“Yeah. That was three years ago,” he says, gripping the counter as he stretches his hamstrings. “And that doesn’t count—we were there for a wedding.”
“It still counts. Harper wasn’t with us. And we stayed a few extra days,” I say, recalling the trip and how pleasant it was to be away with him. For a few seconds, I’m filled with self-doubt. Maybe Ellen’s theory is correct—we are just going through a rough patch and need a little time and effort to work on our marriage. I ask him what he has in mind, trying to keep mine open.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something beachy…but it’s probably too late to get flights.” He frowns. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“It’s okay,” I say, quickly absolving him. I fleetingly wonder if he feels as conflicted as I do about our anniversary, but I want to let him off the hook either way. “I know you’re busy at work, too.”
Nolan nods and says he’s going to grab a quick shower—then we can talk about it.
Thinking that he has never taken a quick shower in his life, I say, “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
—
AS PREDICTED, ABOUT an hour later, Nolan finds me in the laundry room, folding towels. “What about Blackberry Farm?” he says, referring to the astronomically expensive resort in the foothills of the Tennessee Smoky Mountains.
“Way too pricey,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be such a frugal Frieda,” Nolan says. “You can’t take it with you.”
“I know you can’t take it with you. But wouldn’t it be nice to leave some for Harper?” I say, remembering that our first and only trip to Blackberry, also for a friend’s wedding, happened to be the weekend Harper was conceived. I had just gone off the pill the month before, so we weren’t really trying yet—a fact that Josie sometimes brings up when she’s listing all the ways I’m “the lucky one.”
“Two nights at Blackberry isn’t going to break the bank,” Nolan says. “And we still have fourteen years to save for Harper’s college.”
Fourteen long years, I think, but only say, “Okay. Sure. Give them a call. But I bet they’re booked.”
Nolan shakes his head, and as he leaves the laundry room, I hear him say, “Frugal Frieda. Negative Nellie.”
—
AS IT TURNS out, Blackberry has just one room available and it’s “all ours for just nine hundred a night.”
“Nine hundred dollars?” I say. “Or yen?”
“Ha,” Nolan says. “The cottages are nearly double that.”
“Oh. So this is actually a bargain,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “So can I book it?”
“I don’t know,” I waffle, worried that he will feel even more betrayed by what I think I’m going to tell him if the conversation takes place in a nine-hundred-dollar-a-night room at Blackberry Farm. Then again, maybe it will soften the blow, remind us both that no matter what happens in our relationship, we will continue to cultivate beauty in our lives—and always share a special history.
“I need a yes or a no,” he says. “The guy is only holding the room for ten minutes.”
I sigh and say yes because, as I have learned, yes is usually the easier answer.
—
A WEEK LATER, I drop Harper off at Mom’s, with one duffel bag of necessities and two additional bags of toys that Harper insists are necessities. “You’re visiting for the weekend or the month?” Mom asks, bending down to kiss Harper.
Harper looks at me for the answer and I say, “Just two nights. We’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”
“Well, no rush,” Mom tells me, smiling. “I’m so glad you and Nolan are doing something nice for your anniversary. It’s a special spot for you two.” She gives me a knowing wink.
“Ugh. Mom, c’mon,” I say, rolling my eyes. I can’t remember ever sharing the where and when of Harper’s conception, but obviously I did at some point.
“What?” she says, playing dumb. “I just meant…I know you like it there. I’m glad you’re getting away.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, then launch into weekend instructions, even though Harper enjoys fairly regular sleepovers with her grandmother.
“Is she still allergic to cinnamon?” Mom asks.
“It’s not really an allergy,” I say. “Just a slight intolerance.”
“I get a bad rash here,” Harper says, pointing to her upper lip.
“Nolan’s turning her into a hypochondriac,” I say under my breath.
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll just avoid cinnamon,” Mom says. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Do you have anything else?”
“Have you heard from Josie?” she asks, completely off point.
“Nope,” I say, determined not to be sucked into a conversation about my sister. “Well, I better go. Nolan wanted to get on the road before rush hour.”
“Sure. Sure. Go,” she says, straightening a stack of MLS listings on the kitchen table, a three-and-a-half-million-dollar house on top.
“Is that your listing?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m just showing it. New client.”