“But nothing, love. We honor our commitments. We just do.”
Very awkwardly, as there was no one else around to help—I didn’t know how they kept this airport open—I finagled the two suitcases out the door and held it for my grandmother. “He didn’t honor his commitment. Not at all.”
She waved her free hand at me. “Well, darling, all men are morons. You know that. For heaven’s sake, you just gave birth to one. But you have to be the bigger person. Lord knows he isn’t capable.” She took a deep breath. “It’s going to be harder than hell. But doing the hard thing, even when it hurts, is what makes you strong.”
I thought about my sister Sloane, how she sat in her room every night after the kids went to bed and wrote her husband a letter. A real letter, detailing the events of the day. Her life was one huge sacrifice after another, and while, yeah, Adam’s calling was a noble one, it was still a choice. It was still choosing to protect your country over being with your wife and kids.
But she loved him. So she stuck by him. Although she was quieter and calmer and more reserved, I had no doubt that she was one of the strongest people I knew.
Mom turned, saw us, and said, “Mom!” running to Grammy.
“Oh, it’s my favorite girl,” Grammy said.
Mom and Grammy had had their differences in the past. But I felt like they were in a better place. I hoped so, anyway. Otherwise, this was going to be a long recovery.
Mom hugged Grammy and practically carried her into the backseat. It was a good thing the woman barely weighed one hundred pounds. Emerson had always had her string-bean build.
My phone beeped, and since I wasn’t yet driving, I checked the text. It was a silly selfie of my husband, daughter, and son. We love you, the text said. The biggest of us can’t wait to take you out to dinner tonight. You looked so gorgeous when you left. I’ve been thinking about you all day.
I didn’t need anyone telling me what to do. Not even Grammy. But it occurred to me that it was her voice, telling me it was OK, that crossed my mind when I texted back: What time?
I might not ever be able to forgive James. And that would be OK. But if I didn’t give our family another shot, I knew I’d never be able to forgive myself.
* * *
I REMEMBER TELLING SLOANE when I was a senior in college that I was sick of boys. She was very supportive. It took me a good fifteen minutes to realize that she thought I was telling her I was a lesbian. What I was really trying to say was that I was sick of kegs and kids who couldn’t hold their liquor. I was ready to find someone I could really settle down with, fall in love with.
He couldn’t be just anyone, of course. He had to be the kind of man I had always envisioned myself marrying. He had to be the kind of man who would support me, who would want me to stay home with our children like I’d always dreamed. In retrospect, I see how much I was asking for. But at the time, it didn’t feel like much. It had worked out for my mom. (Well, until the whole Dad-killed-by-terrorists thing.) Why couldn’t it work out for me?
I was way past the time when I thought picking up some random stranger in a bar was going to cut it. And online dating back then was still for people who lived in their parents’ basements.
So I did what many more women in my position would do if they were as crafty as I am. I combed every “eligible bachelor” list in the city for the previous few years. I figured out who these men were, where they liked to go, what they liked to do. I wasn’t trying to bag one, necessarily. But if I was ever in the position, I’d like to have a fighting chance.
So when I was at an art opening for yet another one of my friends who fancied herself an artist, sipping my chardonnay, standing around on my sample-sale Jimmy Choos in a dress too tight for my own good, it took me a moment to figure out who he was.
I thought I’d noticed him because he was so devastatingly handsome. I was actually intimidated, which is really saying something. He had effortlessly fluffy dark hair and eyes that, although I wasn’t close enough to see what color they were yet, I knew already wouldn’t let me go. His suit was perfectly tailored.
Jolie, artist du jour, came over and gasped. “Oh, my gosh! That’s James Beaumont!”
I replied, “Who?”
But I knew who. Number seven, four, and eleven on three of my latest “eligible bachelor” lists. Lawyer. Son of a lawyer. Grandson of a lawyer. Family was Southern, but great-grandfather had made his way north to find fortune—which he had.
Jolie was all breathless and flighty. “Do you think he’ll buy one of my paintings?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. I set my gaze on James, like I always did when I was interested in a man. And like they always did, he turned his gaze to meet mine, at which point I looked away demurely.
“Want me to ask him?” I said.
I looked back up, and he was still staring at me, which was a pretty good sign that he might be interested. I walked over casually, took a sip of chardonnay, and said, “This is my favorite piece in the entire collection.”
It spoke to me. The blues and tans and whites, the way they swirled in that perfect combination of water, sea, and sky.
“I think it’s mine, too,” James said, grinning at me. I could feel my heart pounding, and I felt thankful that I hadn’t inherited that awful blushing tendency from my mom.
I examined the painting, and James examined me.
“I grew up spending my summers in Peachtree Bluff, Georgia,” I said. “This painting feels like that to me.” I turned to meet James’s gaze.
“You’re a good agent,” he said.
I laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not an agent. I’m a senior at NYU. I just love Jolie’s art.”
He reached out his hand, which Grammy would have pointed out was rude. He should only have reached for my hand if I offered mine first.
“James Beaumont,” he said.
“Caroline Murphy,” I replied.
“So, Caroline Murphy, would you hold it against me if I bought this painting? I don’t want to steal your favorite.”
“Oh, not at all,” I said. “College living doesn’t provide much room for six-foot-tall paintings.”
Thirty minutes later, James and I were sharing oysters and champagne. When he asked about my parents, I heard myself say, “My dad was killed in the second tower.”
I couldn’t believe I had said that. I never said that. Which made me know that I must like this guy, eligible bachelor or not. He stopped mid-sip, mouth agape, and I think he actually dropped his oyster shell.
“You mean like the World Trade Center?”
I nodded and took a sip of champagne to swallow with my tears. It was still so raw and so fresh. I wondered if it would ever go away.
“God, Caroline,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”