I looked away first.
God, he looked good. Almost too good. Five-o’clock shadow and closely cropped hair (silver since his twenties) added a refined touch to his artsy veneer. I shuddered. He wore faded jeans (well worn, not bought that way) and a white button-down shirt. I diverted my eyes from his face, to the buttons. I stood close enough to see the cloth’s weave. I looked back at the sculpture, but not before noticing how Beck’s shoulders packed the inside of his black sport coat.
I wished he’d let himself go.
Beck was one of those annoying people without a substantial online footprint. I didn’t really know much about him anymore, did I? There was a time I would have asked how he was, what was new, how he felt—and another time when I’d have just known.
Now I only knew what I saw.
Beck at thirty-five looked much older than Beck at twenty-nine. There was a seriousness to him, a heaviness, as if he couldn’t be budged.
He wasn’t the only one. I was weighted to the floor. Everything around me looked far away. I widened my stance so I wouldn’t fall. I willed my voice not to shake, not to sound too happy, too terrified, too unsure. Too anything.
Before Celia became sick I’d have teased Beck. I might have made fun of the gray or given him a noogie for old times’ sake. But our shared sorrow had changed us. Brought us close. Kept us apart.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said.
“Uncle Beck is here all the time!” Shay beamed.
I reached my arm around Beck’s waist. He was six-four, so he bent sideways and reciprocated with a quick one-armed hug around my waist. He steadied me … and then pulled away. I wanted both arms. I closed my eyes, a fleeting wish for another scenario. But Beck stepped away and still had one hand in his jeans pocket. Casual and unaffected. Breezy Beck. Same as always. And not the same at all.
“Oh, I want you to meet someone,” Shay said. “Be right back.”
Shay scampered away, hair and dress bouncing with enthusiastic oblivion.
“I’m going to look around,” Beck said as he turned.
“Wait, don’t go … I’m not here to bother you.” I couldn’t even ask him if he’d left the wine. Considering this welcome, the gift didn’t fit.
“I know why you’re back.” He shook his head. “What I still don’t know is why you left.”
Shay returned with two other girls and saved me. “This is Aunt Teddi, the one I told you about. She’s a photographer.”
No one had ever said it with such pride.
Beck kissed the top of Shay’s head and walked away.
“This is Chloe and Rebecca. Want to see their sculptures?”
I did not.
“Of course,” I said. “Lead the way.”
*
After my guided tour, I shrank into a chair in the corner of the multipurpose room as Shay and her friends rounded for the second and then third time. She waved at me with every lap, and I replied with a thumbs-up. Shay walked with her head up, shoulders back. She was a budding artist with a graceful air, who had time for school, art, and technology but not for toys. Or boys, from the looks of things. She stayed solely with Chloe and Rebecca. Celia and I had always existed within a cluster of girls and boys, living as if our roots were entangled, because they were. It was both the advantage and drawback of growing up in Chance—the infinite impact each person could have on you. And you on them.
Until you left.
Miles stood on the opposite side of the room with Beck and Violet, who I’d seen only in a few Facebook photos, along with assorted other parent-looking people. Miles, Violet, Shay, and Beck were the only people I recognized in the whole room. This was the rec center for the whole township—all eighteen thousand residents—and the classes were sixth through twelfth grades, or so I’d gathered from the artist bios that accompanied each piece.
The grown-ups in the room drank ginger ale out of plastic champagne flutes and tipped their heads back in laughter, waved their arms in animated conversation. The kids whispered and skipped, or stood, all serious brooding-artist-like, with arms crossed. Nobody—neither friend nor stranger—gestured for me to join them. This time, I was relieved when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Annie: There’s an issue with the meeting in Miami.
I typed back, only briefly glancing at the screen.
Me: What?
Annie: They want to reschedule for another weekend but your calendar says Portland. What’s in Portland? Do we have a property in Portland I don’t know about?
Me: Don’t worry about Portland. Book Miami.
I had just finished typing when I saw Shay walking toward me with—with Violet. I stood, ready with my excuses for staying on the other side of the room, antisocial, engaging with my technology and not with the artwork or humans. The closer they came, the taller Violet appeared. And wispy. Tall and wispy like a single flower. She wore a pink linen sheath. Her hair was short and tapered and offset by a pair of dangly earrings that showcased her long neck. Her makeup was subtle, yet polished. She wore it all well.
If I were working, I would refer to Violet as “the bride.” I’d grown accustomed to the billowy ease, and lofty expectations, of born-to-privilege women, not to mention the high demands that matched the high style of the ones who were self-made. I knew just what to do. But Violet was no ordinary bride. She was marrying my best friend’s husband. And she had her arm around my best friend’s daughter.
“Thank you for coming, Teddi.” Violet drew me into a hug.
Damn, she smelled like a flower, too.
*
I stood in the community center foyer, staring at the flyer-covered bulletin board. The kids and grown-ups around here had plenty to choose from these days: a slick, colorful poster announced children’s theater auditions; a black-and-white photocopied flyer offered a Mandarin tutor; other brochures listed local contests, craft fairs, and sporting events. Everything from acting to ukuleles.
No zoology? Slackers.
I expected Shay to be huddled with Chloe and Rebecca, or buzzing about the awards ceremony with a group from her class, but she was walking the perimeter of the room—alone. I stepped back to the bulletin board before she could see me, and this time, I read about the computer classes for seniors.
“Hey, Aunt Tee.”
“Hey, Shay-Shay.” I kept my gaze on the board while I put my arm around Shay’s shoulder. “Tonight was great. Thank you for inviting me. One day I bet your art will be shown in a fancy gallery in New York.” No pressure. No expectations. No rush. “If that’s what you want. And I will be right there on your opening night if you do.”
Shay shrugged. I turned and playfully pushed her shoulder. “Don’t do that,” I said. “I mean it. You’re really talented. I’m glad you’re doing what you love to do. Not everyone gets to, you know.”
“Did my mom?”