Archie.
Just thinking about his name made me want to sigh and cry and smile and frown all at the same time.
I’d never even said good-bye. What kind of a person does that? That last day had been so busy—trying to squeeze so much into so little time—and there’d always been other people around, buffering, keeping us separated, that when it came time for me to actually leave, I turned to see where he was only to find him walking back inside the hotel, head down. And I didn’t go after him.
Shame burned hot in my cheeks, and I banged my head against the table, trying to block out the light streaming through the beautiful old leaded glass windows. The smell of old, rare wood brought me back to the present. I gradually became aware of my surroundings. This hotel, like so many others, was full of true old beauty. It had seen wars, the Great Depression, the moon landing, families beginning and growing and changing and aging and dying. Throughout many lifetimes it had stood strong, sheltering those who came to find something old and beautiful and comforting. The traditions housed within these old walls were worth saving, they always would be. This was my passion. But this kind of passion couldn’t be hurried, it couldn’t be shoehorned into an already overworked and jam-packed schedule. I needed the freedom to do what I do best. But I needed to find the magic again.
I caught the last flight from Charleston back to Boston late that same night, sitting in the middle seat, last row next to the stopped-up lavatory. I sat in traffic when I stupidly grabbed a cab instead of the Silver Line, and to make matters worse, the cab’s AC was broken so I sat in my own sweat. By the time I made it back to my apartment I was a haggard mess, and I was starving. I quickly dialed up my go-to Chinese delivery and placed an order for . . . well . . . everything.
I didn’t need to come home over the weekend, but I was restless. Normally I enjoyed spending my weekends traveling throughout whatever part of the country I was working in. I could have driven down to Gulf Shores and spent a few nights on the beach. I could have driven over to Savannah and stayed in a grand old plantation house. I could have stayed at the Oakmont and holed up in my room, ordering room service and binge-watching pay-per-view.
On my TV. In my room.
But I was restless. So I went home. And here I sat on the couch in my apartment, surrounded by mei fun and chow fun and wonton. And one, no, two empty bottles of wine. I could hear my neighborhood bustling with pre-Fourth activities, kids laughing and a few stray bottle rockets going off here and there. But I stayed inside, with my wonton and wine, and sat on my couch.
I was still restless. But now I was bloated and restless. And my eyeballs were somehow leaking. What??
I looked around my apartment that I was almost never in. In fact, when I counted up the days I was on the road versus the days I was home, it was no contest. This was a place to store the little bit of stuff I had. I looked around as I sat on my couch, saw the mismatched chairs that I’d liberated and had shipped home when The Graceful Palms Hotel closed up shop in Miami five years ago. I saw the end tables that used to grace the entryway at The Heights Resort and Spa in Vail, Colorado, which they got rid of when I convinced them to remodel four years ago. Even the couch I was sitting on, a fantastic green velvet Art Deco piece I picked up while consulting at Tucker Home in Rhode Island three years ago. Everything in my apartment was from someone else’s home.
My apartment. Jesus, in my head I couldn’t even call it my home. And dammit, why the hell were my eyeballs leaking again? Did I get some hot mustard in them?
Without much thought, I picked up the phone and dialed. I called Roxie, and she called Natalie. And we had a three-way.
“You guys, something’s wrong with my eyes,” I said, my voice gruff.
“How much wine?” Natalie asked.
“Two bottles.” I sniffled. “But I didn’t pour either in my eyeballs.”
“Well, that’s good,” Roxie said, chuckling lightly. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, and never in my entire life had I ever meant it more. “I literally don’t know.”
“Well, for starters, have you talked to Archie?” Natalie asked, and I immediately bristled.
“Why in the world would me talking to Archie have anything to do with anything?” I asked, my fists balling up. “Have I talked to Archie, have you talked to Archie?”
“I have, actually,” Natalie said. “And—”
“Natalie, shut up,” Roxie interjected, and for once Natalie listened. “Where are you, Clara?”
“Home.” I sniffed. “Well, my apartment.”
“Boston? How long are you in town?”
I calculated, which was tricky because wine. “I’m here for a few days, the staff at the Oakmont rotates their holidays, so when I realized they weren’t all working and that I’d get a few days off I figured I’d just bum around down there, but I just . . . dammit.” I had no words, no words to explain how I was feeling, and it was frustrating as hell. “I don’t know!” I repeated.
“Clara, sweetie, just come here. Just get on a train and come up here, we can pick you up at the station in Poughkeepsie.”
“I can’t.” I sighed. “I can’t do that.”
“Hell yes, you can,” Natalie said, having remained silent for all of thirty seconds. “Get your ass on a train and come home.”
“Home?” I asked. “I thought Manhattan was home.”
“Listen to me, you crazy person, and if you ever repeat this inside of the five boroughs I will beat you up with your own hands, but my home is here now. Goddammit, I can’t believe I’m saying this, and I will never give up my brownstone, but”—she paused, and neither Roxie nor I even breathed—“fucking hell, my home is wherever Oscar is. And he’s where his cows are. So . . . there. Bailey Falls is home. And if I can say that, Jesus, would you just get on a train and get your ass up here?”
“I can’t, I really can’t,” I said. “I left so quickly, and I didn’t . . . oh God, you guys I didn’t . . .” And then I started to full-on donkey cry. “I didn’t even say good-bye!”
They were quiet while I worked it out. While the wine and the wonton did their job and allowed tears that I didn’t even think my ducts knew how to make flowed fast and hot.