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As I drive, I’m transported; the ghost of the bayou and the stretch of river that I left behind is all around me, like the music that began a love story a lifetime ago. The sight of the brackish brown water and ancient live oaks embraces me like a friend I haven’t seen in years, while bald cypress trees, draped for the occasion in Spanish moss, stand guard at the water’s edge, flanking the road like a procession that’s all my own.
“Good afternoon, Ben,” I whisper, as I reach my hand toward the passenger seat. As if he’s there. As if he’d hold my hand in his. I used to do this every time I got in the car, though I’ve been forgetting more and more lately. Not about him,neverabout him, but with a to-do list as long as my arm, my mind tends to wander.
The cypress trees and live oaks rustle along with the broad leaves of the southern magnolias like an answer, whispering back,“Afternoon, love,”and I can almost feel his hand squeeze mine. Almost.
It’s beautiful here, in its own way, but it’s wilder and starker than my old slice of heaven; the landscape still scarred by the battle with Hurricane Katrina. The crooked branches of the oaks are slumped and exhausted, the withered palms sprouting from beds of browning fronds that were torn away by the wind, while trash grows like buds in spring, everywhere you look. There are gorgeous stretches of rushes and reeds across the water from where I’m driving, so green and verdant that you’d never know there’d been chaos, where fisherman perch on bridges to try their luck with the catfish, bluegills, and largemouth bass, but I like this road better. It’s quieter. I have time to think, time to remember, time to dream I’m back at the cottage by the Gulf, living the life I was supposed to have.
There’s a lot I miss about that cottage. I miss starting my day with a cup of coffee at the edge of my garden, watching for “Henry” the blue heron, standing in the reeds, waiting to strike for his breakfast. I miss how the fog would snake up across the grass and around my ankles at dawn, and how I could sit out on the small inlet beach, scrunching sand under my toes, listening to the grumble of thunder in the distance, knowing I had a safe place to run to when the rain started. I miss how warm the water was on summer nights, floating in the arms of the man I loved.
Love.
I doubt my tongue will ever get used to the change from present to past.
But New Orleans is my fresh start, two years in the making. After taking over the Chevalet full-time, I suppose I just… never left. It didn’t make sense to drive there and back from the cottage, especially when there was no one waiting for me at home. I found that out pretty quickly, discovering that a good day at the gallery could tip steeply into a not-so-good day once I stepped through the cottage door into silence and rooms that brimmed with memories that would never branch into new ones, frozen in time. In a way, it was a little like stepping into the past, and in the early days, it damn near killed me.
Besides, Ben and I had vowed to move to New Orleans. Doing it by myself was never the plan, but, after him, every plan had gone out of the window.
In the end, Ms. T was the one who suggested I find my own place in New Orleans. Well, she actually said, “Honey, you’re about to drive an old girl crazy, seein’ you draggin’ your fine behind from pillar to post, day-in and day-out. Lord have mercy on my soul for sayin’ this, but that boy left you all that cash and I’ll be a boiled crawdad before I let you leave it gatherin’ dust. That ain’t what he would’ve wanted! Now, let’s be honest here, you ain’t gonna spend a dime of it on this old place. You ain’t gonna buy someplace new here, either, so don’t you be kiddin’ yourself. If I were you, I’d find myself a sweet spot in the Big Easy, and see if you can’t make your life a little easier while you’re at it.”
I took her sage advice. Found my sweet spot. No one told me the hard part would be making it feel like home, though I should’ve known; I spent twenty-six years looking for that, found it, then it vanished again in the blink of an eye. Finding it a second time, in walls and hardwood floors and color swatches and decorations, was never going to be simple.
I glance at the gift on the passenger seat, wrapped in muted yellow paper, printed with bears, and take a breath, hoping Grace loves what’s inside. She’s eight today, but I worry it might still be too soon for the thing I chose. If I nearly had a breakdown wrapping it, what will it do to her?
The magnolias shiver their leaves, and I swear I hear him whisper,“She’ll love it, Summer. Drive safe, get there in one piece.”
* * *
After two yearsof running events and parties and even a couple of artsy weddings, you’d think I’d have gotten used to being around throngs of people, mingling like the best of them. But when half of those people are feral eight-year-olds, jacked up on a sugar high, and the other half are strangers, turns out it’s pretty easy to slip back into the old ways of the introvert.
I’ve commandeered the suntrap by the willow tree, wine in hand, where I can watch the party without being part of it. There’s a book in my bag, but evenIknow it’s bad form to start reading at a party… unless it’s a book club. So, as the fronds billow in the warm, afternoon breeze, somewhere between the cooler caress of spring and the liquid air of summer, I observe instead.
Lyndsey is radiant as ever, effortlessly casual in blue jeans and a white cashmere sweater that seems ill-fated at a child’s party. Nevertheless, she’s graceful as she buzzes around the guests like the queen bee that she is, making sure everyone is fed and watered while checking on the snacks and sides that are being conjured up, like magic, in the kitchen. Outside on the terrace, Oscar is on crab boil duty, clutching a beer as he watches his cauldron bubble; the delicious, Cajun red mixture, loaded with secret spices and a haphazard recipe that is for him to know and everyone else to enjoy, wafting its mouthwatering aroma out across the garden. I’m more than ready to start picking crab and shelling shrimp and gnawing on a cob of corn, but he’s keeping us all in suspense.
Taking a sip of my wine, dry and mineral on my tongue, I cast my gaze across the adult guests, and play a game of “Who are you and what do you do?” It’s a game I play with Grace, and I never tire of hearing her howl with laughter at some of my wilder guesses, but she’s busy being the birthday girl so it’ll just have to be a private game.
I notice a couple, slightly turned away from each other like magnets repelling as they sip their drinks with a vengeance. Their mouths move discreetly, their lips and jaws tight as they mutter to one another. They’ve been arguing; that much is clear, but whether it’s a blip or a prolonged bitterness, I’m not sure.
Further along the terrace, there’s a gaggle of women, older than me by a few years, maybe thirty-two to my twenty-eight, and so well put-together in expensive-looking clothes that it makes me feel like a bumpkin in my flowy, poppy-print maxi. A few have been shooting me nasty looks since I got here, but there was some whispering a while ago that seemed to put an end to it. My secret, I suppose. I’m wondering if I should start wearing a sign:Pitiful widow. Please do not disturb.
Close by are what I assume are the husbands, sent away with beers to chat with their own kind, though there doesn’t appear to be a lot of chatting going on. More awkward standing around, with the occasional remark about sports or the weather or stocks and crypto, between uncomfortable sips of rapidly disappearing beer.
I wonder where Ben would be, if he was here?The answer was obvious; he’d have been here, by the willow with me, or he’d have been across the garden with the kids. He loved Grace with all his heart.
Just then, a newcomer steps out onto the terrace, wearing the same anxious expression that I must’ve had when I arrived. I don’t know what makes me notice him, since the sun in my eyes distorts my view of his face. Maybe, it’s the bright yellow polo shirt, mismatched with bottle green pants and some kind of sneakers. Maybe, it’s the fact that he’s holding his drink with two hands, probably to avoid the dilemma of what to do with them otherwise. I can admire that. Wish I’d thought of it first, in truth, after making an idiot of myself earlier, when Lyndsey introduced me to everyone. I’ve never shaken so many strangers’ hands in all my life. Never been hugged by so many strangers, either, and way too tightly, if I’m being honest. I figured Lyndsey had told them who I was, to avoid any awkward questions later, and by the end of the intros, I’d started to feel like a charity case.
The man’s eyes search the guests desperately for a friendly face. His gaze settles on me for a moment and instinct drops my chin down to my chest.
When I look back up, he’s standing with Oscar, his back to me. The two men are laughing at something, and there’s an ease between them, like they know each other well. My brow furrows as I desperately try to place the newcomer, because if he knows Oscar and Lyndsey, how come I don’t know him?
You don’t know ninety-percent of the people here,I remind myself, my heart gaining a few pounds, growing heavier in my chest.
I put myself on the outside on purpose, but seeing everyone in the party spirit, sharing stories and drinks and complaints about too many school holidays and PTA meetings and the pressure of organizing birthdays and all the million things I’m never there for, I ache to be on the inside. I ache to be where they are, tangled up in the ordinary. I’d give anything to even be the frosty couple, still arguing about who forgot to pay the gas bill or who made them late to the party.
“Summer! Auntie Summer!” Grace’s voice snaps me out of my people watching.
I ceased to be “Big Bear” a couple of months ago, in public at least. I don’t mind it. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t last. Children grow up and grow out of the things they once adored, as long as she doesn’t grow out of me. I’ve noticed that Grace isn’t surewhatto call me these days. I’m not her mom, not her step-mom anymore, not her aunt, and I’m certainly not a bear, but it seems like she’s trying a few titles on me for size. I’ll take “Auntie Summer” or whatever else I can get.
“What’s up, Baby Bear? Having a good time?” I pull her into a hug and breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t wriggle free. She’ll always be my baby bear.
