So when I was at an art opening for yet another one of my friends who fancied herself an artist, sipping my chardonnay, standing around on my sample-sale Jimmy Choos in a dress too tight for my own good, it took me a moment to figure out who he was.
I thought I’d noticed him because he was so devastatingly handsome. I was actually intimidated, which is really saying something. He had effortlessly fluffy dark hair and eyes that, although I wasn’t close enough to see what color they were yet, I knew already wouldn’t let me go. His suit was perfectly tailored.
Jolie, artist du jour, came over and gasped. “Oh, my gosh! That’s James Beaumont!”
I replied, “Who?”
But I knew who. Number seven, four, and eleven on three of my latest “eligible bachelor” lists. Lawyer. Son of a lawyer. Grandson of a lawyer. Family was Southern, but great-grandfather had made his way north to find fortune—which he had.
Jolie was all breathless and flighty. “Do you think he’ll buy one of my paintings?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. I set my gaze on James, like I always did when I was interested in a man. And like they always did, he turned his gaze to meet mine, at which point I looked away demurely.
“Want me to ask him?” I said.
I looked back up, and he was still staring at me, which was a pretty good sign that he might be interested. I walked over casually, took a sip of chardonnay, and said, “This is my favorite piece in the entire collection.”
It spoke to me. The blues and tans and whites, the way they swirled in that perfect combination of water, sea, and sky.
“I think it’s mine, too,” James said, grinning at me. I could feel my heart pounding, and I felt thankful that I hadn’t inherited that awful blushing tendency from my mom.
I examined the painting, and James examined me.
“I grew up spending my summers in Peachtree Bluff, Georgia,” I said. “This painting feels like that to me.” I turned to meet James’s gaze.
“You’re a good agent,” he said.
I laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not an agent. I’m a senior at NYU. I just love Jolie’s art.”
He reached out his hand, which Grammy would have pointed out was rude. He should only have reached for my hand if I offered mine first.
“James Beaumont,” he said.
“Caroline Murphy,” I replied.
“So, Caroline Murphy, would you hold it against me if I bought this painting? I don’t want to steal your favorite.”
“Oh, not at all,” I said. “College living doesn’t provide much room for six-foot-tall paintings.”
Thirty minutes later, James and I were sharing oysters and champagne. When he asked about my parents, I heard myself say, “My dad was killed in the second tower.”
I couldn’t believe I had said that. I never said that. Which made me know that I must like this guy, eligible bachelor or not. He stopped mid-sip, mouth agape, and I think he actually dropped his oyster shell.
“You mean like the World Trade Center?”
I nodded and took a sip of champagne to swallow with my tears. It was still so raw and so fresh. I wondered if it would ever go away.
“God, Caroline,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
This was when I usually said something like So many people lost loved ones that day. But I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Me, too. He was one of the good ones.”
James didn’t ask me back to his place, and I didn’t ask him back to mine. He didn’t kiss me, either. But he did walk me home, slowly, holding my hand the entire way. We talked for hours that night. We talked about art and politics, religion, love, our favorite episode of Friends, the new BlackBerry and how we couldn’t live without it. We talked about his brother and my sisters. Man, did we ever talk about my sisters. In fact, we talked so much that I wasn’t sure we’d ever have anything to talk about again. And when he didn’t try to kiss me, I assumed he considered me a friend.
I thought I would be bummed because I’d let one of my “eligibles” slip away. Instead, I was bummed because for the first time in my life, I really, really liked a guy, and he didn’t like me back. So I thought.
The next morning, I awoke to a soft rap on the door. “Hang on,” I called quietly, trying not to wake my roommates, swiping a toothbrush through my mouth. Not even the UPS man needed to deal with that. I had no makeup on, my hair was disheveled from sleep, and I was wearing these ratty flannel PJs Mom had gotten me when I first went off to college.
I opened the door expecting to see a brown uniform and hear “Sign here.” Instead, I opened the door and could feel myself blushing, Ansley-style.
James, in a pair of blue jeans and a button-down shirt, peeked his head out from behind the massive painting.
“No!” I exclaimed. There was no way I would ever have been able to afford that painting in a million years.
“I saw the way you looked at it,” he said. “And I knew it had to be yours.”
He was still standing in the hallway. He stepped forward two steps and slid the painting against the wall of the apartment.
My heart was pounding so loudly I forgot to be embarrassed about the dishes in the sink or the months of magazines stacked on the coffee table.
“Do you know what else I knew?”
I shook my head.
James took a step closer, pulled me to him, and said, “That you had to be mine.”
Then he planted one on me that I knew I’d never forget. I mean, it was like planets colliding and the world stopping and the earth shaking all at once. Needless to say, I was glad I had brushed my teeth.
I fell for him so hard and so fast, realizing pretty quickly that all of my lists and qualifications never would have mattered. Because when you fall in love, real, consuming love, you’re done.
Six months later, I graduated and “rented a room” in the apartment of one of my friends so my mom wouldn’t know I had moved in with James. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to know for sure. I married him nine months after that. And I can truly say that I never looked back. Not once. From the very first time I laid eyes on that man, he was it for me.
Which is what made it so particularly difficult to swallow that I hadn’t been it for him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
gmos and soul mates
ansley
When I was remodeling the house in Peachtree Bluff, you know, getting the general old-lady vibes out of it, one of the first things I wanted to do was replace the windows on the second floor. It had this grand and glorious view—and some of the smallest windows you’ve ever seen. Three of the windows were across the front. It wasn’t that many, but the Peachtree Historical Committee would have to approve the changes.
I knew they wouldn’t.
The same crew redid everything else in the entire house for me, and we got to be great friends.
So when Leonard the contractor said, “Ansley, I need you and the girls out of the house tonight,” I didn’t think much of it. When he added, “You’ll probably want to spend the night out, because the guys and I will be here at two a.m.,” I started to get suspicious. I looked at him sideways, and he said, “Trust me. Something has to be done here, and if anyone realizes it, you’re going to have to be able to swear you didn’t know a thing about it. So I am not telling you.”
I laughed. “Say no more, Leonard. Say no more.”
I wished I had witnessed Leonard and his crew installing, as silently as possible, three giant windows at two in the morning.
Six months later, when I thought I was in the clear, that damn Carol Glover came to me with a photo. “Ansley,” she asked, peering at me suspiciously, “what on earth happened to the windows?”
I looked at the picture and then at the house and then at the picture and then at the house. There was a vast and gaping difference to anyone with a trained eye—or an old photograph. But I squinted and said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She crossed her arms. “Ansley Murphy, I know you can see the difference.”
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I put my hands up in confusion. “I don’t know about a single thing that has ever been done to those windows, Carol, so you’re asking the wrong girl. Too bad Grandmother isn’t here to consult.”
I looked at her, teary-eyed, and she rolled her eyes, but she relented. I haven’t heard about those windows again directly, but the historical committee has made it clear via snide remarks that, no matter the culprit, they are less than thrilled that the windows do not match the originals.
Caroline was less than thrilled about her date with her possibly soon-to-be-ex-husband. She couldn’t say that, of course, because Vivi was there. I’d give Caroline credit. She was as feisty as they come, but I hadn’t heard her utter one negative word about James in front of her daughter. I had to catch myself every now and then.
“So are you and Dad going on a date?” Vivi asked.
“No, sweets,” Caroline lied. “We’re going to dinner to discuss some things.”
Vivi crossed her arms. “Are you getting back together?”
“All right, love.” I stepped in to save Caroline from the line of questioning. “Let’s go downstairs and make supper.” Then I whispered, loudly enough for Caroline to hear, “And then we’ll go get real ice cream with dairy and gluten in the cones and everything.”
“Even GMOs?” she asked.
“Probably even a few GMOs,” I said.
“I’m not hearing this,” Caroline called.
Hummus swept in with Preston. She winked at me. “You get Vivi squared away, and I’m going to get this little guy down, and then . . .”
I winked back. That was code for and then we would sneak into the guesthouse den while Caroline was out and watch Ladies Who Lunch. As soon as Caroline stepped into James’s car, I texted Gary: The Eagle has landed.
We were all chuckling and thinking we were funny. But if we weren’t careful, this could end very, very badly.
Getting Vivi into bed by nine took some finagling, but I persevered. Getting my mother into bed by nine took no effort at all, as she was exhausted from traveling. I vacillated about whether to include her in our scheme. But she was too close with Caroline—and too likely to forget that she wasn’t supposed to say anything. I couldn’t take the chance.
Hummus held my hand while Sandra poured wine, and Gary and Emily wrangled cables and successfully plugged in the TV, hooked the laptop to it, and streamed the three words we were not allowed to say in our house. Emerson and Sloane silently came and sat on the couch. It was as if we were at a very dark, very macabre wake, fearing every minute that the deceased was going to jump out of the coffin.
It felt like time was standing still. The nausea started about halfway through. On-screen, James was at a party with Edie and the rest of the “ladies.” Edie, classy girl that she was, got into a fight with a friend about the person who did their spray tans and threw a glass of wine in her face.
James, evidently, wasn’t a big fan of this move. “Have you lost your mind?” he hissed, eerily calm.
“Did you hear what she said to me?” Edie screamed. “Why are you not on my side on this?”
And then the moment happened. “Caroline would never, ever act like this. Ever.”
Edie screwed up her face. “Caroline who?”
“My wife!”
Edie put her hands on her hips. “Are you serious with this right now?”
“I’m totally serious. I am going home to beg my wife’s forgiveness, and I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”
“James, wait!”
He put his hand to his forehead. “What is wrong with me? She’s the love of my life.”
“Me?” Edie asked.
“No!” He practically spit. “Caroline!”
He turned, and she called after him, “But James! We’re soul mates!”
The camera pointed toward James as he walked out of the penthouse, down onto the street below, and as his back became very small, it panned to a shot of Edie sobbing on the shoulder of some blond girl with too-long extensions. And then the previews for next week started.
I didn’t know what to say. It’s highly unnerving to see your son-in-law on television with someone who is not your daughter. And I was more certain than ever that if Caroline ever saw James on that show, she would not consider getting back together with him, despite what he had said. It was so tasteless, so tacky. It was, in short, the opposite of everything Caroline stood for. And I started to wonder if watching it at all was a huge mistake.
Gary was already hauling everything to the car when Emerson finally had the forethought to say, “Quick! To the main house!”
Hummus grabbed the baby monitor off of the end table, and we all made a run for it.
“So what do we think?” I asked the faces sitting around my living room. “Are we Team James or not?”
“Come on, Mom,” Sloane said. “You’ve never been Team James.”
Sandra put her fingers to her lips. “You know, as someone who divorced her husband because he cheated, I wonder all the time if my life would have been better if I had stayed. My kids would have been together. There wouldn’t have been issues over holidays and baptisms, birthday parties and family dinners. If I could rewind, I think I might have given him another chance.”
I looked at Hummus. “What?” she said. “He writes my checks. I’m not allowed to comment.” She paused. “But Caroline is better than most anyone I know at living her truth. She won’t let public opinion affect her either way.”
“No,” Emerson said. “She won’t. But she will let our opinion affect her. It’s fine to be Switzerland sometimes, but I think this is when we take a stand.”
The back door opened, and everyone panicked. I laughed uncomfortably. “Oh, Emerson. Please tell us that story about the director who wanted you to play a pig in the commercial.”
She looked at me like Really?
It was the best I could do under intense pressure. We all laughed uncomfortably as Caroline walked through the door.
“Hi,” she said, looking around. “Did you have a party without me?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Sandra, Emily, and Gary popped by for a glass of wine.”
“Actually,” Emily said, picking up her purse, “we need to be leaving now.”
“That’s my cue,” Sandra said.
Hummus picked up the monitor. “I’ll go peek in on sweet baby.”
“So . . .” Sloane ventured.
Caroline sat down and crossed her legs, her beautiful shoes, tied in a bow at the front of her ankle, making them look longer and even more slender. “It was fine,” she said. “It made me less nauseated than I thought, and I do believe that he’s sorry . . .”
There was a trailing off in her voice and an uptick that made me know she wasn’t finished.
“But?” I said.
“But I don’t know if I can do it.” She sighed. “It’s not only that he cheated. He told me he didn’t love me anymore. I’m not sure I can get past that.” Caroline looked down at those impeccable shoes. “I’d have to live with him. I’d have to look at the man I pledged my heart and my life to and know that he slept with someone else and, far worse, that he believed he was in love with her and not with me. I’d have to know that I am the laughingstock of New York City, that every time I walk down the street, everyone is saying what a loser I am. Do you know how that feels?”
“That’s awful,” Emerson said. “It’s so awful. Maybe you could move somewhere else?”
“No,” Caroline said, “New York is my home. It always has been. I belong there.”
I heard a now-familiar squeak, and my mother wheeled into the room. “Well,” she said, “maybe you should ask all of them if you’ll still be the laughingstock of New York City. They watched the show tonight.” Then she scooted back to her bedroom.
Emerson, Sloane, and I looked from one to the other, stunned. Talk about throwing the grenade and running.
Caroline closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I braced mysel
f for what would come next, but she simply said, “And?”
“And he announced on TV that Edie Fitzgerald was a total moron and you were the love of his life,” Emerson said.
Sloane nodded. “Yeah. So if you’re worried about the show, maybe you shouldn’t be.”
Caroline nodded and stood up. “OK. Good night.”
That couldn’t be it. Not possible.
She turned and said, “I’ll film a YouTube video to let you all know what I decide.”
“That would be kind of funny, actually,” Emerson said. “She could do her own miniseries on YouTube in response to Ladies Who Lunch.” She gasped. “I could play her!”
That was the scariest thing about Caroline. She was totally unpredictable. I would have expected her to freak out knowing that we had watched the show. But she didn’t. She let it roll right off. But tomorrow someone would use up all of her coffee creamer, and she’d blow a gasket. If I’m honest, I know she’s hard to live with. And while she has a lot of good qualities that I’m sure make her a great wife, James had to have had his hands full. No doubt about it.
“Girls,” I said, “I think I’ll take a quick walk.” This was my favorite time of night on the water, when the stars were bright and the air was crisp. Evening walks had been one of my favorite traditions—back when I had an empty house, that is.
I think I denied, even to myself, that I purposely walked down the boardwalk in the direction of Jack’s boat. I could see his legs propped up on the stern, a newspaper in his hands. As my footsteps got closer, he turned and, when he saw me, grinned broadly. But he didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he folded the newspaper, climbed out of the boat, and walked up to where I was.
“Well, hi,” Jack said.
“Hi,” I replied. “Just taking a walk. It’s such a nice night.”
He nodded. “So you weren’t hoping to run into me?” He winked.
Slightly South of Simple Page 19
