Slightly South of Simple Read online

  The phone beeped again. You can’t take my kid away. What about school?

  I typed back: I’m not keeping her from you. You need to give her some time to cool down. I couldn’t help it. I added: Best of luck on your TV debut tonight. I hope it’s everything you dreamed.

  Then I turned the phone off, partly because I didn’t care what else he had to say, mostly because I didn’t want him to ask me the school question again. If I could hide it for a little longer, maybe I could make him see that keeping her in Peachtree this semester, while the show was airing, was a good idea. Which reminded me that I really did need to call a lawyer now.

  Emerson and Sloane were chatting, but I was so distracted I couldn’t focus on what they were saying. I looked out over the porch railing. The views were by far the best part of this beautiful home. It seemed you could see forever from this front porch. Across the water, three wild horses roamed amid the sea oats, their hooves splashing in the tide. It couldn’t help but make me think of Emerson, Sloane, and me. When we were younger, our weeks at this house with our grandparents and great-grandparents felt like paradise.

  The summer when Emerson was born is the first one that really sticks out in my mind, that I remember in detail. Our grandparents took Sloane and me over to Starlite Island almost every day while Emerson was napping. It was our special time to be with them. It brought us so much closer together.

  That summer, Sloane and I spent hours exploring that island, wending our way through the trees and the marsh grass, occasionally coming upon a wild horse. We were always hunting for shells, and I’ll never forget the day I found one that I had never seen before. I was digging in the sand with Sloane, plotting how we would make our way to China. When I hit something hard with my plastic shovel, I pulled it out. It was a smooth, white rock with flecks of black, shiny spots. But the strangest thing was that on the top was a dark formation that looked like an X. I pulled it out, added it to the pile, and kept digging. Throughout the course of the day, I found two more of those stones. One for me, one for Sloane, and one for baby Emerson.

  “Grandpop,” I asked later. “What is this?”

  He pulled me onto his lap and, eyes big, said, “Why, Caroline. Where did you find those?”

  “In the sand.”

  “That is amazing,” he said.

  Grammy came over to have a look, too. “Caroline!” she exclaimed. “Those are fairy stones!”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked the sound of it. “Fairy stones?”

  “Yes,” Grandpop chimed in. “They’re fairy stones. Their real name is staurolite. The island is named for them. They used to be everywhere over there, though no one can figure out why. They’re normally found in the mountains.”

  “Legend has it,” Grammy said, “the fairies who live on the island bring the fairy stones.” She paused. “Only very special little girls and boys get to find those, so you should feel honored.”

  I was right at that age where the idea of fairies was still exciting, but I was also a bit skeptical.

  “Keep it in your pocket,” Grandpop said. “It will keep you safe.”

  “Keep me safe,” I repeated. “I got ones for Sloane and Emmy, so they’ll be safe, too.”

  “That’s so nice,” Grammy said. “You can be the Starlite Sisters. These can be your special rocks, and Starlite Island will always be your special place.”

  Sloane had been sitting on the floor, hanging on to every word. “Can we be fairies, too?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be a fairy, although anyone could see that being able to fly would be nice.

  Grandpop said, “Girls, you can be anything you want.”

  Now I wondered, sitting on Mom’s porch that day, if maybe we hadn’t become exactly who we wanted to be, at least in some ways. Just the thought made me hope that I wasn’t going to have to go back to work after this baby was born. I assumed that James would be fair to me and that our lawyers could reach an agreement—once the divorce papers were filed, of course—but who really knew? I’d heard horror stories about how these things went down. Thank God I hadn’t signed that prenup. And at least there was still the money from my dad. I made a mental note to talk to Mom about it later on.

  I took a sip of celery juice and mirrored the face my sister was making. “Emerson,” I said, “this is positively vile. I do not know how you do it.”

  She shrugged. “I kind of like it.”

  “Blech,” Sloane said. “Can’t you mix some lemon or something with it?”

  Emerson looked at the glass. “No. Too much sugar. You can only have one lemon per day, and I have to have it to balance out the kale.”

  Sloane raised her eyebrow at me.

  “I know,” I said.

  “It’s for a role,” Emerson said. “Why doesn’t anyone get this? I’ve been acting since forever, remember? You always have to come to my D-list stuff?”

  “Speaking of,” I said, “what is the role, anyway? You’ve been awfully cagey about the whole thing.”

  She waved her hand. “That’s work. It’s boring. Let’s talk about something more fun.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like Mom,” Sloane chimed in. “How does she seem?”

  I looked out over the water again. It was so hard to read my mom sometimes. Ever since our dad died, she had made it her life’s mission to be perpetually fine. “She seems good,” I said. “She looks fantastic.”

  “Doesn’t she?” Emerson said. “Did you see her arms?”

  “I know,” Sloane said. “It’s bad when you’re jealous of your fifty-eight-year-old mother’s body.”

  I didn’t say it, because I’d been working on the whole brain-to-mouth filtration situation. But Mom definitely looked better than Sloane. So I politely said, “If anyone would like a copy, I’m happy to forward you the workout regimen I have Mom on.”

  They both burst out laughing. They could laugh all they wanted, but Sloane would be receiving an e-mail. And Emerson would be receiving one about how being too thin ages your face more quickly. My therapist said my weight obsession was a control issue, a response to my father’s death. But, even if she was right, I couldn’t control my control issue, ironically. Besides, she didn’t get it. I did these things out of love. I was very misunderstood.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Sloane said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you think Mom has a man, and that’s why she looks so good?”

  Emerson shook her head. “No way. I grilled Kyle about it, and he said there is no action at the Murphy house.” She paused. “But honestly, if you ask me, it’s about time. I mean, no, I don’t want to have to call anyone Daddy, but the woman can’t be alone forever. It has been sixteen years.”

  We all got quiet. It might have been sixteen years, but it still felt fresh every single time it was brought up.

  “I think we should make it our mission while we’re home to find Mom a man,” I said.

  Sloane nodded. “I agree wholeheartedly. Can you imagine how lonely she gets around here in this big old house, rambling around alone?”

  Emerson shook her head.

  I heard the door creak open at the neighbor’s house. “Hi, Mr. Solomon,” I called loudly, waving.

  He muttered something under his breath and walked back inside.

  I accidentally took another sip of that vile celery concoction and said, “I think he’s warming to me. What do you think?”

  We all laughed. I wrapped my thin sweater around myself.

  Emerson said, “Who wants to go for a nice long walk?”

  Sloane nodded. “I have nine pounds to lose. I’m going to be in the best shape of my life when Adam gets home.”

  Whew. That was going to save me so much e-mail.

  “You look great,” Emerson said, smiling and looping her arm around her sister’s.

  “She’s lying,” I said, also smiling.

  Sloane looped her other arm around mine. “I know she�
�s lying,” she said. “But sometimes it’s nice to hear something nice. You know?”

  “Oh,” I said. “OK. Your kids are adorable. That’s the truth, and it’s nice. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “Growth,” Sloane said.

  “Absolutely,” Emerson said. “We’ll get a little Southerner in you yet.”

  I doubted that very highly, but it was such a nice day I didn’t argue. Walking down the street with my two sisters, I felt like life was going to go on—yet again. It might have been slightly south of simple. But like we always did, we’d figure it out together.

  ELEVEN

  work for it

  ansley

  One Saturday night before my senior year of college, my brother Scott and I were in Peachtree, out with a big group of friends, the same ones we had been cultivating since our childhood, when a man caught my eye.

  Not a boy, mind you. A man. He was wearing pressed khaki pants, a starched blue shirt, and a neatly knotted navy and white bow tie. I must have caught his eye, too, because he came over to me, ordered two beers, and said, “Hi, I’m Carter Murphy. I’m Eunice Murphy’s grandson. We’ve met a couple of times at your grandmother’s Fourth of July barbecues.”

  “Barbecue” was a loose term. It was more like a five-star affair, with tents in the backyard, a fabulous caterer, a combo band, fireworks, and dancing until midnight.

  When Carter introduced himself, I suddenly felt the night take a turn. I could have sworn there was a moment between us. But there couldn’t have been. He was much older than I was. So he was definitely not interested in me in that way.

  We moved to a high-top bar table to get away from the noise. “So what’s going on with you?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Trying to make a name for myself on Wall Street.”

  I tipped my beer to him. “Oh, isn’t everyone?”

  He laughed. “Maybe so. But between you and me, if you don’t have to work for it a little, it doesn’t mean a damn thing once you get it.”

  I smiled. “I will remember that.”

  “What about you? What’s going on in your life?”

  I realized I was a tad tipsy. Emily and Sandra were making kissy faces at me from across the bar. There wasn’t any discreet way for me to signal that it wasn’t like that. So I let it go.

  “I have one more year of college, and then it’s out into the cold, cruel world.”

  He winked at me. “Manhattan is a great place for young up-and-coming decorators.”

  I had assumed that Atlanta was going to become my new home, at least temporarily. I had never imagined leaving Georgia. Even Atlanta, where I had spent a lot of time, felt scary and new.

  It didn’t occur to me yet that Carter was flirting with me when he said that. “So,” I asked, “you settling down? Making an honest woman of someone? Making your grandmother proud?”

  That was when I realized that I was flirting with him, even though I knew it was completely inappropriate.

  He laughed. “I date, but I haven’t found the right one. You know?”

  I knew very, very well. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I just broke up with my boyfriend before we left for the summer. He’s nice and everything, but I want real love. I want something like what my grandparents have.”

  He smiled at me. “I agree. Something that stands the test of time.”

  I looked down at my watch. “Oh!” I said, realizing it was almost one in the morning. No one would be waiting up for me, but Grandmother would expect me to be down for breakfast at eight. “I need to get home.” I reached my hand out to Carter. “It was so nice to see you again.”

  “I’m not going to let you walk home alone,” he said.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks away. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  He got up. “I could use some air. This is my favorite time on the boardwalk anyway.”

  We walked out into the crisp darkness. Summer in Peachtree Bluff was heaven. The days were warm and breezy, and the nights were cool and refreshing.

  “So this is your favorite time of night? Are you up this late often?”

  He laughed. “No, actually. I usually go to bed early so I can get up by five to fish.”

  I groaned. “I can’t imagine ever having a hobby that required waking up at five a.m.”

  He laughed, putting his hands in his pockets. Our feet tapped on the boardwalk, and I suddenly realized that I wasn’t all that anxious to get home anymore. I scolded myself for being so silly. He was unreasonably too old for me.

  “It’s not that much of a hobby since I only get to do it like three times a year.”

  “Do you miss the South?” I said. “Will you ever come back home?”

  “I don’t think I will,” he said. “I’m pretty firmly entrenched there in my job and everything. My dad’s family is from New York, so it was pretty easy to slide right in.”

  “I can’t imagine leaving the South. It would be so different anywhere else. I like the slow pace and the nice manners, the food . . .”

  Carter laughed. “It’s not another country, Ansley.”

  I stopped and leaned over the boardwalk railing, suddenly not wanting the night to be over so soon. “Isn’t it, though?”

  Carter leaned beside me, his grin now close to mine. “I think you’d like it. You never know until you try. It’s different there. The people, the energy. It’s electrifying.”

  All of a sudden, I realized that maybe I would like New York because that was where Carter was. I scolded myself again. I was sure he would think I was nothing more than a silly girl for imagining such a thing.

  “You should come visit me there sometime,” he said. I felt the blush coming to my cheeks. I was sure he meant as friends.

  I was staring out over the water at the moon painting a luminescent trail from Starlite Island right up to what looked like Grandmother’s front door. But the alcohol had made me brave, and I turned to look at him. You could feel this heat between us, something almost palpable in the air.

  “Where would you take me?” I asked demurely.

  He inched slightly closer. “Everywhere,” he said.

  When his lips met mine, I wasn’t quite sure that it was happening. It was strange and exciting and surreal all at the same time.

  He pulled away and smiled at me. “How about this?” he said. “I’d like to take you to dinner tomorrow night before I leave.”

  My turn to smile. “I think I’d like that.”

  It was the first of many wonderful dates. And it wasn’t until much later that I confirmed that he was thirty-seven. No matter how you sliced it, sixteen years was a big age difference.

  But being wanted by Carter was something akin to being the prize diamond at a Sotheby’s auction. You were suddenly treasured, admired, sought after. You were important, unique. There were no games. There was never a day in my life with him that I didn’t know exactly where we stood, precisely how much I meant to him. That being said, I remembered what he told me that first night. And I most definitely made him work to win me over.

  My parents were less than thrilled. Yes, he was sixteen years older than I was, only six years younger than my own mother. They worried about the big New York City Wall Street man taking advantage of their baby girl, stealing her virtue, which, unbeknownst to them, had been stolen long before.

  In fact, one night, sitting around the dining-room table, Mom asked, “Whatever happened to that sweet Jack? I always thought you two might end up together.”

  It was like being punched in the gut. I spent so much time consciously not thinking of Jack. In fact, Carter was the first man who really was able to make me forget. But I kept my cool.

  “Jack and I want different things, Mom. We’ve been through this.”

  I remember her shaking her head at me like I was a silly little girl. But she was the one who was silly. I knew that then, and I know it now.

  “He’s a child, Ansley. He’s twenty-one years old. How does he know he doesn’t want children? S
urely he’ll change his mind.”

  I looked at my daddy when I said, “Mother, men do not change their minds. Women try to change men. Sometimes they get them to act a certain way, think a certain way. But you cannot change a man, and I will not be a woman who tries to trick one into having a life he never wanted.”

  I’ll never forget what happened next. Daddy, who was chewing his steak, took a sip of water from the crystal goblet in front of him on the table and said, “That’s a wise decision.” Then he paused and added, “I quite like Carter. You need a man who can take care of you.”

  The last of my worry about Carter fell away. I don’t know if I was so sure about us because I was young or because I was that assured of his affections toward me.

  Carter made clear what to expect in our life together. He did well, but he was not rich—not by Manhattan standards, anyway. He had a nice family name but few of the assets that came along with that. We could rent a house in the Hamptons; we would likely never buy. Because, as optimistic as he was, the man was a realist. And that was one of the things I loved the very most about him. Because I always, always knew what to expect.

  He knew how to grill a steak, fix a sink, kill a deer, and give you a kiss so sweet that you forgot your own name. He was needlessly thoughtful, unfailingly generous, and could accurately predict the vintage of a wine down to the year.

  But none of that mattered to me. I, quite simply, was in love with him. Every day. All day. There was no explanation for how or why. And I think that’s how I knew it was true. Because I didn’t care what my parents thought. His job didn’t matter. His money didn’t matter. If he told me he was quitting everything to move to a hut in Uruguay and minister to the sick, I would have packed my bag and bought a Bible.

  And so, where I always thought that one day I’d be leaving on that midnight train to Georgia, instead, I graduated from college and left on a red-eye flight to JFK. Didn’t matter where it was. All I knew was that, like Gladys Knight before me, I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine.