by Holly Jacobs
I felt the weight of the papers I was still holding.
The once-pristine envelope was starting to wrinkle from all the fussing I’d done with it. I fingered the small smudge from my coffee drip earlier.
This morning when I’d taken them to Gray’s office, I’d been able to picture my life without him.
I’d picked up the papers yesterday at the lawyer’s office. He’d tried to tell me again that I was entitled to much more than I was asking for in a divorce settlement.
I’d told him not to worry and I’d thanked him before I walked out.
I’d stopped at 6 Mile Winery and bought a bottle of Riesling after meeting with the lawyer. It was one of my favorite new local wineries. The bottle was chilling in the fridge. I hadn’t bought that wine for a celebration, but rather as a way to mark a new beginning.
A beginning of a life without Gray.
I didn’t have a clue what that life would look like.
No, I did. It would look remarkably like the last year.
“When I feel overwhelmed I remember our vacation on a dude ranch in Wyoming,” James was saying. “Turns out I wasn’t much of a dude, but more of a dud. But Anne didn’t mind. We laughed and spent the whole week together. There was nothing earth-shattering about that vacation, but it was just before she got sick. It was just the two of us and we were happy.”
I could see lingering traces of that happy time in his glazed expression and before I could think better of it, I found myself sharing with him. “I had a studio apartment right out of college. It was little more than a glorified closet. But it was in one of the big, old houses downtown on West Sixth.”
James nodded. Most people in Erie were familiar with that neighborhood west of the courthouse. Some of the historic homes were now businesses and many had been subdivided into apartments.
“I lived in an apartment that used to be the attic,” I said. “It was a three-story walk-up.”
The stairs had creaked, voicing their displeasure every time anyone in the house used them. I remembered that noise and, more than that, the smells as I walked up the flights. The people in the downstairs apartment made Italian food a lot. The entire first floor always smelled of garlic, basil, and oregano. The boys who lived in one of the second-floor units loved to party, and I think that the smell of their liquor had permeated the entire floor with a slightly sour odor.
My tiny apartment on the third floor always seemed to smell a bit musty to me, so I usually had a scented candle burning. I gravitated toward spicy scents more than floral, so I always thought my apartment smelled like fall.
I walked up those stairs in my memory. I could see some of the pocked plaster that was painted an industrial gray.
I remembered one trip up those stairs specifically. I’d carried a heavy grocery bag then. It was a paper bag, not a plastic one, or a reusable one.
“I invited Gray to supper one night,” I told James with an S. “We sat on the couch and ate on the coffee table, because my apartment was too small for an actual dining room table. I made pasta—it didn’t have the same heavy smells as my downstairs neighbors, maybe because it came from a jar. We drank cheap wine and spent the entire night talking about our future. I talked more than him—there’s nothing unusual about that,” I said. That was an understatement if ever there was one.
“I was excited about my new job. It turns out that an art degree is wonderful in theory, but not as good for getting a grown-up job. But I’d just landed a position at Harbor House Furniture and Design. I remember bubbling over with excitement.”
I’d met JoAnn when I was still in school and we’d simply clicked. When she felt she could hire someone, I was thrilled that I’d get to work with her.
“There was nothing monumental about the evening,” I continued. “Gray and I were just two poor, post-college kids fantasizing about a future. But I’ve thought about that night so many times since. I’d put candles all over the room, thinking my shabby-chic décor looked better in the dim flickering light.”
I fell into the memory of that night.
Just me, Gray, and a bottle of wine then, too.
He’d talked about his business with Ash, about what he planned to accomplish. He’d been uncharacteristically an open book that night. Well, maybe just an open novella. But it was wonderful to hear him dream. Maybe that’s why the evening was so easy to remember.
I’d bubbled over about my new job with JoAnn as we sat and drank in the candlelight. I wasn’t exactly tipsy, but I could feel the warmth of the wine. Or maybe it was simply a warmth that came from Gray. When I’d wound down about Harbor House, he’d wound up, talking about Steel, Inc., and shared so freely. Even at that, he wasn’t actually loquacious by others’ standards, but for Gray, he was practically gabby.
He talked about his business plans with Ash. Big plans. Grand plans.
I had no doubt that they’d accomplish all of them.
“Once the business is secure, I’ll ask you to marry me,” he said out of the blue in the midst of his talk of business plans.
“Pardon?” I was pretty sure I’d heard him right, but I couldn’t be positive.
“When the business is on an even keel, I’ll ask you to marry me.”
This time I was ready for the words.
Yes, I had heard him right. I didn’t need to think about the enormity of his statement. I didn’t have to weigh my response. “When you ask me, I’ll say yes,” I’d told him. “Whenever you ask, I’ll say yes.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. Mrs. Graham Grayson.
No, I’d never be that.
Addie Grayson. Yes, that had a ring to it.
“So we’re pre-engaged,” I teased.
Gray nodded, as serious as ever. “Yes.”
I was suddenly caught up in a fantasy of what our lives would look like. “When we get married, we’ll buy a house up in Glenwood. One of those old brick houses where so many generations of other families lived their lives that the house has a soul, if you know what I mean.”
Gray smiled then and shook his head. “I rarely know exactly what you mean, Addie.”
I laughed. “Mystery is just part of my many charms. I’ll decorate the house, now that I’m well on my way to making my name in design.”
“You just got hired,” he said in that logical way of his.
“Every designer starts somewhere. And I’m on my way. I’ll decorate our house and then we’ll fill it with children. Probably five.”
He looked slightly panicked.
“Maybe just three,” I said to reassure him. He still looked skeptical so I said, “Two. One for me, one for you. And we’ll all live happily ever after.”
“I want kids with you. Not right away, but when we’re financially settled. When my business is a success.”
I took his hand in mine and said, “I don’t need you to be a success in order to marry you or build a family with you, you know. That was a lot of yous, but you know what I mean.”
He nodded. “But I need me to be a success,” he said with utter certainty. “I need to be sure I can support you.”
I knew that his father had left his mom when Gray was little. Peggy worked as a waitress to support them both. Sometimes money was tight, but Peggy always managed. But I knew just eking out a living would never suit Gray. He wasn’t mistaken—he didn’t just want to be able to support me. He needed to.
“I can support myself,” I reminded him softly.
He shook his head. “When the business is secure, I’ll ask, and then we’ll find that house and someday think about those kids.”
Knowing that arguing with him was useless I simply smiled and said again, “And I’ll say yes.”
He was still serious.
“This is where you smile with relief and thank me for the reassurance,” I teased him.
Th
at did it. He’d shot me one of his infrequent smiles. “It is a relief.” He paused a moment, then he added, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I know for a fact you’d never eat ice cream before dinner if I wasn’t around,” I teased.
“I don’t do that even with you around. You do that. And sometimes, you eat ice cream before breakfast.”
“Nope,” I teased. “Sometimes for breakfast. I mean, it’s a dairy product, after all. And if it’s strawberry, it’s like eating fruit and cream for breakfast.”
Gray laughed then.
I could almost hear the sound of his laughter across the span of years. Even then I’d realized how rare it was and I’d treasured it.
I couldn’t remember the last time Gray had laughed.
I thought about the ice cream that was in the freezer, just waiting for me to come home.
I looked at James with an S. “My husband said that someday he’d ask me to marry him at a dinner in that apartment.”
“And he did,” he said, looking at my hand. I looked down and was shocked to see that I was clutching the papers in my left hand, which left my engagement ring and wedding band exposed.
I nodded. “He did.”
“Anne is forever showing me big-production proposals on YouTube,” James said. “I didn’t do anything like that. I took her out to dinner and slid the ring box to her. She’d picked it out, so even that was no surprise. But I asked, ‘Will you marry me, Anne?’ and she said yes. There was no big dance number, and no band or balloons involved. Just me and her—that was enough for me. Just her and me. That was more than enough then and it’s more than enough now.”
James got quiet.
I hoped that whatever was wrong with his Anne was fixable. I hoped that after all the hospital visits, this surgery would resolve her problem and allow them to still have more time together, just James and Anne.
Like Maude and Bertie.
James was lost somewhere in the past where he and Anne were simply enjoying just being the two of them.
I’d thought I wanted silence, but it weighed on me despite the fact the room was anything but quiet.
The television droned.
People conversed quietly, as if they were in a church where whispers were the norm.
They twitched and paced and talked on cell phones.
Occasional announcements over the PA system interrupted all the noise. Afterward, for half a breath the room would remain still and silent, then everything would spring back to life and begin again.
I thought I’d be thankful for the peace, but I wasn’t.
I checked my phone to see if there was an e-mail from Peggy. There wasn’t. Unable to sit any longer, I got up and got a cup of coffee. Thinking of Maude bringing me a cup earlier, I got one for James as well.
I handed it to him. He took it automatically, then looked down as if surprised to find coffee in his hand.
He smiled his thanks and then went back to whatever memory he’d been reliving.
I sat back down and tried to simply be still, but I felt as if I were suffocating under the weight of all that silent despair.
I picked up the conversation with James where we’d left it. “I don’t think most women want a big production.”
He fell back into the present and said, “Pardon?”
“You said your wife showed you big-production proposals online, but I don’t think most of us want that sort of thing. I think most of us treasure the small things. We value feeling that we matter. We want to be heard. To be noticed. If you did that for Anne, it was enough.”
“I keep thinking about doing some YouTube-worthy something for her when she’s better. Something to make her smile. She deserves a big produc—”
“Mr. Patterson?” a man in scrubs called.
I felt the entire room’s attention pivot to that doorway. The man said again, “Mr. Patterson.”
Everyone but James went back to their conversations, television watching, or forays into their private thoughts while James stood up and took a step toward the doorway.
“I hope she’s okay,” I told him.
He stopped, leaned down, took my hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Me, too.”
I watched as the man in scrubs said something. James listened intently, then turned back to me and smiled as he gave me a small nod.
His Anne was okay . . . at least for now.
After he left, I sat back and listened as snatches of the quiet conversations and the television drone blended together.
“. . . and then she said . . .”
“. . . I’d rather have my man wear nothing . . .”
“. . . in for a penny . . .”
I sat and focused on the weird bits of conversations blended into an odd monologue.
“. . . put the fast in breakfast by using . . .”
“. . . sneakers and sweats. I said, no . . .”
“. . . one memory I can’t shake . . .”
Listening to the snatches of television mixing with conversations might be easier than thinking about Gray, but it kept bringing me back to him anyway.
Everything kept bringing me back to him.
I couldn’t help but think about our past and trying to figure out where we went wrong.
In the months since I walked out the door, I’d figured out many things, but never that.
Chapter Four
Waiting.
Now that James had left, it felt like he’d taken what little oxygen had been in the room along with him. The weight of the waiting threatened to suffocate me.
I wondered if that’s where the word waiting came from . . . the weight of the experience.
I’d waited for Gray in the past.
Waited for him to feel financially stable enough to marry me.
Waited for a honeymoon.
Waited for him to say something when things fell apart. I needed him to say something. I talked. And he seemed to listen, but when I asked how he felt, what he was thinking, he said nothing.
We went to couples therapy, and he still said nothing.
When I’d planned a getaway for us, he’d finally said something . . . no.
He didn’t have time. He couldn’t make time.
After I left, he’d finally said he wanted to talk, but to be honest, I’d done enough talking to last me a lifetime.
Then I waited again for him to realize there was no fixing us. I waited for him to file for our inevitable divorce.
But he didn’t. He seemed content with the status quo.
Finally, I got as tired of waiting as I was of talking. Neither solved anything.
I took that last step myself. I thought I’d be done waiting.
Oh, the irony.
Here I was, waiting again. This time the waiting was worse than all the other times.
“I know, the waiting is the worst,” James said.
I realized I must have said the word out loud and right after that I realized that James had come back. “Is Anne okay?”
“Fine. She’s in recovery. They’ll come get me when I can go back.”
I nodded. “So you’re waiting again.”
“It’s easier with someone waiting with you.” He sat down, not in the seat he’d vacated, but next to me. “After I’m gone, you really should let your friend come down,” he said again.
I nodded. “She’ll be here when I need her. It doesn’t matter what I say, she’s the kind of friend who hears what I don’t say just as clearly as what I do say.”
He nodded. “It’s good to have a friend like that.”
It was. I patted James’ hand, just as Maude had patted mine.
I didn’t consider myself a big toucher. I found social hugs awkward. I never knew when one was appropriate and was always caught off guard when someone h
ugged me.
But here I was, patting James’ hand, just as Maude had patted mine. I didn’t feel awkward in the least.
Maybe it was a comrade-in-arms sort of thing. We were all here under fire. Maude had waited for her Bertie. James for his Anne. And me for Gray.
Talking to them had forced me to move past that one bitter moment in my relationship with Gray and start to remember other memories . . . the happier ones.
“Maybe sometimes we don’t need a friend who knows our stories,” I said. “Maybe sometimes we need someone new who doesn’t know them. Someone who makes us look into the past. I know that doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I’d forgotten how happy Gray and I were that night as we drank cheap wine and talked about the future. Thank you for reminding me.”
I had a mental image of Gray on an operating table, his ribs cracked open. I could see it so clearly. I’m sure I’d seen something like that on some medical show. I could hear the sound of a saw and hear the bones breaking—
James squeezed my hand as if he could sense what I was thinking. “So tell me about another moment you and your husband were that happy.”
It struck me as absurd that for the last year I’d concentrated on the moments that had made me unhappy—the moments that had wounded me to the core.
Maybe I’d forgotten just how many happier moments there were.
“Gray and I talked about getting married from that night on. He said as soon as his business was standing on its own two feet we’d make it official. I’d reconciled myself to the idea of waiting years. I knew that most new businesses didn’t survive, and those that did took years to become stable. I knew the company was doing all right, but Gray caught me totally off guard when he finally asked. I’d found a place for myself at Harbor House. I loved working with the clients and helping translate their vision into reality.
“You might think that a chair is just a chair, but when it’s done right, it can be a work of art. Functional, useful, but ultimately, art. And Gray and Ash were working so hard to get Steel, Inc. off the ground. But one afternoon Gray called and asked me to have dinner with him . . .
