As the phone rang, I prayed she wouldn’t answer. But on the third ring, she did. And as soon as I heard her say, “Sloane,” in that sweet Southern voice of hers, the one that lulled and rolled melodiously, I burst into tears.
“I’m just so sorry,” I said. “I’m the worst daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “No. Of course you’re not. I’ve talked to your mother every few days, and I know how terrible it has been for you.”
I wiped my eyes and tried to focus on breathing. She needed me to be strong. “But it’s even worse for you,” I said. “I know it is. And I couldn’t even bother to pick up the phone.”
“Sweetheart,” Linda said, “it’s OK. We have much, much bigger fish to fry right now.” Then she began to cry too. Somehow, her tears made me feel stronger.
“Linda,” I said calmly, “listen, I know Adam is OK. I feel it in the very depths of my soul. He’s alive and he’s going to come home safe.”
Linda paused. “But Sloane, I think we have to at least consider—”
I cut her off. “No, Linda. I don’t think you’re hearing me. He’s my husband. I’m positive he’s going to come home. I’m not hopeful. No wishful thinking. I am sure.”
I was proud of how confident I sounded.
“Well, then,” she stammered, “I certainly hope you’re right, sweetheart. And I wish I had your faith.”
I bit my lip and looked out over the water. Being surrounded by things this beautiful made it hard not to have faith or believe that everything was going to be OK.
“I’ll bring the boys to Athens soon.” I looked down at my left arm, noticing how frail I was. It was shocking how much a body could deteriorate in one short month. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. If this had happened to me inside my air-conditioned room, in my comfortable bed, with people trying to help me along the way, how much worse had it been for Adam?
“That would be wonderful, Sloane. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, please do.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “And, Sloane, if you need a break, Don and I are happy to take them for a few days. You know how we adore those boys.”
“Thanks, Linda. I love you so much, and I’m praying that the next time I’m talking to you we’ve gotten the good news.”
She cleared her throat and said, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.” She paused and added, “Sloane, you take care of yourself, OK?”
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
“Love you, and please send our love to the boys.”
As I hit End, I felt so much better that I had called her. And I could tell from the sound of her voice that she felt better, too.
SIX
an excellent start
ansley
I couldn’t decorate my grandmother’s house when I first brought the girls to Peachtree Bluff after my husband died. It was ridiculous, to say the least. I was a decorator, for heaven’s sake. An out-of-practice one, perhaps, but our whole lives were hinging on my ability to get my groove back, to return to paint colors and fabric swatches, floor stains and throw pillows. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to tear up the hideous harvest-gold shag carpet in the living room. We lived with chipped laminate countertops for far longer than I’d like to admit.
It wasn’t because I didn’t have an idea for the house—I had millions. It was simply that, to me, decorating meant creating a home and a family, and decorating a home that wasn’t ours in New York meant accepting that Carter was never coming back. If I didn’t ask him which accessories he liked best for his man cave, then it wasn’t his home. If it wasn’t his home, then he was really dead. So I scrubbed that ugly tile, vacuumed that hideous carpet that was worn down to nothing in the high-traffic areas, and told myself I wasn’t redecorating the house because I couldn’t afford it.
That was partly true, but I’d managed to squeeze enough out of the Victim Compensation Fund money we had gotten—after I had paid off Carter’s debts—to at least take care of some of the essentials in a new design scheme.
Caroline whined and complained that she couldn’t possibly have anyone over to this disgusting house. Granted, Caroline would have whined and complained no matter what. She hated me, hated Peachtree Bluff, hated her new life. Emerson whined occasionally that she really wanted a pink room and hers was a putrid green. But it was Sloane who pulled me out of it, Sloane who, in her quiet way, made me face what I’d been feeling all along.
“Mom,” she had said quietly to me one day, a bag in her hand.
I remember I was standing by the sink, hand-washing dishes because, predictably, the dishwasher that hadn’t been replaced since the ’70s had finally conked out and—you guessed it—I couldn’t bring myself to replace it. She handed me the bag. Inside was a beautiful painting, one that I knew right away she had done. Sloane had been an artist her entire life, and even when she was little, her paintings were distinguishable from everyone else’s.
“I was thinking that when you redo your room, you could put this painting in there.” She smiled encouragingly. She understood, in her childlike way, what I was going through. So I said, “You know, Sloane, I think you’re right. It’s time to move on, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Redecorating the house isn’t forgetting Daddy, Mom. It’s just making it so we can live here. I mean, you know, really live.”
She was always wise, that girl. She was the quietest, but also the most intuitive of my daughters. She understood what drove people. I put my arm around her and said, “How about we redo it together, Sloane?”
She
