The briefness of their encounter might have explained why I didn’t recognize Peter right off when I passed him on my way to the store.
“Ansley!” he called, jogging back to meet me at the door.
I turned and looked, and right about the time he said “Peter Hoffman,” I realized who he was. And then I felt silly, of course, because it was clear I hadn’t recognized him.
“Peter,” I said, hugging him. “Come on in! I’ve got to get the store opened up.”
“How are the girls?” Peter asked.
Was it remotely possible that he hadn’t heard, that he hadn’t passed a tabloid and seen my daughter’s name in it? When he winced, I knew that was not, in fact, possible at all.
“Sorry about Caroline’s husband,” he said. “That’s really shitty.” He put his hand to his mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was inappropriate. It just flew out.”
I laughed. “It’s OK,” I said. “It’s extremely shitty.”
“So where is Caroline?” he asked.
“Oh, she’s here. At the house. They’re all here, in fact.”
“For a visit?”
“Something like that.”
Peter picked up a gold tray shaped like a leaf and ran his finger across it. “I like this,” he said. “I think I’ll get it for my mom.”
He picked up three of my Turkish towels. “And these for me. I love these things. They dry so quickly.”
I smiled, wondering if this was a ploy to get more information out of me. “So . . .” he started. “What’s the deal with Caroline? Is she in mourning? Do you think she’d like to, I don’t know, grab a drink for old times’ sake?”
I scanned his towels and smiled. “I don’t know,” I said. “But you know she has a nine-week-old baby.”
He nodded. “Sure. But I love kids.”
I thought about the bath fiasco the night before and wondered if he would have loved kids then.
“Well,” I said, knowing that I was meddling, “we always have a glass of wine on the porch at nine. Why don’t you swing by and ask her yourself?” I paused. “That’s pretty risky, you know. With a nine-week-old baby, how do you know she isn’t still huge?”
“Because I know Caroline.”
We both laughed. He left, the bell tinkling as he did. There was so much to do. Unbox inventory, pay bills, dust the knickknacks, call Barbara Cosgrove and see when that shipment of gorgeous lamps would be in. But I didn’t do any of that.
Instead, I walked to the front of the store. I sat down in a beautiful, custom-made Society Social chair covered in a vibrant blue patterned fabric. Then I watched the water roll by. It was impossible not to think of Carter in these moments, not to wonder what would have been if he hadn’t died. If I’d insisted that he come to Emerson’s dress rehearsal that morning, if he hadn’t been able to catch a cab, if security had been a little tighter at the airport, if he had sprinted as fast as he could to evacuate the minute the first plane hit. There were so many if onlys. I could go on forever, imagining scenarios as numerous as the ripples in the sound.
I thought of Jack, and I realized that there were so many if onlys that sometimes it left out any space for the what could bes.
I ran my hand up the chair and realized that I would order four of them for Emily and Gary’s family room in this exact fabric but in pink, not blue. It was such a strange room configuration that any way you put a couch, it looked terrible. Four chairs would be perfect.
The night before, Jack had said “my grandchildren.” Those two words were enough, in my mind, anyway, to put a stop to anything that was starting to brew between us. This was the reason I hadn’t wanted to be with him in the first place. I didn’t want him so involved in my children’s lives.
Sandra was walking down the street to the bank next door. She poked her head in. “Hi, love.”
“Hi,” I said.
“You OK?”
I nodded. “Taking a moment away from the madhouse.”
“I’m heading to work,” she said. “Want to do lunch?”
Did I ever. I nodded. “Yes.”
I loved being a mother and a grandmother. I even loved caring for my mom, mostly. But just like when I’d had three babies, sometimes you needed a moment to be you.
When Leah walked through the door and saw me sitting in the chair, she said, “You stay. I’ve got this under control.” Then she walked back over with a swatch book and whispered, “Could you pick a fabric for Hal’s new drapes?”
I laughed. Who would’ve thought that after all these years, Hippie Hal would be my interior design client? His home was incredible, this masculine mix of bamboo and worn Persian rugs, thin and threadbare like I liked them. It had a very British Colonial feel to it, almost like being right inside The Most Dangerous Game. He needed to do some sprucing up, and I was more than flattered that he came to me.
I got up, stretching my legs, and said, “I’ve got to run this bedding down to Jack’s boat. If Hal comes in, give him these three options. He has a terrific eye.”
I loaded a dock cart with two sets of twin sheets, one set of queen, three white cotton blankets, and three plain white bamboo coverlets. The Euro shams were freshly steamed so I gingerly placed them on top, with the neck rolls holding everything down. I was a fan of big, fluffy comforters, but on a boat, simplicity is best. Anything that can hold moisture is a liability.
I lifted the handles of the cart, trying to ignore the pain in my lower back. There was no doubt that carrying my grandchildren and helping my mother had taken a toll on me. It reminded me that, no matter what else was going on, I had to exercise and take care of myself. I didn’t want to be one of these old crippled grandmothers by the time Emerson had babies.
As I walked down the dock, my heart felt heavy. Jack and I were firmly in a gray area, and I had this feeling that he and I had differing opinions about which way we needed to go. Between my mom and the kids, it was too much. Of course, there was that ever-present fear of letting him get too close to my family. The damage could be irreparable; it could ruin my relationships with my daughters forever if things went south.
But then there was my heart. My heart told me he was the one—or, well, the other one. My heart told me he would never hurt me. As I pushed the cart, I realized that it is so often this way. The head wants one thing, the heart wants the other. How I wished I could get them to do the same thing at the same time.