The Secret to Southern Charm

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  “We’re going to look at houses,” Georgia said.

  I didn’t like the way she said it, like they were going to look for houses—for the two of them. “Like rental property or something?” I asked.

  Jack shook his head. “No. I’ve been toying with the idea of moving back to Atlanta.”

  “I was in the area,” Georgia trilled, “so I thought I’d pick him up.”

  In the area, my left foot. She was in the area like I was born yesterday.

  I could feel my throat go tight. He was actually going to do it. He was toying with the idea of moving away from here. Away from me. “Hey, G,” he said, “would you mind giving us a second?”

  She nodded. “ ’Bye, Ansley. Sorry again. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  You can get the hell out of my life and away from my Jack, I wanted to say. Instead, I smiled tightly.

  Jack squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t going to tell you all this right now. This doesn’t change anything. Finish the house. Make it a dream. I just have to look ahead.”

  I thought I might cry for the fortieth time that day. Instead, I stood there, open mouthed. “You said six months,” I whispered.

  He smiled. “And I meant it, Ans. This was a convenient day for both of us, and I thought I’d see what Atlanta has to offer.”

  He didn’t add anything like, “We can have a city getaway.” Or, “Wouldn’t it be so convenient for you to stay there when you go to Market?” Nothing to indicate that he saw me in his future at all. But maybe he saw Georgia in it, which was even worse. She represented the very real idea that he wasn’t going to wait for me forever, as he had clearly signaled. I liked to fancy myself the love of his life. I liked to believe he couldn’t possibly be with another woman, that what we had was too deep and too consuming. But Jack had waited for me for a long time. And he was serious about being through with all of that.

  I walked out the back door, and I could see my brother’s big head on the screened-in porch—and my other brother’s smaller head beside it. A row of beer bottles were lined up in front of them, ready to be consumed. I sat down in a chair across from my brothers, handed a beer to Scott to open for me, and took a swig. Then I looked at John. “I forgive you,” I said. “I still think you’re an awful person, but I forgive you. I think I actually did a long time ago.”

  I smiled at him, and he smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. “That means a lot.”

  “Oh,” I added. “No one invited you for Christmas.”

  We all laughed. I knew even then it couldn’t be this easy. It would get infinitely more complicated as the months went on. But, for now, I was sitting on the porch in Peachtree Bluff, drinking a beer with my brothers for what must have been the millionth time. I pretended my mom was right inside the kitchen and I had to be ready to hide my bottle behind my chair if I saw her coming toward the door.

  I pretended Georgia was nothing more than Jack’s Realtor and nothing was or could be going on with them.

  Because, sometimes, the truth, like warm beer, is simply too hard to swallow.

  TWENTY-NINE

  lost

  sloane

  After Grammy died, I wallowed and harped on the thoughts that I would never eat her particular cheese straws again or hear her tell my kids a bedtime story. I stayed up too late crying and drinking wine and sharing memories with my sisters. But life dealt her a hand. She played it. And that was something to be terribly grateful for.

  Caroline and Mom had the funeral preparations under control, and Emerson, ever the cool, fun aunt, had asked if she and Mark could take the kids to the park. I was going to take her up on the offer, even though the boys would come back sugared up and loaded with any toy or trinket they had even looked at. I was going to have to watch her more closely when they got older and started asking her to sign for their tattoos.

  I decided to go to the store to get a little bit of peace and quiet and to do the one thing my mother had asked me to: paint a piece for Jack’s living room.

  I had immediately said, “No.”

  “But you’re painting again,” she protested. And I was. I had graduated from blacks and grays to some dark blues and greens, as though my emotions were getting slightly less dark but even more complicated.

  “Yes, Mom. But those paintings are just for me. They aren’t for the public.”

  She had crossed her arms. “Jack is not the public.”

  I smiled when she said it. I thought back to my conversation with my sisters on the boat. Mom definitely had the hots for Jack, no matter what she said. I raised my eyebrows at her, and her face turned beet red. Her blush was one of my favorite things about her. I found it so charming.

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  When I said no again, she handed me a check. From Jack. For half the money that I wanted to have saved before Adam got home. There was pride. There were standards. And then there was the practical reality that food and clothes and shoes and rent cost money. I snatched the check and said, “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. Any color scheme I should be working around?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll design the room around your painting.”

  Well, now. That was flattering.

  I had told Caroline only weeks earlier that I wasn’t going to paint with people looking at me. But the view from Mom’s store was so gorgeous that I was at the front, painting my little heart out, while Mom’s manager, Leah, waited on a handful of customers. I felt someone looking at me. See? This is why I didn’t paint in public. I looked up and smiled. Not a scary stalker stranger. Just Jack.

  “Hi,” he said. “I can’t wait to see it all come together.”

  I was so engrossed in what I was doing that I had, for probably a full twenty minutes, forgotten that Adam was gone. In that moment, it all came flooding back to me so harshly it took my breath away.

  “Sorry,” Jack said, stepping back as if he had offended me in some way. “I can let you get back to it.”

  “No, no!” I said. “That wasn’t about you. It isn’t finished, of course, but I’m kind of liking it.”

  It was an abstract piece with shades of green and blue and even a little peach thrown in. There was a section of black and one of white, and I hadn’t consciously created it at all, but when I looked back at my work, I laughed out loud.

  “What?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just sometimes I get so lost in the work that I don’t realize what it is that I’m doing.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused, but he didn’t press. I would explain it to him later.

  He crouched down on the floor beside me and picked up a sketch Mom had done in black and white of the living room to give me inspiration. “You’re a pretty talented mother/daughter duo, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. “Mom always says I get my artistic ability from my dad.” I paused. “But that’s kind of funny because, I don’t know if you know this, but Caroline and I both came from a sperm donor.”

  His expression didn’t change at all, like he was bracing himself and trying to keep a perfectly straight face. “Huh,” he said. “Yeah, I think I might have heard that.” Then he shrugged. “But you never know. The whole nature-versus-nurture thing.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s pretty well established that artistic ability is a genetic trait. So either my biological dad was an artist or I got it from my mom.”

  “Definitely your mom,” he said, laughing.

  I looked up at him and could feel the confusion written on my face. He held up the sketch. “Judging from this, I mean. I obviously don’t know your sperm donor.”

  Then he cleared his throat and said, “That’s a nice-looking light thingy.”

  My turn to laugh. “It’s a sconce,” I said. I patted his arm.

  He sighed. “Is it that obvious that I’m out of my element?”

  I tried to look sympathetic. “ ‘Light thingy’ kind of gave y
ou away.” I paused and added, “But don’t worry. I don’t know a thing about creating a hot-dog empire like you did.”

  We both laughed.

  Jack stood up, and I thought he would turn to leave, but instead he paused, staring at me for a moment before he said, “Sloane, is there anything I can do for you?” He paused again and stuttered. “I mean, with Adam being in his, um, situation, you know, if you need anything at all, I’m here for you. I know we don’t know each other that well and people say these things, but I’m a man, and I don’t know what to say so I need to do something. And your mom says I can’t do anything for her. So I’m useless and lost.”

  I smiled encouragingly. “You know, Jack, short of bringing my husband home in one piece, I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”

  “Scott will find him,” Jack said confidently.

  “I think so,” I said. I felt another shot of warmth toward Jack then. I knew everyone else thought I was crazy. They didn’t hide their concern and incredulity well. But I knew what I knew. And that was that Adam was coming home.

  If only I felt as confident about Emerson’s health, everything would be OK. Grammy’s death had given her yet another great excuse not to get the tests the doctor recommended.

  He nodded and turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “Hey, Jack,” I called. He turned and raised his eyebrows. “Thank you. Really. I appreciate it, and I’ll let you know if you can do anything.”

  He smiled, and I think he felt better. I felt better just remembering Scott was getting on an airplane to Iraq that night. I wanted to go with him. I honestly considered it. But when I confessed that to Emerson, who was a tiny bit sweeter than Mom or Caroline, she had said, “Oh, no, that’s a great idea, Sloane. Go ahead over to Iraq and get killed. Then Caroline will be raising your children.”

  I loved Caroline. She was a great sister, but she was not the mother I wanted for my children.

  We looked at each other and broke out into hysterical laughter. Like so many things in life, it wasn’t funny, but it kind of was.

  I was thinking about Emerson and that laughter we had shared as I picked up my brush. I was proud of her and how she had grown. She seemed to be settling into a real relationship with Mark and was even helping take care of my kids.

  I was changing too. I had gotten up my nerve to send AJ and Taylor to Mother’s Morning Out, which they had come to love so much that I was a little jealous. AJ actually got mad when it was Saturday and he couldn’t go. I’m not sure what that said about my mothering, but I was grateful for the time nonetheless. When I was painting or even just doing inventory at the store, my mind was so occupied that I couldn’t think about Adam or Grammy. All I could think about was the task at hand, and that was a wonderful feeling. I wondered what people who didn’t have a creative outlet did to clear their minds. Maybe those were the people who ran marathons. Like Caroline. Caroline couldn’t paint or write or draw or act. But, man, could that girl ever run. So, she ran herself right into that 11 percent body fat she was so obsessed with.

  The bell tinkled on the door, and Sandra walked in, breaking me out of my thoughts. I smiled at her, and she smiled sadly back at me, which was when I remembered Grammy was dead, her funeral was this afternoon, and instead of standing here putting paint to canvas, I should have been at home helping my mom and sisters prepare.

  “Were you sent here to make sure I hadn’t slit my wrists in the bathroom?” I asked.

  Sandra laughed. “Something like that.”

  I stood up, wiped my hands on my pants, and curtsied, making Sandra laugh. “I am all in one piece, blood free and not suicidal.”

  Sandra nodded and scrunched her nose at me. “But isn’t that what suicidal people say?”

  I grinned at her. “Scott is leaving after the funeral to go find my husband, so I’m fine. I’m hopeful.”

  Sandra had been like an aunt to me growing up. She was the closest thing my mother had to a sister—except for maybe Emily—and she had always told me the hard things. She was there when I needed advice, and I felt like she knew me better than most people in my life. So when a concerned look passed across her face and she said, “Sloane . . .” with that air of “you’re delusional,” I wasn’t surprised.

  I put my hands up. “Look, I get it. I know it’s insane to think my uncle is going to go to a foreign land and track down my missing husband. But you guys don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like when the love of your life is lost and you are completely powerless to do anything. It’s like when kids go missing and their parents roam the forest looking for them. Are they going to find them? Probably not. But you can’t just sit there and do nothing.” I took a deep breath. “He’s coming home to me. He is. And this may very well be how.”

  Sandra nodded and pulled me into her. “I think you’re amazing,” she said. “You’ve held up incredibly well in the worst of the worst. I’m not judging you. Just worried.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Worry about Adam.”

  I was dipping my brush back into the paint when I heard, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” and my two little monsters tore through the store, Mark and Emerson following closely behind. “Mommy, Mommy!” AJ said, out of breath and sweaty, that little-boy billy goat smell emanating from every part of him. “Mark got me this banana and it had chocolate covering it, and it was so good!”

  “Popsicle,” Taylor said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” AJ enthused. “It was frozen like a Popsicle!”

  They leaned into either side of me, those babies, so soft and warm. I was so grateful for them. Adam was missing this. I couldn’t think about where he might be or what might be happening to him, but he wasn’t here. He didn’t get to hug these sweaty children who we made so well, and raised well, too. And he might never get to again.

  I felt unexpected anger burning in my chest that he had left me here alone. To curb the feeling, I smiled up at my sister. “Seems like you two were a big hit.”

  Emerson leaned into Mark, and he put his arm around her waist. “This one really knows what to do with kids. It’s kind of crazy. Are you sure you don’t have one?” she asked him, eyebrow raised.

  He leaned over and kissed the top of her head in reply. “Not yet,” he said, winking.

  They were so adorable it made me want to cry and cheer all at the same time.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Hey, look,” Mark said, “I’m going to run to the church to help set up chairs.”

  “That’s sweet,” Emerson said.

  “She didn’t know that many people here,” I said. “Do you think we’ll need more seats?”

  Mark smiled. “No offense to Grammy, but people won’t be there for her. They’ll be there for Ansley. And for you girls.”

  My tears spilled over again because I was so grateful our mother had made our home in a town that loved us so much and would always be there for us.

  Emerson and I were hugging, and Adam and Taylor were throwing fabric swatches in the air, when Kyle walked through the door. He put an arm around each of us and hugged us. “I don’t like my Murphy girls to be sad,” he said.

  I wiped my eyes and nose and said, “You always make us feel better.”

  “Because I’m Super Coffee Man?” Kyle asked, hands on his hips, chest puffed out.

  That, of course, made us laugh, and order was restored to the world.

  Kyle smiled. “My work here is done. Now I’m off to the church to get set up. Grammy wouldn’t want her mourners drinking Folgers.”

  Everyone we knew and loved in this town was working on this funeral like they didn’t have a care in the world, save making my grandmother’s final celebration amazing. I sat back down, handed AJ an old wallpaper book and a pair of scissors, and said, “Can you cut some shapes out for Mommy?”

  He smiled enthusiastically. “Sure, Mommy. I’ll cut you circles.”

  Then I pushed a huge pile of fabric Taylor’s way and said, “Find all the red and p
ut it in a pile for Mommy.”

  This would buy me at least ten minutes—and be educational—while I put the finishing touches on this piece.

  Instead of resuming my painting, though, I found myself staring at my boys. I thought about Grammy and Adam. They didn’t get to sit here and marvel at these perfect babies. So I put my brushes down and said, “Never mind, kiddos. Let’s go play.”

  “Yay!” AJ said.

  Taylor clapped his hands together. “Play, play, play!”

  Like Kyle a few minutes earlier, for a second, I felt like Supermom, like I could raise these kids and have this job and handle anything else that came my way. I’m not sure if it was true. But, either way, it was the best feeling I’d had in quite some time.

  THIRTY

  eternity

  ansley

  I don’t remember my mother’s funeral. I’m told it was beautiful, and I know that was true because I checked the flowers before I took enough of Caroline’s in-case-of-plane-flight Valium to get through the church and the handshaking and the stories about my mother with some sense of composure. Caroline informed me I even made a little joke. The mayor had had the hots for my mom for as long as I could remember, so when things got really rough with my former neighbor Mr. Solomon—like the time he said my grass seed had blown into his yard and was now growing there—Bob always took my side. When Mayor Bob came up, blotting his eyes, and hugged me, I evidently said, “Thank God Mr. Solomon went first.” I was funny.

  My memory kicks in—hazily, more like I’m watching it all play out on video than actually living it—after the funeral, about the time I put on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. It was 75 degrees, but I wanted to feel cozy. I remember my brother Scott knocking on my door. I remember crying on his shoulder and begging him to come home in one piece. I remember John telling me he knew the spreading of our mother’s ashes was something he didn’t deserve. I remember telling him lightly that I agreed. He laughed, but we both knew I meant it wholeheartedly. And then I said, “You should come, John.”