Although I can’t fathom such an estrangement ever happening between Margot and me, I still feel a surge of angst as I say to Suzanne, “It’s not really Margot’s style to confront people.”
“You’re not ‘people.’ You’re her so-called best friend. You’re telling me that she won’t address something like this with you?” Suzanne whistles for dramatic effect.
“I don’t know. Maybe she will,” I say, bristling at her use of so-called as I try to backtrack with an example of Margot being direct with me. Ironically, my only example is Leo-related. “She confronted me when Leo and I broke up and I turned into a sappy loser—”
Suzanne adamantly interrupts, “You weren’t a sappy loser. You were heartbroken. There’s a difference.”
This sentiment of course, disarms me, as no one wants to believe they were ever sappy—or a loser—and certainly not a sappy loser, but at this point, I really am out of time as Andy is headed my way with our lattes. “Here he comes,” I say. “Give me the bottom line.”
“The bottom line is that this is between you and Andy…not you and your sister-in-law, BFFs or otherwise,” she says, spitting out BFFs sarcastically. “But if you feel you must clear the air, then do so…”
“Okay,” I say.
“Whatever you do, though, don’t be a scared rabbit. And do not grovel or cower…Got it?”
“Got it,” I say as I take my coffee from Andy and flash him a grateful smile. I don’t remember ever needing caffeine this urgently.
“’Cause Ellie?” Suzanne says fervently.
“Yeah?”
“If you grovel and cower…you’re setting a mighty bad precedent for yourself down in Dixie.”
Suzanne’s advice rings in my ears as Andy and I buy the snow globe on a final, sentimental whim, and round the corner toward our gate.
Don’t grovel and cower, I think, wondering if that’s the sort of demeanor I adopted last night. I know I didn’t grovel as there was no verbal exchange, but did I cower? Was I avoiding Margot as much, or perhaps more, than she was avoiding me? If so, maybe I made things worse, elevating her minor worry into full-blown suspicion. And, although I’m certain she saw Leo’s name, maybe I also exaggerated her reaction in my head, allowing my own plagued conscience, the intense emotions of our move, and at least one drink too many to distort reality. Maybe everything will look and feel different this morning. It was something that my mother used to say all the time, and as we approach Margot and Webb already settled in at the gate, I cross my fingers that today is no exception to her rule.
I take a deep breath and belt out a preemptive, enthusiastic hello, hoping that I don’t sound as stilted as I feel.
As always, Webb stands and kisses my cheek, “Mornin’, darlin’!”
Margot, who is impeccably dressed in a navy sweater set, crisp white pants, and cherry red flats that match her lipstick, looks up from a Nicholas Sparks novel and smiles. “Hey! Good morning! How was the rest of your night?”
Her blue eyes move from me to Andy, then back to me, as I detect nothing in her face or tone or demeanor to suggest that she is angry or upset. On the contrary, she seems like her usual warm, chummy self.
I feel myself relax ever so slightly as I take the seat next to her and offer up a safe answer. “It was fun,” I say breezily.
“A little too much fun,” Andy says, flanking me on the other side and tossing our carry-on bags at his feet. “I probably shouldn’t have done that last shot at two in the morning.”
Margot creases a tiny dog ear in a page of her book, closes it, and slides it into her large black bag. “What time did you get back to your hotel?” she asks us.
Andy and I look at each other and shrug.
“Three, maybe?” I say, almost completely at ease now.
“Something like that,” Andy says, rubbing his temples.
Margot grimaces empathetically. “I have to say…that’s one of the best parts about being pregnant. Hangover free for nine months.”
“Baby, you’ve been hangover free for nine years,” Webb says.
I laugh, thinking that he’s probably right about that. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times Margot lost control in college or in our twenties. And by “lost control” I don’t mean dancing topless at a party—I mean, taking out a pair of perfectly good contact lenses and flicking them into a bush on the way home from a party, or polishing off a whole bag of barbecue potato chips.
A few moments of casual, idle chatter later, Webb says he’s going to go pick up a paper before we board. Andy offers to go with him, and Margot and I are suddenly alone, in what feels to be some kind of moment of truth.
Sure enough, it is.
“Okay, Ellie,” she says urgently. “I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
You could have fooled me, I think, as I give her a sideways glance and decide that her expression is more curious than accusatory.
“I know,” I say hesitantly.
“Leo?” she says, her eyes wide, unblinking.
My stomach jumps a little hearing his name aloud, and I suddenly wish he had a more common name, like Scott or Mark. A name diluted by other casual acquaintances and associations. But in my life, there is only one Leo.
“I know,” I say again, stalling as I take a long sip of coffee. “I should have mentioned it sooner…I was going to…but the move…your baby…There’ve been so many distractions…”
I realize that I’m stammering, and that Suzanne likely would categorize my end of the conversation as something approaching scared-rabbit groveling, so I gather myself and try another angle. “But it’s really not the way it seems…I…I just ran into him on the street one day, and we caught up very quickly…Then, a short time later, he called my agent and gave me the Drake lead. And that was it, really…”
It is enough of the truth that I don’t feel altogether bad by editing the story—omitting that I saw him in L.A.—and afterward on our flight home.
Margot looks visibly relieved. “I knew it had to be something like that,” she says. “I just…I guess I thought you would have told me about it?” She adds the last part gingerly, conveying disappointment more than judgment.
“I really meant to…and I was going to before the magazine came out,” I say, unsure of whether this is the truth, but giving myself a generous benefit of the doubt. “I’m sorry.”
I think of Suzanne again, but tell myself that a simple I’m sorry is a far cry from groveling.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Margot says quickly. “It’s okay.”
A few seconds of easy silence pass between us, and just as I think I might be off the hook completely, she twists her diamond stud a full turn in her ear and asks point-blank, “Does Andy know?”
For some reason, it is a question I hadn’t anticipated, and one that magnifies my residual guilt and hangover. I shake my head, feeling fairly certain that this is not the answer she was hoping for.
Sure enough, she gives me a piteous look and says, “Are you going to tell him?”
“I…I guess I should?” I say, my voice rising in a question.
Margot runs her hands over her belly. “I don’t know,” she says pensively. “Maybe not.”
“Really?” I say.
“Maybe not,” she says again more resolutely.
“Don’t you think he’ll notice…the byline?” I ask as it occurs to me that we haven’t engaged in this sort of relationship strategy and analysis in years. Then again, we haven’t needed to. Other than a few silly arguments that arose during our wedding planning (in which Margot sided with me), Andy and I have never really been at odds—at least not in such a way that would have necessitated girlfriend collusion or intervention.
“Probably not,” Margot says. “He’s a guy…And does he even know Leo’s last name?”
I tell her I’m not sure. He once did, I think, but perhaps he has forgotten.
“And really,” she says, recrossing her legs at the ankle, “what does it matt
er anyway?”
I look at her, ninety percent thrilled by the direction she’s headed in, and ten percent worried that it might be some kind of a trap set by one loyal sibling for another.
Blood is thicker than water, I can hear Suzanne saying as I nod noncommittally and wait for Margot to finish her thought.
“It’s not like Leo was some big love of your life or anything,” she finally says.
When I don’t respond immediately, she raises her well-arched eyebrows even higher, obviously looking for confirmation and reassurance.
So I say as decisively as I can, “No, he wasn’t.”
This time, I know I’m lying, but what choice do I have?
“He was just…some guy from a long time ago,” Margot says, her voice trailing off.
“Right,” I say, cringing as I think of that flight together.
Margot smiles.
I make myself smile back at her.
Then, just as the gate attendant announces the start of boarding and our husbands rejoin us with a stash of newspapers, magazines, and bottled water, she leans in and whispers confidingly, “So what do you say we just go ahead and keep this one to ourselves?”
I nod, picturing the two of us literally sweeping debris under an expansive Oriental rug as we hum along to the Golden Girls theme song, one of our favorite shows to watch after class in college.
“All’s well that ends well,” Margot says, words that, oddly enough, both soothe me and fill me with a sense of foreboding. Words that echo in my head as the four of us gather our belongings and saunter down the Jetway toward my new life, a fresh start, and something that feels a little bit like redemption.
Twenty-Two
For the next few weeks, as Andy and I settle into our new home, I do my best to stay on the road to redemption. I wake up every morning and give myself rousing pep talks, repeating chipper clichés out loud in the shower—things like, Home is where the heart is, and Happiness is a state of mind. I tell Andy and Margot and Stella, and even strangers, like the clerk at Whole Foods and a woman behind me in line at the DMV, that I am happy here, that I do not miss New York. I tell myself that if I can only will these things to be true, my record will be expunged, my slate cleaned, and Leo forgotten for good.
But despite my best, most pure-intentioned efforts, it doesn’t quite work out that way. Instead, as I go through all the moving-in motions—whether it’s arranging our framed photographs on the built-in bookcases flanking our stone fireplace, or perusing the aisles of Target for Rubbermaid storage containers, or poring over drapery fabric samples with Margot’s interior designer, or planting white caladiums in big bronze pots on our front porch—I feel out of sorts and out of place.
Worse, I have the nagging, sinking feeling that I was more myself on that red-eye flight than I have been in a long time—and that I’ve made a mistake in leaving New York. A big mistake. The kind of mistake that brews resentment and dangerous fissures. The kind of mistake that makes your heart ache. The kind of mistake that makes you long for another choice, the past, someone else.
Meanwhile, Andy’s contentment, bordering on outright glee, makes me feel that much more alienated. Not so much because misery loves company—although there is an element of that—but because his happiness means that our move is permanent, and I will be stuck in this world forever. His world. A life sentence of sitting in traffic and having to drive everywhere, even to grab a cup of coffee or a quick manicure. Of sterile strip malls and no late-night dinner delivery options. Of mindlessly accumulating shiny, unnecessary possessions to fill the empty spaces in our sprawling home. Of falling asleep listening to absolute unsettling silence rather than the satisfying hum and pulse of a city. Of still, sweltering summers with Andy off playing golf and tennis every weekend and no chance of a white Christmas. Of saccharine-sweet, blond, blue-eyed, Lilly Pulitzer-wearing, Bunco-playing neighbors with whom I have virtually nothing in common.
Then, one morning in August, just after Andy leaves for work, I find myself standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding his cereal bowl which he carelessly left on the table, and I realize that it’s not such a subtle feeling anymore. It’s full-blown suffocation. I practically run to the sink, toss his bowl into it, and phone Suzanne in a panic.
“I hate it here,” I tell her, fighting back tears. Just saying the words aloud seems to solidify my stance and make my feelings both official and entrenched.
Suzanne makes a reassuring sound and then offers, “Moving is always tough. Didn’t you hate New York at first?”
“No,” I say, standing over the sink and almost basking in feeling like a downtrodden, taken-for-granted housewife. “New York was an adjustment. I was overwhelmed at first…But I never hated it. Not like this.”
“What’s the problem?” she asks, and for a second, I think she’s being sincere—until she adds, “Is it the doting husband? The huge house? The pool? Your new Audi? Or wait—it’s gotta be the sleeping in late and not having to get up and go to work, right?”
“Hey, wait a second,” I say, feeling spoiled and ungrateful, like a celebrity whining about her lack of privacy, insisting that her life is soo hard. Still, I continue, believing that my feelings are legitimate. “It’s driving me crazy that my agent hasn’t called with anything and I spend my days snapping shots of magnolia trees in our backyard, or of Andy puttering around the house with his toolbox, pretending to be handy…or of the kids on the corner selling lemonade until their nanny glares at me like I’m some kind of child molester…I want to work—”
“But you don’t have to work,” Suzanne says, cutting me off. “There’s a difference. Trust me.”
“I know. I know I’m lucky. I know I should be thrilled—or at least comforted by all of…this,” I say, glancing around my spacious kitchen—with its marble counters, gleaming Viking stove, and wide-planked, cedar floors. “But I just don’t feel right here…It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” she says.
My head fills with a litany of my usual complaints before I settle on a trivial but somehow symbolic anecdote from the night before. I tell her how the little girl next door came over peddling Girl Scout cookies and how irritated I was as I watched Andy labor over the order form as if it were the decision of a lifetime. I imitate him, exaggerating his accent—“Should we get three boxes of Tagalongs and two Thin Mints or two Tagalongs and three Thin Mints?”
“It is a pretty big decision,” Suzanne deadpans.
I ignore her and say, “And then Andy and the little girl’s mother made twenty minutes of small talk about their two degrees of separation—which, apparently, is a lot in this town—and all their mutual acquaintances from Westminster—”
“The one in London?” she asks.
“No. More important than that little ole abbey in England. This Westminster is the most elite private school in Atlanta…in all of the Southeast, my dear.”
Suzanne snickers, and it occurs to me that although she wants me to be happy, on some level she must be relishing this. After all, she told me so, right from the start. You’re an outsider. You’re not one of them. You will never really belong.
“And then,” I say, “when I think it’s finally over, and we can go back to our mindless, numbing television watching—which by the way, feels like all we ever do anymore—the mother prompts her daughter to thank ‘Mr. and Mrs. Graham’ and for one disorienting second, I look over my shoulder for Andy’s parents. Until I realize that I’m Missus Graham.”
“You don’t want to be Missus Graham?” Suzanne asks pointedly.
I sigh. “I don’t want the highlight of my day to be about Thin Mints.”
“Thin Mints are pretty damn good,” Suzanne says. “Particularly if you put them in the freezer.”
“C’mon,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says. “Go on.”
“I don’t know. I just feel so…trapped…isolated.”
“What about Margot?” Suzanne asks.
I consider this
question, feeling torn between a sense of underlying loyalty to my friend and what feels to be the sad truth of the matter—that, despite the fact that I talk to Margot several times a day, I have a slight feeling of estrangement lately, a feeling that began with her reproachful stare down at our going-away party—and has lingered despite our conversation the next day at the airport.
At the time I was grateful for her exoneration, her keeping me in the fold despite my transgression. But now I have the disturbing, chafing sense that she actually believes I owe her and Andy and the entire family so much. That I’m so lucky to be down here, in the thick of the Graham dynasty, and that I can’t possibly miss New York, and that I’m not entitled to have any feelings about anything or anyone if it in any way deviates from their vision, their notion of proper decorum and good values.
What appeals to you the most is the very thing that will drive you crazy, I think—and it’s really true. I used to love how picture-perfect the Grahams’ world was. I admired their wealth, their success, their closeness—how even rebellious James (who finally moved out of his parents’ guest house) manages to show up in church most Sunday mornings, albeit with bloodshot eyes and a distinct aroma of cigarette smoke on his wrinkled khakis. I loved that they all consult with one another before doing things, are fiercely proud of their family name and traditions, and that they all put Stella on a pedestal. I loved that nobody had died or divorced or even disappointed.