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Thirteen
Magnolia
It wasn’t until the day before we were leaving Paris that I actually began to enjoy it, but isn’t that ever the way?
They all tried to convince me to stay longer but I said I couldn’t… That I had to get home for a meeting. That surprise little email from RD last week, making an honest woman out of me.
It wouldn’t have mattered either way. I would have lied to get home for December 3rd. Not even wild horses…
I didn’t tell anyone about the email, by the way.
I didn’t tell anyone I took the meeting this morning when we flew in from Paris either. I didn’t tell anyone he offered me the role. I haven’t told anyone I accepted it on the spot.
I want the first person I tell to be BJ. I don’t know why — I’m not staying for him. I’m not not staying for him though. I love him. More now than ever, I think, somehow.
And I want to make this work. So when Rich offered me the job today, it felt like those crafty old Fates were at it again, weaving the tears in the tapestry of us back together.
Please, God, let them be weaving us back together.
The drive down there is tender and familiar, even though it’s long. It’s especially so on my own — but it often starts like this.
Us arriving apart and then leaving together.
It’s our tie that binds, draws us in close, regardless of how far we’ve drifted. No matter what, or where we are, we’ve never missed December 3rd. Not even the first year we broke up, when I was (secretly) with Christian, and BJ and I weren’t talking. Even then.
It’s our little pilgrimage back to each other, a slow crawl towards the only proper home we’ve ever had.
My mind trickles back to last year, how long we’d waited, how badly we wanted it, how perfect it was. My heart starts stomping at the thought of his hands on my body and I wonder if it’ll happen again.
Whether he’ll be standing there, waiting under the tree — of course he’s under the tree, where else would he be? I just don’t know that he’d think it’s on the table.
And maybe it’s not on the table because he has a girlfriend.
Except maybe they broke up while I was in Paris? They could have.
It doesn’t need to be on the table.
I’ll just be relieved to see him, relieved to tell him I’m staying, relieved to see my relief mirrored on his face.
I pull into the estate’s driveway and take the long way down into the garden.
I pass sweet Mr Gibbs and his two Irish Wolfhounds. I give him a small wave, he gives me a big one. I park my car and look around.
He’s not here yet.
I check the time.
A bit past three.
I guess he’s still on his way up.
I climb out of my car and straighten myself out — the black and white sequin-embellished pointelle-knit wool mini dress from Gucci with the black LV Detail Maxi Cardigan from Louis Vuitton.
I wander down the cobblestone path towards the tree.
It gets prettier every year, and if you were looking for it, you’d see it sticks out like a sore thumb.
For the most part, the grounds of our Dartmouth house are typical for the garden of an estate. Very English. Hedges and ivy and pastel roses.
