The Collected Regrets of Clover



When I spotted Sebastian leaning against the wrought-iron fence of a townhouse on West Eighty-Fourth Street, I considered abandoning our agreement and fleeing back to the subway. But then he waved at me, and my legs propelled me forward. Despite his mild-mannered appearance, his was a confident lean, like he was assured of both his place in the world and his purpose in it—one ankle slung over the other in front of him, hands loosely in his pockets.

When no more than three feet remained between us, I stopped abruptly.

“Hi, Sebastian.”

Normally, with a new client, I’d assume my professional persona and jump straight into the details, confident in the knowledge that I was good at my job and knew exactly why I was there. But anxiety plagued me more than usual.

“Hey, Clover, great to see you!”

Sebastian took a half step toward me, as if moving in for a hug. But he must have registered the stunned look on my face because he quickly stuck out his arm for a handshake instead.

“So, I should tell you something,” he said as we walked up the steps to the front door. “My grandmother knows you’re coming, but she doesn’t know that you’re a death doula.”

The mental alarm bells I’d been ignoring got louder. “Who does she think I am then?”

“I kind of told her that you were a friend of mine who was interested in seeing her photography.”

“But I don’t even know anything about photography.” I hated the idea of being forced into a lie—if I was going to be dishonest, at least let it be my choice.

“You’ll be fine,” Sebastian said with less certainty than I’d have liked. “Once you get her talking and reminiscing, she won’t even notice.”

I was annoyed that I’d let myself be duped, but it was too late to back out—his grandmother was expecting a visitor.

Sebastian led me through a much grander hallway than I’d expected. The decor was sparse compared to my cluttered apartment, but deliberately so—each object seemed like it was selected judiciously and positioned with precision.

“Your grandmother has a nice house,” I said, reminding myself that Sebastian was technically my employer and I should make some polite conversation, in spite of his deception.

“Yeah, I guess she does.” Sebastian looked around without really seeing. “My grandfather bought it back in the 1950s, but I think it’s at least a hundred years old. I spent a lot of time here as a kid—my parents sent me here for pretty much every school vacation.”

Walking behind him meant I could study his appearance surreptitiously. He was probably around my age—with men it was hard to tell—and only slightly taller. Each time I’d met him, he’d worn the same thing: a black button-down shirt, black chinos, and the same gold-rimmed spectacles and charcoal scarf. He was probably one of those guys who bought five versions of everything to keep things simple.

Along the hallway, framed photographs hung at militant intervals. I’d anticipated stuffy family portraits, but the black-and-white vignettes that stared back at me were evocative portals into faraway worlds. A muscular horse raised on her hind legs in a desert, her shining mane trailing in the wind like flames. The searing eyes of a turbaned man, his face carved with the lines of emotional turbulence.

“You said in your email your grandmother was a photojournalist?”

Sebastian stopped to look at the photo I was examining. “Yeah—she was one of the few female photojournalists of her time, actually. Before she married my grandfather, she traveled the world taking photos for newspapers.”

“And she took all these?”

“Sure did.” His chest puffed slightly as he stood next to me. “Pretty much any photo you see here is one of hers.” He continued walking. “I’ll give you the proper tour later on, but you should probably meet Grandma first. The garden is her favorite spot.”

Through the French doors separating the kitchen from the garden, I saw an elderly woman tucked into a wicker chair. A cornflower-blue shawl embraced her shoulders and a thick, pine-green blanket sat across her knees. With her face positioned toward the sun, she sat, eyes closed, a tranquil smile on her face. It almost felt rude to interrupt.

Sebastian didn’t seem concerned.

“Hi, Grandma!” He strode over and planted a kiss on each of her cheekbones. She reached up and cupped his chin tenderly. I could tell the admiration was mutual.

“Hello, my darling.” Her clear, robust voice seemed incongruous with her petite, age-worn frame. “I was just listening to the birds and trying to steal some sunshine before the inevitable winter grayness returns.”

Sebastian motioned for me to join them. “Grandma, this is the friend I was telling you about—Clover.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wells.” I extended my hand.

“Oh, please, call me Claudia,” she said, covering my hand with both palms. “It’s rare that I get to meet any of Sebastian’s friends.”

Sebastian looked between us happily. “Clover and Claudia—it’s got a nice ring to it.”

“Like a pair of headstrong sisters in a Jane Austen novel,” Claudia remarked.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Claudia,” I said, charmed by her irreverence. “I always wanted a sister.”

Claudia leaned forward cheekily. “We won’t focus on the age difference between us.” She gestured to the adjacent wicker chair. “Take a seat, Clover. Sebastian, make us some coffee, will you?”

Nodding obediently, he disappeared back into the house.

“My grandson tells me you’re interested in photography,” Claudia said, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The taut fabric emphasized the bony curve of her back.

I felt a flash of resentment at Sebastian for forcing me to deceive such a lovely old woman. I prayed my cheeks wouldn’t turn red and expose me.

“I am,” I said as casually as I could, which wasn’t casual at all. I did find photography interesting, so maybe it wasn’t a complete lie. “But mostly I’d love to hear about your career as a photojournalist. It must’ve been an especially unconventional choice for a woman in the 1950s.”

“You’re not kidding.” Claudia frowned at the sky. “My father almost disowned me when I told him it was what I was going to do. Luckily, my willfulness came from my mother, and she forbade my father from forbidding me.”

“Your mother was ahead of her time.” I loved that Claudia was wearing red lipstick for no greater occasion than sitting in her garden.

“Yes and no,” she replied, wrists draped elegantly together in her lap. “Mother told me to go to college and pursue my passion as long as I was able to—which, in her mind, was until I found a husband. According to her, women’s careers shouldn’t interfere with their marriages. In fact, women of our social class weren’t expected to have careers—unless you count ‘society wife’ as a métier. I suppose there’s a certain skill in organizing galas and hosting fancy dinners, but it wasn’t something I ever aspired to.”

“And how did you meet your husband?”

“He was my brother’s friend,” Claudia said. “After college, I got an internship with a news magazine here in the city—I was their first female intern—and he was already living here. My brother and father asked him to look out for me and…”

“You fell in love?” The prospect of a romantic story sent a spike of endorphins through my limbs.

“Not exactly. Back then, being in love wasn’t a prerequisite for marriage,” Claudia said dryly, adjusting her shawl again. “You could say we appreciated each other, but most important was the fact that my parents deemed him a suitable match. And once that was decided, my brief photojournalism adventure came to an end. You young women these days are lucky—you don’t have to choose between a career and a husband and kids.”

Well, actually, a husband and kids had never even been presented as an option for me, so I’d never had to choose. I guess that made me lucky—or really unlucky.

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