Honestly!
“I do not regret it,” Birdie said.
“Sure you do.”
“I do not regret raising our children. And for many years, I didn’t regret marrying you.”
“You regretted being hemmed in to a certain life,” Grant said. “You wished your life had contained more than PTA open houses and garden club. I do listen when you talk, Bird.”
Infuriating. He was playacting now, trying to fudge the exam when he hadn’t read the book. “Well, this will come as a surprise to you, I’m sure, but I’m not exactly dead yet. In fact, I’m dating someone.”
“Congratulations,” Grant said.
He was so patronizing. Birdie chastised herself for telling him. Her love life was none of his business, and no reaction—not even one of jealousy, which would have been disingenuous—would have satisfied her. Dating Hank was a source of private delight; to make it public would poison it.
“So anyway,” Birdie said, “there are the matters of the wedding arrangements. I assume you’d like me to try to get your deposits back?”
“Yes, please,” Grant said.
“All I can do is try,” Birdie said. She had half a mind to simply let Grant’s cash sink to the bottom of the ocean, but his money was her money, and wasting it was foolish. “And Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Call your daughter, please.”
“And say what?”
“What do you think?” Birdie said. “Tell her you love her.”
In the days and weeks that followed, Birdie had a hard time reaching Chess. When she called Chess at work, she was stonewalled by Chess’s assistant, Erica, who claimed that Chess was no longer accepting personal calls at work.
“But she’s there, right?” Birdie said. “She’s alive?”
“Affirmative,” Erica said.
When Birdie tried Chess’s cell phone, she was inevitably shuttled to voice mail, where her messages stacked up like newspapers in the driveway of someone who had moved away.
“Call me,” Birdie said. “I’m worried.”
Birdie sought refuge in conversations with her daughter Tate. Birdie didn’t love Tate any more than she loved Chess, but Tate was easier.
“Have you talked to your sister?” Birdie asked.
“A couple of times,” Tate said. “Mostly I just leave messages.”
“Oh, good,” Birdie said. “I thought I was alone in that.”
“You know I’d never leave you alone, Mama,” Tate said.
Tate—Elizabeth Tate Cousins—was, at the age of thirty, a computer genius who was flown in by the biggest companies in America to fix glitches in their systems. She had such specialized knowledge and expertise that she was able to call her own shots: She wore jeans to even the swankiest workplaces, she worked with her iPod blaring Bruce Springsteen at top decibel, she ate lunches of tuna fish sandwiches and creamy tomato-basil soup from Panera and, in cities where there was no Panera, from Cosi. She demanded an astronomical fee.
“Where are you today?” Birdie asked. Technically, Tate lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, a place that Birdie didn’t understand. It was a “new” city, known as a banking capital. Charlotte was the first place Tate had worked on assignment, and she had spontaneously plunked down money on a condo in a complex that had a beautiful swimming pool and a state-of-the-art fitness center.
Why Charlotte? Birdie had asked.
And Tate said, Because it was there.
There had been a period of time in junior high school when Tate had dressed like a boy. She had worn jeans and a boy’s white undershirt and a red bandanna wrapped around her wrist or her ankle; she had cut her hair very short, spiking it some days and slicking it back on others. She even sounded like a teenage boy; she was constantly making flip remarks. She had been caught engraving the lyrics to “Darlington County” into a desk at school, and when asked why, she had shrugged and said, Because it was there. Birdie had wanted Tate to see a therapist, but the guidance counselors at school assured Birdie that Tate was
“I do not regret it,” Birdie said.
“Sure you do.”
“I do not regret raising our children. And for many years, I didn’t regret marrying you.”
“You regretted being hemmed in to a certain life,” Grant said. “You wished your life had contained more than PTA open houses and garden club. I do listen when you talk, Bird.”
Infuriating. He was playacting now, trying to fudge the exam when he hadn’t read the book. “Well, this will come as a surprise to you, I’m sure, but I’m not exactly dead yet. In fact, I’m dating someone.”
“Congratulations,” Grant said.
He was so patronizing. Birdie chastised herself for telling him. Her love life was none of his business, and no reaction—not even one of jealousy, which would have been disingenuous—would have satisfied her. Dating Hank was a source of private delight; to make it public would poison it.
“So anyway,” Birdie said, “there are the matters of the wedding arrangements. I assume you’d like me to try to get your deposits back?”
“Yes, please,” Grant said.
“All I can do is try,” Birdie said. She had half a mind to simply let Grant’s cash sink to the bottom of the ocean, but his money was her money, and wasting it was foolish. “And Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Call your daughter, please.”
“And say what?”
“What do you think?” Birdie said. “Tell her you love her.”
In the days and weeks that followed, Birdie had a hard time reaching Chess. When she called Chess at work, she was stonewalled by Chess’s assistant, Erica, who claimed that Chess was no longer accepting personal calls at work.
“But she’s there, right?” Birdie said. “She’s alive?”
“Affirmative,” Erica said.
When Birdie tried Chess’s cell phone, she was inevitably shuttled to voice mail, where her messages stacked up like newspapers in the driveway of someone who had moved away.
“Call me,” Birdie said. “I’m worried.”
Birdie sought refuge in conversations with her daughter Tate. Birdie didn’t love Tate any more than she loved Chess, but Tate was easier.
“Have you talked to your sister?” Birdie asked.
“A couple of times,” Tate said. “Mostly I just leave messages.”
“Oh, good,” Birdie said. “I thought I was alone in that.”
“You know I’d never leave you alone, Mama,” Tate said.
Tate—Elizabeth Tate Cousins—was, at the age of thirty, a computer genius who was flown in by the biggest companies in America to fix glitches in their systems. She had such specialized knowledge and expertise that she was able to call her own shots: She wore jeans to even the swankiest workplaces, she worked with her iPod blaring Bruce Springsteen at top decibel, she ate lunches of tuna fish sandwiches and creamy tomato-basil soup from Panera and, in cities where there was no Panera, from Cosi. She demanded an astronomical fee.
“Where are you today?” Birdie asked. Technically, Tate lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, a place that Birdie didn’t understand. It was a “new” city, known as a banking capital. Charlotte was the first place Tate had worked on assignment, and she had spontaneously plunked down money on a condo in a complex that had a beautiful swimming pool and a state-of-the-art fitness center.
Why Charlotte? Birdie had asked.
And Tate said, Because it was there.
There had been a period of time in junior high school when Tate had dressed like a boy. She had worn jeans and a boy’s white undershirt and a red bandanna wrapped around her wrist or her ankle; she had cut her hair very short, spiking it some days and slicking it back on others. She even sounded like a teenage boy; she was constantly making flip remarks. She had been caught engraving the lyrics to “Darlington County” into a desk at school, and when asked why, she had shrugged and said, Because it was there. Birdie had wanted Tate to see a therapist, but the guidance counselors at school assured Birdie that Tate was
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