Title Page

Copyright Notice

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

This book is dedicated to my children,
Meagan Steele Henry, Patrick Thomas Henry, Jr., and George
Rusk Henry. They are the most open piece of my heart;
the most creative part of my soul.

Epigraph

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

—C. S. Lewis

One

One

There are both wonderful and awful moments in a woman’s life. Many of them, really. Standing in a white dress in front of family and friends, vowing to forever love the handsome man in front of me, is on top of my wonderful list. Then years later, standing in the receiving line at my mother’s funeral and pulling away from that same man’s touch because I knew I didn’t—couldn’t—love him anymore is more than awful. It’s tragic.

In these pages, I will try to wrap words around all of the tumultuous, confusing emotions, attempt to make sense out of what at the moment feels senseless.

MOTHER’S FUNERAL

On the day of my mother’s funeral there was only one type of flower: lilies. Everywhere. There were too many to count. With all the flowers in the world, the millions of blossoms and buds, you’d have thought that someone would have brought another sort.

I know what the lily means in the language of flowers: innocence, purity, and beauty. But this is not why the church overflowed with lilies. For twelve generations, or maybe longer, the firstborn daughters of firstborn daughters in our family are named Lillian. I understood why mourners brought these blooms, but God, the aroma was overwhelming, drowning me in cloying sweetness.

Sadie, my best friend, stood next to me in the funeral receiving line. “Ellie,” she whispered.

“What?” I leaned closer to her.

“I wonder if there are any lilies left in all of Atlanta. This is insanity.”

“It still wouldn’t be enough for her,” I said.

Sadie laughed in the quiet manner of churchlike respect. “No,” she said, “it would not have been enough.”

My husband, Rusty, stood on my opposite side with his hand on the small of my back, and our nineteen-year-old daughter, Lil, was to the left of him. Sadie and I attempted to hold in our laughter, like the nine-year-old girls we once had been in the chapel at private school instead of the forty-seven-year-old women we were. The misplaced amusement bubbled up from places forbidden and grabbed our guts and throats with the release of hilarity. I don’t know why laughter comes at moments it should be banned; I don’t know why it rains when we least need it or why love leaves when we most need it. But there we were: laughing at death.

“I bet,” I said as I stifled the rising and irresponsible laughter, “everyone thought they were being original and thoughtful, sending lilies to Lilly’s funeral.”

In her attempt to stop a choked chuckle, Sadie snorted, and it was then that we broke into full laughter over something that was only vaguely funny or maybe not funny at all. But just the way you find yourself wanting something worse when you know you can’t have it, we were unable to stop laughter in the one place it is inappropriate—the middle of a receiving line at Mother’s funeral.

Rusty glanced at me, which for a reason I still don’t understand made me laugh harder. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away. My daughter looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and I wondered if maybe I had. Sadie squeezed my hand, and we returned to normal—our mournful expressions intact.

Of course, nothing about Mother’s death was funny. It was sudden and awful and left our small family bereft and confused. I’ve discovered the finality of death in this: It remains unchanged and unmoved by loneliness, regret, or grief. My need for Mother, for some kind of redemption or reconciliation, came fresh with every thought and reminder of her absence. Missing her was the ache with which I woke and then fell into restless sleep knowing.

The funeral was a huge event, and Mother would have been proud to see how many people came, considering we’re a small family. Mother is an only child, and Dad has only one brother, Uncle Cotton—an elusive figure in my life, an author who is constantly traveling and in exotic locales, a writer about whom Mother rolled her eyes as if writing were a wasteful career that didn’t even deserve a comment (much as any career in the “arts” is wasteful, which is an odd opinion for a woman on the High Museum of Art board). But that’s my mother—contradictions seamlessly fitting inside one another like the babushka dolls my grandmother brought me from her trip to Russia. Mother’s best friend, Sadie’s mother, Birdie, walked through the crowd, making order of the crowd and the event as smoothly as if Mother were there doing it herself.

Our web of friends caught Dad, Lil, Rusty, and me, cradling us with their grief and respect. There were newspaper articles and monuments, trees planted, and a bench placed in front of the High Museum.

The last woman in line then approached us, holding a single lily in her hand as if she were a bride going down the aisle. I thought I’d start laughing again but found I was finished. The day was almost over, and I was lulled into that certainty that I’d done well, that we had made it through the worst of it.

“Ellie?” A voice behind me said my name. Softly. Perfectly.

A hand fell on my shoulder, and then I saw his face. Twenty years later, minutes and hours and days rearranged to allow me to see him again as if time hadn’t passed at all. Mostly I saw his eyes: almond shaped and kind, brown with green underneath, as if the eyes had meant to be the deep color of forest ferns and then at the last minute changed their mind.

I reached for Rusty’s hand to steady myself, but he was making large gestures while talking to his buddy Weston and didn’t feel me groping for firm grounding.

Then I saw Hutch’s smile, a little crooked and higher on the righthand side.

He hates being late.

I smiled at him. “Wow, hello, Hutch O’Brien.” My voice held firm and fast, and for this I was grateful.

He is witty with a cutting sarcasm.

He loves his eggs fried with buttered toast.

There is a scar on his cheek where a dog bit him when he was ten years old. For every person who asks, he has a new story for how he obtained this scar. I’ve heard more tales than I can remember.

“Ellie,” he said, “I’m so sorry about your mother. I know how close you were.”

“Thanks, Hutch.” I took his hand and shook it as if we were past and vague acquaintances.

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

The crowded art gallery had throbbed as an erratic pulse. After painting alone in my attic, this show had been the ten-year culmination of my work. It was my forty-eighth birthday party and there were forty-eight paintings, the last ten of which I’d painted in a sleepless haze over the previous month. My actual birthday wouldn’t be until September, and this party was in late July, but the coordination with Mother’s fundraiser was a bit more important than my date of birth.

I paint flowers—all kinds. It thrills me that I could do this art for the rest of my life and still not examine every known flower. It had been Mother’s idea—the forty-eight for forty-eight. She always had a gimmick, a plan.

But that was Mother—taking something she didn’t approve of (my art) and turning it into a societal and charitable event with her name written all over it (literally, because ten percent of the money went to the charity she founded for homeless children).

I’d stood in my silk dress at the podium, where the Atlanta crowd took on a hazy quality, as if morning fog rolled over the room. There they were—friends, family, and strangers—touching and talking about my art, which until that night had been piled around my attic studio like discarded heirlooms. Rusty came up next to me and kissed my cheek; I turned to him.

“I am so proud of you,” he said.

“Thanks.” I held a glass of wine in my hand, but I was too nervous to drink.

I caught Sadie’s gaze and she smiled at me. Then there was Mother—she hadn’t moved an inch from my side all night.

Sissy Parkland approached us, her headband yanking her hair back so tight that she looked as if someone stood behind her pulling her hair. “Oh, Ellie, I bought the gardenia painting. I’m going to hang it in my sunroom. I am so thrilled. I wish I could buy all these paintings.”

“Gardenia jasminoides,” Mother said with a tight smile.

“Huh?” Sissy asked.

“The real name,” Mother said, touching my arm. “Ellie here likes to call her paintings by their ordinary name, but all flowers have a botanical name; a real name.”

“Well, ordinary or botanical, it’s beautiful.” Sissy waved at someone across the room and blew us a good-bye kiss off her palm.

I’d always insisted—either out of stubbornness or laziness—on calling all flowers by their ordinary name. Mother—either out of stubbornness or precision—always corrected me, explaining again and again how every flower had a first name and a surname, just like a person.

Lil came to stand with me. “Mom, they want a picture,” she said, grabbing my hand.

Don Morgan, the Points North magazine photographer, set up in front of the podium. “The only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter all named Lillian,” Don said as Lil smiled, our heads tilted toward Mother. “Rusty, could you step away for this photo? I want to get the three Eddington women.”

Rusty didn’t move for a moment, and then he smiled—the charming smile. “Two of them are Calvin women, Don.”

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” The flash went off.

Rusty stalked to the bar. My instinct was to go after him and soothe his hurt feelings, but then Mother tapped the microphone to make sure it was working. A high-pitched squeal brought the crowd to a quiet stop, and everyone turned to the podium.

There were many reasons the party had taken on a dreamlike quality, but the most striking of them was this: My husband and my mother had never been big fans of this art “hobby.” We’d had fights and disagreements and quiet evenings of hostility over the time and effort I put into something they didn’t truly deem worthy, yet that night they were my biggest fans.

The worst disagreement Rusty and I ever had had been when I forgot to pick Lil up from horseback riding. He’d thrown a jar of paintbrushes across my attic studio, where they’d scattered on the floor, skittering across the uneven floorboards as if to escape him, settling into the corners as if hiding. He’d compared my art to a drug, saying it was an escape. Maybe it was, but now that escape hung on linen walls with SOLD stickers on the frames.

Mr. Lomax, the art studio owner’s husband, took the microphone and welcomed everyone to the party. I smiled, but my curls shivered with nervous shaking.

“Tonight we’re here to celebrate Ellie Calvin, her birthday and her decade of work, but first I want to make an announcement.” Mr. Lomax motioned toward Mother.

Mother placed her hand on my arm. “Oh, I was hoping he wouldn’t do this.”

“Today the Atlanta Historical Society announced their brand-new exhibit for the spring of next year. And our beloved Lillian Ashford Eddington will be part of this new display about the Atlanta Woman of the Year during the decade of the 1960s. We are so proud of her and look forward to the event.”

Cheers and hollers came from the crowd. Mother took the microphone and blushed, looking out from under her eyelashes as a shy-girl. She wore a brand-new teal St. John suit with crystal buttons. Her silver hair was smooth and slick to her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, and she knew it. We all knew it.

“Thank you so much. I am so proud to be part of this upcoming celebration of many, many women who have made a difference in Atlanta and in the South. This award was given to me over forty years ago and wasn’t so much about me as it was my charity—Lilly’s Love, which we are also benefiting tonight. So right now this party is about my daughter, Ellie—Lillian Eddington Calvin. For ten years, she has been painting in private.” Mother looked at me with wide and proud eyes; fake eyes that could just as easily have been made of glass or plastic. “She’s been holed up in her attic, and I have finally convinced her to show off her talent to the community, and for that we are all enriched.”

Polite clapping filled the room, and Mother handed me the microphone. I’d prepared a speech about art and how creativity opens the heart and mind, but somehow all the words left my head and mouth. I smiled out at the crowd. There was my husband; there were my friends, my daughter, and my father; and I said the only words my tangled tongue formed. “I am grateful for all of you and for this night. Thanks for coming.”

I handed the microphone back to Mother, who began the birthday song, and then there was the cake and the candles and the wishes and the hugs.

And just as anything wonderful does, the night fled away too fast.

Soon there were only empty plastic wineglasses, crumpled napkins, and the caterers cleaning and waiting for their payment. Rusty had taken Lil home, but Sadie stayed until the very end. We sat at a long conference table, laughing about how Mrs. Palo had bought a painting from the studio believing it was mine, but it had been painted by another artist on permanent display in the gallery. We wondered if she’d ever figure it out.

Mother sat with us. “Well, dear, I don’t think that could have gone any better. It was a wonderful night. Truly wonderful. And you do look beautiful.”

“Thanks, Mother. And congratulations on the history center exhibit. You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I was waiting for the right time.”

I nodded, and Sadie kicked me under the table.

“And I meant to tell you this, too …” Mother clicked her manicured nails together, and it sounded like the skittering of a small animal’s claws across a wooden floor. “The man who is doing the exhibit came to interview me yesterday. I couldn’t place him, but then I remembered who he was—that silly old boyfriend of yours.”

“Old boyfriend?” I asked, gathering my purse and cell phone.

“Yes, that college boy. Hutch something or other.”

“Hutch O’Brien?” I asked.

She shooed her hand through the air. “I’d forgotten about him.”

When I didn’t answer, she turned to me. I averted my gaze—I knew what she wanted. I always did. She wanted me to say I’d also forgotten about him.

I couldn’t and didn’t say it.

That night, Hutch infused my dreams. Like humidity in the summer air, his scent and memory filtered into the darkness and behind the curtain of sleep, where no one can control who or what shows up in the dream world. I sit on his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist. I bite his bottom lip, gently. He watches me paint, and then he waves good-bye from a plane’s window. He walks me through a house with many rooms.

By dawn I rose and stood alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee. If I felt guilty, it was for allowing him into my bedroom, if only in dreams.

My need for Hutch had once been rooted deeply into my bones so that I’d felt the desire not as a part of me, but as me completely. But I wasn’t that woman anymore. I’d been married to Rusty Calvin for over twenty years. I was a wife. And mother.

To shake off the night’s ancient emotions, I read the article about the art show in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I took the newspaper back to the bedroom to show Rusty, but he was in the shower, so I set it on the dresser. I lifted the phone and called Mother. She didn’t answer and I left her a message, thanking her for such a wonderful evening and reminding her to get the AJC.

Would I have said anything different if I’d known it would be my last message to her?

Of course.

Dishes clanged against one another as I emptied the dishwasher, when startlingly a cardinal slammed sideways against my kitchen window, her wing swiping the pane with red and brown feathers falling loose onto the outside sill. I stood, taking in a sharp breath and watching the bird fall. For the past twenty years of my married life I’d stood at that kitchen window, in that spot, for more hours than I could count, yet I’d never seen a bird fly into the glass.

The window overlooked the backyard—a manicured manifestation of suburban gardening and lawn care. Our swimming pool was still and quiet, the surface unruffled. A pot of geraniums had fallen over, and potting soil was a russet stain against the cream travertine tiles surrounding the hot tub. My hand lifted to the window in a late response, as if I could possibly tell the bird to stop.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!