Alone.
My stomach flipped at the thought. It was very antifeminist, but I’d never been one of those women who wanted something more for herself. I loved being a wife and a mother. I loved making my home beautiful and going to lunch with my friends and raising money for charities that were important to me. I wasn’t like Sloane or Emerson or Mom, who all had these fabulous creative abilities and outlets, passions that they didn’t feel like themselves if they weren’t doing them. Sometimes it made me jealous, especially times like now, when I realized that I would probably have to go back to work, but I had no idea what that work would be. Either way, it was time to stand on my own two feet. I had learned in the worst way that depending on your husband for everything wasn’t the best strategy.
“Pick out whichever one you want,” I said. “But you can’t ride it until you go back to Gransley’s and get a helmet out of the garage.”
She took off running. “Look both ways!” I called.
Of all the things I wouldn’t miss about Peachtree, I would miss that I could let my eleven-year-old tear off down the street by herself and not think even once that she was going to be kidnapped. That was a load off.
I knocked, and Hal opened the door so quickly I thought he must have been standing there waiting for me.
“Hey there, Caroline,” he said, lids heavy, eyes red. He was super-duper stoned. No problem. High or not, we had work to do.
“First,” I said, “Vivi wants this bike. Can I pay you for it when we get to our house?”
“When we get to your house?” he asked.
Ah, yes. The window had opened. I knew how to play this now. It was so simple.
“Yeah,” I said. “Remember? You and I are peacemakers, trailblazers, Hippie Hal. We’re planning to take down that wall today. Or, well, the fence, rather. Remember?”
He rubbed his long beard for a moment. “Take down the fence,” he repeated. “All right. Let me get some tools.”
He disappeared inside, reappeared with a grocery bag full of clanging metal, and said, “Oh, Vivi can have the bike.”
What a good guy he was. I felt sort of bad about tricking him. Sort of. But not bad enough to tell him the truth, especially now that I was getting what I wanted.
He pushed the hot orange bike down the sidewalk.
“So how’s it going with old McClasky?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “she’s as big a pain in the ass as ever. At this week’s town meeting, she was as feisty as I’ve seen her about the bikes.”
You couldn’t help but notice the gleam in his eye. They were fighting. All was right with the world.
Vivi met us before we reached the boardwalk, helmet already on. She took the bike from Hal. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, out of breath.
“Thank Hal,” I said. “He gave it to you.”
She hugged him, which you could see thrilled him to no end.
“OK, Hal,” I said. “We’ve got to work quickly. Mom is at the shop, and I saw Mr. Solomon’s car leave like ten minutes ago. I have to feed the baby, but then I’ll come help you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hal said. “I’ve got this under control. I built the fence in four-foot sections that screw onto a frame, so it’s a piece of cake to take down. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.”
We both laughed.
When I went upstairs, Preston was still sleeping. Hummus didn’t approve of swaddling, so he was spread out in his crib, tiny hands open and relaxed with sweet dreaming. It took everything I had not to pick him up and squeeze him to me.
That was the difference in being a second-time mother. When Vivi was born, I almost wished part of it away. I was so tired. I was so overwhelmed and consumed with the care of this person that I didn’t savor it like I should have. This time, I knew exactly how quickly he would be riding bikes with his friends. The diaper changes were short. The sleepless nights were short. The breastfeeding was short. And so I was going to savor every day.
Or maybe I was getting some semblance of sleep this time and that was giving me a fresh and rosy perspective on life. Who knew? But I know for sure that I felt more grateful than I had in a long, long time. Even though James had humiliated me and broken my heart, I knew that I would do it all again. Because without all of it, I wouldn’t have Preston. The world would be hideously incomplete.
I looked out the window, the very same window where, the night before, I had been up for a four thirty feeding and had seen Mark tiptoeing out the back door—moments after giving Emerson a kiss good-bye that did not look like anything I’d ever seen friends share. But if her party line was that they weren’t dating, far be it from me to meddle. I knew Mark was Emerson’s first love. She had dumped him mercilessly when she left for LA, but I always thought she had a place for him in her heart. I tried to deny it, of course. Like any good stage mom (I had to take on that role, because clearly, my mother was anything but a stage mom), I didn’t want her throwing away her big, beautiful career on some townie. He was nice and all, but frankly, Emerson could do better. Emerson could do A-list. I saw her with a professional athlete, a movie star, Prince Harry . . . not some regular guy. So if she wanted to deny, I was a happy clam.
Currently, outside that same walk-of-shame window, Hal was working. The poor tomatoes. He was doing his best to salvage them, but they were pretty attached to the fence. That would be the only casualty of this adventure. But I knew that Mom and Mr. Solomon were going to be so, so happy.
Being selfless was not necessarily my strong suit. So I was glad I had tried it out. I could see the appeal.
A few hours later, I was snuggling my precious baby, who was fed and happy and so delicious I could eat him up. We were rocking in the rocking chair, which was making me sleepy. I was about to drift off when a man’s voice yelling “You murderer!” reverberated from outside.
I looked out the window to see Mr. Solomon standing over the tomatoes, shaking his cane.
No, not exactly the response I had been looking for. I walked gingerly down the steps, Preston snuggled to my chest.
“Mr. Solomon,” I said. “Look! I had Hal take the fence down. Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy?” He practically spat. “Happy? You killed my prize-winning tomatoes.”
They were all sort of lying there in a heap.
“Didn’t kill them,” I said. “Simply reconfigured.” I paused. “And it’s OK. Kimmy is coming over later with stakes to tack them up.”
He still looked extremely flustered, which was when Mom pulled into the driveway.
She burst out of the car. “Where is my fence? Frank Solomon, what have you done with my fence?”
“It wasn’t me! It was her.” He pointed his cane at me.
I bounced up and down with Preston. “Could we keep our voices down a touch so as not to traumatize the baby?” I asked.