The Southern Side of Paradise

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  The mere idea of it made me feel sick. What would I say to the girls? Why hadn’t they come to me? But most of all, how could the man who claimed to love me more than life itself have hidden something so important?

  After two days of avoiding Jack, not sleeping, and barely eating, I was at the point we all inevitably reach, where the knowing seems easier than the not knowing.

  I knocked on Jack’s door, which was strange. I hadn’t knocked on his door ever. Since he’d moved next door and we’d gotten back together, I walked in and out as I pleased.

  Confusion was written all over Jack’s face as he opened the door. “Did you forget your key or something?” he asked. I shook my head.

  Even in my anger and sorrow, I couldn’t help but admire the entrance hall as I walked inside. I had designed this house for us, created a place where our children and grandchildren could come, where Jack and I could start the life together that we had always wanted. The marble floors, which had been there for more than a century of this home’s century-and-a-half life span, had been beautifully restored and honed. A large oyster-shell chandelier hung every six feet down the hall’s long path. It was perfect. And knowing that the life we were supposed to share might never come to fruition broke something inside me.

  Whereas I had carried nothing but my righteous indignation over here, I was now handing Jack my tears.

  “Babe, come here,” he said soothingly.

  He pulled me to him, but I pushed him away.

  He bent down to look in my face. “What’s wrong with my girl?”

  I shook my head. “How could you keep this from me?”

  For a second, he looked genuinely mystified. Then, as if the fog was lifting, recognition crossed his face. Still, the man was cautious. “Keep what from you, Ans?”

  “How could you know that my daughters knew you were their father and not tell me? How could you live with a lie like that?”

  Jack shook his head, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh, which brought the anger back. “How could I live with a lie like that? Ansley, are you serious? I’m pretty sure the lie I lived with for thirty-five years, the one where I was the father of two of your children, is the issue here. Remember that one? I feel like maybe that was the big lie. That they know feels like a relief.”

  I pushed past him into the living room. “So, what, you got tired of the lie and told them? Told my children a secret that, quite frankly, wasn’t yours to tell?”

  I sat down on the couch, and he stood up straighter. “For one, it wasn’t only your secret, Ansley. I have lived with this earthshaking other life that I couldn’t tell anyone about. Not my family, not my friends. I have lived a lifetime trying to protect you, so let’s get that straight right now.”

  Jack wasn’t explosive like the rest of my family; he was calmer and steadier, better at controlling his emotions. But his darkened eyes and shaking voice were a dead giveaway that he was very upset. Despite that, he sat down beside me on the couch.

  I shook my head. “So tell me. I want to know how they found out.”

  He shrugged and sighed. “First of all, I think you know that I would never, ever go behind your back. I would never tell them our secret without your permission.” He paused. “I honestly don’t even know if they know for sure.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “What?”

  Jack took a deep breath and swallowed. “Sloane and Caroline were putting the furniture back after the painters had come. I walked in, and they were standing by my antique secretary. They didn’t say anything, but I could feel that something was off. They looked up at me with . . .” He trailed off. “I don’t know. Disbelief and understanding. I knew they knew. I can’t explain it, but I did.”

  I felt as breathless as if I had been there in that moment. “So what did you say?” I whispered.

  He reached over and took my hand. “Ans, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. And neither could they. And then Emerson called for them to tell them she was engaged, so we never got a chance to speak.” He sighed. “That secretary, the one they were standing by, is where I keep all the pictures you sent me while they were growing up.” He paused like he was weighing his options. “And their fairy stones.”

  Now I was confused. “Their fairy stones?”

  Jack nodded, looking sheepish. “That day on Starlite Island, the day I came to you . . . ”

  I had rushed my little girls into the boat so quickly that they had left their stones. We had gone back to the island to look for them, but we never found them. Now I finally knew why.

  Jack sighed again, and I could feel the emotion welling up in him. “After everything that happened that day, I needed a piece of them.” His voice cracked. “I knew I would never see them again, and I wanted a piece of my children.”

  I wanted to keep being angry. I wanted to keep feeling my pain and humiliation, but sitting here with this raw wound of a man, it hit me what I had actually put him through all those years ago. I had gotten these beautiful girls. And he had gotten nothing. Not his children, not me. Not a single memory. While I wanted to chide him for being so careless as to keep those pictures and stones where people might easily find them, I had to realize what that had cost him.

  “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to confirm their suspicions—if they even had any—but what would the explanation be for why I had years of photos with notes from you written on the back of them?”

  “Do you know if they saw the notes?” I asked, clarifying.

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. But also, I kind of do.” He continued. “I just stood there. I couldn’t say anything. Sloane and Caroline turned to walk out the door. Sloane was gone, but then Caroline came back and whispered to me, ‘She does have your eyes.’ ”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I know. I was confused, too. But then I opened the top drawer of the secretary, and Sloane’s baby photo was on top. You had written a note on the back that said, Thank you so much, Jack. She’s perfect. She has your eyes.”

  I grimaced. That was pretty damning evidence. I had only myself to blame, really. Why would I have done that? Why did I write him those notes on the photos? How could I have been so careless? I guess at the time, I couldn’t have predicted how this would turn out. At the time, I believed with all my heart that I would be with Carter until my dying breath and that Jack would always remain a part of my memory but never a part of my life—and certainly not a part of Caroline, Sloane, and Emerson’s lives. It boggled the mind. Defied all logic and reason.

  He shook his head. “I just stood there like an idiot. I was so stunned. And then Caroline gave me this look. It was just a look, and she didn’t say anything, but I knew it meant Don’t tell Mom. So I didn’t say anything to you, because I didn’t want to break their trust when this was my very first move as their father as they knew it.” He paused. “Or as they maybe knew it. Again, I still don’t know what they really think.”

  I actually laughed now, because it was clear that he didn’t have the first clue about being a parent. And how would he? He had never had a single day’s practice. Talk about on-the-job training.

  “Honey,” I said, “here’s the first rule of parenting. If your kids tell you not to tell Mom something, that means you run, don’t walk, to tell Mom.”

  He put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Ansley. This has been impossible for me. I didn’t want to lie to you, but I didn’t know what to do. I mean, how do we even navigate this? I’m their father, and I’m dating their mother. Last week, I was a test tube. Today I’m living next door. It’s so big.”

  I smiled, all the anger gone now. “It’s big for you, too, Jack. I know it is. And no one expects you to be perfect at this on the first day. I’ve been doing it for thirty-five years, and I still mess up more often than not.”

  Then he asked me the question I had asked him all those years ago on Starlite Island: “What about Emerson?”

  It broke my heart. Caroline and Sloa
ne got a brand-new dad—their real dad, one who was living, breathing—but Emerson didn’t. Although Jack could be a wonderful father figure, I knew it wasn’t the same thing, which seemed unfair. But she was grown; she was getting married. I figured she would take the news in stride.

  I didn’t realize yet, after twenty-six years of being that girl’s mother, just how wrong I could still be.

  * * *

  IN ADDITION TO TAKING inventory at my store all day, the second punishment I had in mind for my girls was making them go to the monthly town meeting. I loved town meetings, seeing all my friends and neighbors in one place. Compared with the hate and terror happening in the rest of the world, the “serious problems” in Peachtree Bluff seemed comical.

  Tonight’s meeting was going to be a doozy.

  “I don’t understand why Sloane doesn’t have to come,” Caroline whined as we walked down the street toward Paradise Pub, where tonight’s meeting would be held. It was the dividing line between historic Old Town, which was established before the Revolution, and New Town, which was settled in 1776. You either lived on the northern side of Paradise or the southern side of Paradise. We were on the southern side, naturally.

  “Yeah,” Emerson chimed in, “why doesn’t Sloane have to come? She was just as drunk as we were.”

  “Drunker,” Caroline said. “And she was the one who decided it would be a good idea to order every martini on the menu.”

  “Yeah,” Emerson said again. “If anything, Caroline and I are the victims here.”

  Jack winked at me and took my hand. I wasn’t ready yet to sit the girls down and talk this out. I hadn’t decided if I should talk to Sloane and Caroline without Emerson or approach them all at the same time. Then there was that tiny two percent of me that hoped that if we never talked about it, it would all go away.

  So to the girls, I just said, “Sloane is at home with her wounded national hero of a husband and her two children. She gets a pass tonight.”

  “Did you forget I have two children?” Caroline asked.

  “I did not,” I said. “Did you?” I turned back to where she was on the sidewalk and gave her the eye. James had taken the kids to visit his mother, and Caroline had begged off the trip, saying she had to work. Perhaps James had forgotten that her pushover of a mother was her boss. I wondered how long it would be until he finally started standing up to her again. “Your children won’t be here for two more days. Until then, you live under my roof.”

  “Hooray!” Emerson and Caroline shouted at the same time, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

  Jack smiled at me, and I shook my head.

  The meetings at the pub were my favorites. It had a huge patio with dozens of strands of bubble string lights, plenty of places for us all to sit, and, of course, cocktails. I had a feeling that I was going to need one, as my daughters had turned back into whining teenagers.

  But perhaps my favorite thing about the pub was its stage. It was really for bands, but Mayor Bob, who had been the mayor of Peachtree for as long as I could remember, stood up there to act as a moderator while his citizens aired their grievances. It could turn into quite the performance, considering that this was a town of artists, actors, musicians, and otherwise free-spirited people. It was organized chaos, with more emphasis on the chaos.

  “Did Mark not want to come?” Caroline asked Emerson.

  Emerson pointed at me. “Someone wouldn’t let him.”

  “When you’re grounded, you don’t get to see your boyfriend,” I said with my most serious face. As I’d said since the beginning of time, if they were going to act like children, I would treat them like children. “This isn’t supposed to be fun.”

  Only, it was a little fun.

  Hippie Hal sauntered over, and I jumped up to hug him. “How was India?” I asked, noticing that the rope Hal usually wore to hold up his pants had been replaced by a woven belt.

  Hal hugged Emerson and Caroline as he said, “It was great. But I missed my Murphy girls.”

  He grinned at us. He didn’t even seem stoned, which was a little off-putting. As if he could read my mind, Hal said, “I have to have my full faculties tonight. I have something to present, and I know Mrs. McClasky isn’t going to like it. Not one bit.” He grinned conspiratorially. Hippie Hal and Mrs. McClasky had been feuding since 1995. She hated that he kept refurbished bikes on his lawn, and she hated even more that she couldn’t make him move them because there was no bike ordinance in New Town, where Hal lived, in a home built in 1789.

  I was tired, frankly, of hearing them argue about it at every town meeting. So I hoped this was something different.

  Emerson went to look for Jack and, I could only assume, flirt her way to the beginning of the bar line. It was amazing how a two-day hiatus had cured her proclamation to “never drink again.” I leaned over and whispered to Caroline, “Have Emerson and Mark made up?”

  She nodded.

  I shook my head.

  “I feel like I’m not the person to give marriage advice,” she said. “Maybe you should say something.”

  I put up my hands. “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” I had heard snippets of the fight between Mark and Emerson, and I didn’t have the stamina to have all that fire directed toward me if I meddled. I was too old for it. Plus, I knew Emerson. She’d do whatever she wanted no matter what I said.

  Everyone quieted as Mayor Bob called the meeting to order. First on the docket was Paula Jones and mail carrier Roger Smith’s spat. Roger would win this one. He was our beloved mail carrier, the man who brought us our Town & Country magazines and packages even in the rain. Who could possibly turn against him?

  Paula Jones, on the other hand, yelled at children for walking on the edge of her grass on the way to the park. The woman didn’t stand a chance. Unless she had stacked the audience with members of First Methodist’s parish—where she was the largest tither—she didn’t have a prayer, pun intended.

  Paula took the stage, wearing a pale-blue short-sleeved skirt suit with a pillbox hat that would have been more appropriate for a British wedding than the Peachtree Bluff equivalent of a deposition. She had a tiny, upturned nose, and beady eyes. Her usual bright red lipstick had been replaced by pink. I’d hand it to the woman. She looked very innocent.

  “I took the mailbox off the front porch for one day to have the porch painted. One day,” Paula began, as though she was on the verge of tears, “and now Roger says he will only deliver mail if I put a mailbox on my fence, that he won’t come up to the porch anymore.”

  As she continued with her diatribe of how this had horribly impacted her life, taking full advantage of her three minutes, Caroline whispered to Emerson and me, “Mom, I’m texting you a pic of your mother-of-the-bride dress.”

  “What?” I whispered back. “I thought maybe I would pick that out.”

  Caroline shook her head. “No. My friend Ramon is a huge up-and-coming designer in Manhattan, and he had this vision for your dress. It’s flawless.” Then she whispered to Emerson, “He’s making the bridesmaids’ dresses, too.”

  Emerson rolled her eyes at me. Both our phones vibrated. I gasped when I saw the picture. The gown was the palest blue floor-length lace with straps about three fingers wide that came slightly off the shoulder. It was fitted at the waist and flared out the tiniest bit, my favorite style, except that I usually wore something with a sleeve. I thought it was more appropriate at my age.

  “Car, this looks like a wedding gown,” I said.

  “Oh, Mom,” Emerson said, “you have to wear this. It’s perfection. You will look gorgeous.”

  Caroline looked at the picture and then back at me. “Yeah,” she whispered. She looked me up and down disdainfully. “But, Mom, you really need to lose some weight in your shoulders.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Jack, who was back now and passing out rosé, said, “How does one lose weight in her shoulders?”

  Roger was having his moment now. I thought it was a
smart move for him to wear his uniform. It made him seem professional and knowledgeable right off the bat. Probably, though, he hadn’t put the thought into his outfit that Paula had. He had simply come straight from work. “It clearly states in the Peachtree Bluff Mailbox Statute of 1962 that existing front-porch mailboxes have a right to stay, but if that front-porch box is moved at any time for any reason, it must be replaced by a street-accessible box,” he was saying.

  “But I moved it for one day,” Paula protested.

  Mayor Bob interrupted. “Paula, you’ve had your time.”

  I waved at Kimmy as she passed around photocopies of the Mailbox Statute. Word around town was that she and Roger had something going on. Kimmy denied it, but when you’re passing around a man’s flyers at the town meeting, you’re sleeping with him. No two ways about it.

  As Roger continued, giving his full three minutes its due, my phone beeped with another text from Caroline that said, Bridesmaids. The bridesmaids’ dresses were the same shade of pale blue as my mother-of-the-bride dress, but instead of lace, they were made of a thick raw silk. They were strapless and floor-length, with huge white grosgrain ribbons tied around the waist. They were simple, elegant, a little bit Southern, and perfect for a beach wedding.

  I returned my attention to the matter at hand. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Bob began. “You have heard both sides of the case. It’s time to make a decision. All in favor of Ms. Paula Jones, raise your hand.” Yup. She’d done it. She’d stacked the audience. This was going to be a close one. “All in favor of Mr. Roger Smith?” My hand shot up, because, as I said, Roger delivered the world to my front porch.

  The mayor started counting, and my arm started losing feeling as I waited for him to finish. “All right, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiled. “It was close, but Roger Smith wins by three votes.”

  Cheers rang out from my section of the pub, while Paula shouted, “I demand a recount!”