My thoughts were punctuated by my eldest daughter bursting through the front door and my scream reverberating through the silent night.
Caroline looked around, shocked. “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I patted the cushion beside me, and she sat down. She took the glass of wine right out of my hand, took a sip, and handed it back to me. “I want to talk to you about something,” she said.
I felt a knot forming in my stomach. She looked very serious, and I had a feeling this was either about the money her father had promised her that was actually gone or her biological father. Neither was a topic I was prepared to discuss.
So nothing could have surprised me more than when she said, “How would you feel about my doing a little buying for your store?”
Looking into Caroline’s dancing eyes, I understood that she needed this. She had mentioned going back to work, and I knew this would suit her well. She had always had an eye for beautiful things.
“I have a friend who has moved to Provence, and she could help us source these gorgeous linens that will take your breath away.” She paused. “And wouldn’t it be beautiful to have fresh lavender in bundles all around the store?”
I smiled. “It would be perfect, sweetheart. Whatever you think.”
There were times to hold on, and there were times to let go. Caroline could absolutely handle a task like this better than anyone I knew. She had perfect taste and was incredibly organized. Now if I could only get her to stay on budget . . .
Reflexively, I looked down to the end of the street, where James was presumably sleeping—alone, I hoped. Caroline had let him keep Preston that night, which was a big step. “You OK?” I asked.
Caroline shrugged. “I will be.”
I sighed and could feel the tears coming to my eyes as I said, “When are you going back to New York?”
Caroline waved her hand, insinuating that it would be ages, and I pulled myself back together. Even one leaving would throw off the dynamic.
“Hey, Mom,” she said, that conspiratorial twinkle in her eye I knew so well, “I might need your help with one more thing.”
When she told me her plan, I said, “No.” Flat out. But I was tired and I was sad, and I knew already she would eventually wear me down.
“But Mom, just think how good—”
“No,” I interrupted, getting up and heading to the kitchen, where so much needed to be done.
“OK,” Caroline said softly. She hugged me in the entrance hall and went out to the guesthouse. She had conceded for now, but I knew this wasn’t over.
My thoughts wandered to the house next door, to what Jack might be doing.
Later that night, after the dishes had been washed, the crystal had been put away, the tears had all been shed, and my children were all sleeping, I walked onto the front porch and sat on my steps. I thought again about what I had to lose if I chose Jack. Then I had another thought. All this time I had been thinking I couldn’t be with Jack, but it was certain I could never be with anyone else. I had a secret I could never share with another man, a lie that, if I ever pursued another relationship, would always be between us. I knew I could never, would never, lie to another man like that. I had learned the hard way what a secret of this caliber does to a person, how it wears away at your soul.
All this time I had been thinking that Jack, the man I had always loved, was the only man I couldn’t be with. That night, so full of sadness, grief, and angst, it hit me: instead of his being the only man I couldn’t be with, I realized that Jack was the only man who knew the whole truth and loved me anyway, the only person who had carried the same weight I had for all these years.
With that, I crossed the yard, retrieved the key from inside the conch shell by the back door, and tiptoed upstairs. I slid into bed beside Jack, and in typical Jack fashion, he didn’t say a word, only pulled me closer. He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes. In the moments before I fell asleep, I knew that this was it for me. I would never leave his side again.
THIRTY-THREE
coming home
sloane
April 16, 2010
Dear Sloane,
The guys and I were talking tonight about the importance of good-byes. Doing what we do, we become acutely aware of how to do them right, how to live every moment like we might not get the next one. So I promise you, Sloane, every day of my life, I will make sure to tell you how I feel. I will kiss you and savor the moment. Every single day, I will do that good-bye well so you never have to question how much I love you.
All my love,
Adam
EVERY TIME MY PHONE rang when the boys were at Mother’s Morning Out, I imagined a million worst-case scenarios: they had fallen off the jungle gym, choked on a Goldfish, gotten pummeled by a kid on the swings, and most horrific of all, an active shooter was in the preschool. I know. But, due to my past, I’m allowed to have these irrational fears.
So, when Emerson, out of breath from sprinting, appeared at the top of the guesthouse stairs where I was sitting with Caroline, my phone in her hand, and eked out, “Scott,” I was panicking before it was even time to panic.
“Why didn’t you just answer it?” Caroline asked disdainfully, as I said, “Hey Scott!” My tone was supposed
