We stood silent, holding hands. I felt tears rising and I wanted to place my head on his chest: I knew where it would fit.

“Don’t cry,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

I nodded.

“It’s great to see your beautiful face. Even in your grief, you’re adorable.”

“Not true,” I said. “But thanks.”

“Did your mom tell you that I’d interviewed her last week for the Atlanta History Center exhibit?”

“Yes, she did.” Proper sentences formed on my tongue with the well-practiced art of social graces.

He likes the cold side of the pillow and the aisle seat on the plane.

Hutch glanced around the sacristy. “I know this is an awful time and you probably won’t even remember seeing me, but can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” I said.

We were still holding hands, and I wouldn’t let go.

“We—your mother and I—didn’t finish our interview. Would you … talk to me when things calm down?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said, and let go of my hand. “I’ll call you? Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m really sorry you’re going through this pain.”

“Thank you, Hutch. And thanks for coming.”

Rusty tuned in; he’d heard the name. Hutch walked away, and Rusty took my still-warm hand. “Was that Hutch?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“What the hell was he doing here?”

I shrugged. “I assume he’s paying his respects just like everyone else here.”

Rusty turned back to Weston and released my hand.

We were leaving the church when I saw the wildflower arrangement: a glass vase shaped like a large fish bowl was full of cornflowers and black-eyed Susans, forget-me-nots and Texas bluebonnets. I stopped and slid my finger up the stalk of a cornflower, rubbing the petal against my cheek. A long inhale of the sweet jasmine vine, which poured out of the urn like wine, made me dizzy.

Wildflowers.

I lifted the card from the arrangement. “Condolences, Hutchinson O’Brien.”

Rusty came from behind and hugged me, wiping the tears I hadn’t realized were wet on my face. “I think the worst is over, baby. Let’s go home,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Home.”

I placed the card back in the flower arrangement, but it fluttered to the floor, where I left it with his name staring up at me.

Hutch.

We make our choices and then we live with them.

Everyone does.

Two

Two

It had been only four days before the funeral, in the midst of my own art show, that Mother had said Hutch’s name as dismissively as one would drop a crumpled napkin into the trash.

You are invited to the
ANNE LOMAX GALLERY
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
To Celebrate
Lillian (ELLIE) Eddington Calvin’s
Forty-eight for Forty-eight
Forty-eight pieces of original artwork on Ellie’s forty-eighth birthday
Certain proceeds to benefit Lilly’s Love Charity