, in fact, possible at all.

  “Sorry about Caroline’s husband,” he said. “That’s really shitty.” He put his hand to his mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was inappropriate. It just flew out.”

  I laughed. “It’s OK,” I said. “It’s extremely shitty.”

  “So where is Caroline?” he asked.

  “Oh, she’s here. At the house. They’re all here, in fact.”

  “For a visit?”

  “Something like that.”

  Peter picked up a gold tray shaped like a leaf and ran his finger across it. “I like this,” he said. “I think I’ll get it for my mom.”

  He picked up three of my Turkish towels. “And these for me. I love these things. They dry so quickly.”

  I smiled, wondering if this was a ploy to get more information out of me. “So . . .” he started. “What’s the deal with Caroline? Is she in mourning? Do you think she’d like to, I don’t know, grab a drink for old times’ sake?”

  I scanned his towels and smiled. “I don’t know,” I said. “But you know she has a nine-week-old baby.”

  He nodded. “Sure. But I love kids.”

  I thought about the bath fiasco the night before and wondered if he would have loved kids then.

  “Well,” I said, knowing that I was meddling, “we always have a glass of wine on the porch at nine. Why don’t you swing by and ask her yourself?” I paused. “That’s pretty risky, you know. With a nine-week-old baby, how do you know she isn’t still huge?”

  “Because I know Caroline.”

  We both laughed. He left, the bell tinkling as he did. There was so much to do. Unbox inventory, pay bills, dust the knickknacks, call Barbara Cosgrove and see when that shipment of gorgeous lamps would be in. But I didn’t do any of that.

  Instead, I walked to the front of the store. I sat down in a beautiful, custom-made Society Social chair covered in a vibrant blue patterned fabric. Then I watched the water roll by. It was impossible not to think of Carter in these moments, not to wonder what would have been if he hadn’t died. If I’d insisted that he come to Emerson’s dress rehearsal that morning, if he hadn’t been able to catch a cab, if security had been a little tighter at the airport, if he had sprinted as fast as he could to evacuate the minute the first plane hit. There were so many if onlys. I could go on forever, imagining scenarios as numerous as the ripples in the sound.

  I thought of Jack, and I realized that there were so many if onlys that sometimes it left out any space for the what could bes.

  I ran my hand up the chair and realized that I would order four of them for Emily and Gary’s family room in this exact fabric but in pink, not blue. It was such a strange room configuration that any way you put a couch, it looked terrible. Four chairs would be perfect.

  The night before, Jack had said “my grandchildren.” Those two words were enough, in my mind, anyway, to put a stop to anything that was starting to brew between us. This was the reason I hadn’t wanted to be with him in the first place. I didn’t want him so involved in my children’s lives.

  Sandra was walking down the street to the bank next door. She poked her head in. “Hi, love.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You OK?”

  I nodded. “Taking a moment away from the madhouse.”

  “I’m heading to work,” she said. “Want to do lunch?”

  Did I ever. I nodded. “Yes.”

  I loved being a mother and a grandmother. I even loved caring for my mom, mostly. But just like when I’d had three babies, sometimes you needed a moment to be you.

  When Leah walked through the door and saw me sitting in the chair, she said, “You stay. I’ve got this under control.” Then she walked back over with a swatch book and whispered, “Could
you pick a fabric for Hal’s new drapes?”

  I laughed. Who would’ve thought that after all these years, Hippie Hal would be my interior design client? His home was incredible, this masculine mix of bamboo and worn Persian rugs, thin and threadbare like I liked them. It had a very British Colonial feel to it, almost like being right inside The Most Dangerous Game. He needed to do some sprucing up, and I was more than flattered that he came to me.

  I got up, stretching my legs, and said, “I’ve got to run this bedding down to Jack’s boat. If Hal comes in, give him these three options. He has a terrific eye.”

  I loaded a dock cart with two sets of twin sheets, one set of queen, three white cotton blankets, and three plain white bamboo coverlets. The Euro shams were freshly steamed so I gingerly placed them on top, with the neck rolls holding everything down. I was a fan of big, fluffy comforters, but on a boat, simplicity is best. Anything that can hold moisture is a liability.

  I lifted the handles of the cart, trying to ignore the pain in my lower back. There was no doubt that carrying my grandchildren and helping my mother had taken a toll on me. It reminded me that, no matter what else was going on, I had to exercise and take care of myself. I didn’t want to be one of these old crippled grandmothers by the time Emerson had babies.

  As I walked down the dock, my heart felt heavy. Jack and I were firmly in a gray area, and I had this feeling that he and I had differing opinions about which way we needed to go. Between my mom and the kids, it was too much. Of course, there was that ever-present fear of letting him get too close to my family. The damage could be irreparable; it could ruin my relationships with my daughters forever if things went south.

  But then there was my heart. My heart told me he was the one—or, well, the other one. My heart told me he would never hurt me. As I pushed the cart, I realized that it is so often this way. The head wants one thing, the heart wants the other. How I wished I could get them to do the same thing at the same time.

  I barely recognized Jack’s boat. It was sparkling, clean, seaworthy even, a murky oyster scrubbed and steamed to reveal the pearl inside. I had replaced the old overstuffed fabric couches with sleek, stylish, low-profile leather furniture that still looked manly and boatlike and would stand up to the water. The disgusting carpet had been replaced by shimmering teak floors. The quartz in the kitchen, appliances, and granite in the bath were all new and brought the boat up to date while still maintaining its integrity. The gorgeous wood inside had all been shined and polished and looked fresh and fabulous.

  Jack emerged from the cabin looking as though he should be on a yacht advertisement. He had on navy Top-Siders and a navy-and-white-check button-down with the sleeves rolled up hanging out over his shorts.

  “There’s my girl,” he said.

  My insides went soft. “Am I?” I said.

  “Are you not?”

  There it was. That amused look that made my heart race. He stepped off the boat and onto the dock. “Let me help you with this stuff. You’re going to be excited,” he said, as we carried the bedding into the master bedroom. “Look.” He pointed proudly. “New mattress.”

  I smiled. “That is so wonderful. Now you aren’t sleeping in mildew and bed bugs.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” He took the pillows and set them on the bed. Then he swooped me up in his arms and kissed me. And just like that, all of my worries from a few minutes earlier floated away like fresh dew in the early-morning sun.

  “I missed you,” he whispered, kissing the tip of my nose.

  “I missed you, too.”

  And I knew I had. There was simply no reason to keep fighting it.

  We made the bed and tucked in the coverlet, tight and smooth.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “A beautiful room on a beautiful boat. Who the hell would’ve thought?”

  Jack pulled me to him, and we admired my handiwork.

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking now that she’s seaworthy, I might take her out on the open water.”

  I gasped. “Is she ready for that?”

  I was actually wondering if I was ready for that. I liked having Jack right here, where I could find him.

  He nodded and held up his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  We both laughed.

  “And so,” he continued, taking my hand in his, “I was wondering if you would consider joining me on the maiden voyage of the Miss Ansley.”

  I gasped and hit his arm. “You did not name your boat after me.”

  He grinned. “Oh, I assure you, I did. The guys will be here to change the name this afternoon.”

  I laughed. When a man named his boat after you, he was in. “I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds fun, but isn’t that kind of a lot of . . . pressure?”

  He looked at me, puzzled, his eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead. Then he laughed, catching on, and said, “Oh, Ans, we never had any trouble with that.” He shrugged. “And there’s no pressure. If you don’t want to, we’ll wait.”

  Oh, but I wanted to.

  He smiled and pulled me in close to him, kissing me with all the fervor he had when he was a teenager. In so many ways, he was that same kid. “I’d hate to make it awkward,” he said, unbuttoning my blouse, his mouth still on mine.

  My hands found the button of his shorts, and I wondered, briefly, if I could still do this. It had been sixteen years, after all. But I was sure it would come right back to me. Like riding a bike . . .

  As he lowered me onto the bed, I said, “Jack, no!”

  He looked at me, alarmed.

  I laughed. “Oh, no. Not that. I just had all these shams and coverlets pressed.”

  He rolled his eyes and kissed me. And I can truly say that I didn’t give that bedding another thought.

  THIRTY

  defying physics

  caroline

  After that semester I spent in Peachtree Bluff after Dad died, I was at NYU summer school so fast it would have made your head spin. Back to my friends. Back to the not-so-fresh air, the crowds, the noise, the excitement, the center of the universe, basically. I didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror. (Well, I mean, the theoretical rearview mirror. As we’ve established, I didn’t drive.) I was so ready to get out of there. Ready for freedom. And my sisters would tell you that they were quite ready to get rid of me, too.

  That first weekend back in New York, I realized that against all odds, I was starting to feel a little bit, well, family-sick. I wasn’t homesick. I mean, I was home. But I missed my sisters. So I picked up the phone, called my mom, and asked if they could come stay. She, of course, said yes, but she couldn’t talk Sloane into returning to New York. She wasn’t ready. Instead, Mom bought me a ticket back to Peachtree Bluff.

  I didn’t and couldn’t, obviously, but it still made me happy at the end of the long weekend when Sloane and Emerson begged me to stay. I knew Mom wanted to beg me to stay, too, despite what a pill I had been, but that would have been bad parenting.

  When I got home from our family weekend at the Cloister, I could tell that James wanted me to ask him to stay. But I didn’t. Because, yeah, we’d had a decent vacation, but that was a long, far cry from moving back in together. Surely he knew that.

  When I walked into the main house, Vivi ran upstairs to see the boys. And it was like the jig was up. Mom, Grammy, Sandra, Emily, Emerson, Sloane, and Hummus were all sitting in the living room.

  “We’re sorry,” Emily said, pointing at Sandra. “We know we aren’t family, but we’re dying over here.”

  I laughed.

  “Holy hell,” Sandra said, before anyone could say anything. She motioned for my hand. “That is the biggest rock I’ve ever seen. It’s gorgeous.”

  Grammy shook her head. “Don’t let him buy you.”

  “I’m not letting him buy me,” I said. “For him, it was a show of good faith that he’s in this even though he knows I may not be.”

  Emerson motioned, her mouth open. “That is seriousl
y insane. Like you shouldn’t wear it in public.”

  “OK,” Mom said. “How did it go? Did you decide anything?”

  I told them about the weekend, the dinner and the horseback riding, the fun family activities. I omitted the sex, although my sisters would weigh in on that later.

  “I think,” I said, “that I’m going to give it another shot. Vivi, Preston, and I have a few more months in Peachtree, and I’ll try to make a decision one way or another before we go back to New York.” I sighed. “But I do believe he’s sorry, and I do believe he wants me back. So that’s good.”

  “That’s big of you,” Sloane said.

  “Yeah,” Emerson chimed in. “I’m shocked.”

  “The long and short of it is that I don’t know what’s going to happen. So stay tuned . . .”

  Mom shifted nervously on the couch.

  “What?”

  “You might be mad.”

  I sat on the arm of Emerson’s chair. She handed me her wineglass, and I took a sip. I felt like I might need it.

  “I ran into someone today,” Mom said. “And he’s coming to say hi to you at nine.”

  I could feel the confusion on my face. “Who?”

  “Peter,” she whispered.

  My heart raced. “Peter Hoffman?”

  She nodded. I laughed. Oh, my gosh. I’d had the hots for Peter Hoffman big-time. We’d had a fun Christmas break in Peachtree and one awkward hookup once I was at NYU. But I wouldn’t hold his nineteen-year-old hookup skills against him.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly go out with him,” I said.

  But two hours and two glasses of wine later, I was singing a different tune. When Peter Hoffman walked up onto the porch, as handsome and tall as I remembered him, and wrapped me in that big hug of his, I wondered why I had ever let him get away. Oh, that’s right, I thought, James.