“Rumor has it, you had a few too many atthe club?” Peter says, feigning a scandalized tone. “Janey’s very concerned.”
Peter and Joel have been members of the Dogwood Hills Country Club for years, which conveniently allows all the old Atlanta families to pat themselves on the back for being “open-minded.” They are the only club members that I’ve let myself become real friends with—an exception to my general rule. They’re also besties with Janey, which means, of course, that they’re in onallthe gossip.
“I was off the clock,” I say, shrugging. “Tough day.” I put my head down and head resolutely toward the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
“And?” Joel stretches out the word, waiting for me to explain my unprecedented behavior. I’m not exactly one to drink on—or at—the job.
Aunt Edna wanders in, blessedly distracting us from the question that still hangs in the air. Her bejeweled cane sparkles in the sunlight, and a diamond bracelet dangles from her fingertip.
“Come on over here and give your aunt Edna a hand.” She settles on the piano bench and motions for me to sit beside her.
I plop down next to her, and she stares hard at me, studying my face. “What you need, my darling, is a good strong Bloody Mary.” She turns toward Peter, who is back to punching at his tablet as if it’s a touch-tone phone from the 1980s. “Son, go on into that kitchen and make our sweet girl a drink. And while you’re at it, make your mama one, too.”
Peter places his tablet on the side table and dutifully heads to the bar.
“A little hair of the dog will fix you right up,” she says. “Now, help me put this darn thing on. I think the clasp is broken and I’m about to go play bridge with the girls.”
I take Aunt Edna’s bracelet and wrap it around her pudgy wrist as Peter comes back with two Bloody Marys, complete with celery and three olives on a spear.
I accept one from him, admiring its peppery smell, then lift it to my lips. Aunt Edna was right. This is precisely what I need. I quietly nurse my Bloody Mary while she and Peter debate whether it’s really “necessary” that she wear a diamond tennis bracelet to play cards.
“If you must know,” Aunt Edna announces, standing up, “every week that Judy Swanson struts into bridge club with another gorgeous brooch or cocktail ring.” She starts stabbing her cane into the air, which always signifies she means business. “I won’t go having her think I’m some sort of country bumpkin, just because her daddy was a Kentucky coal baron and mine was a lowly horse trainer.”
“No one thinks you’re a country bumpkin,” Joel replies, his voice, as always, even.
My heart aches with affection, watching their banter. I am eternally grateful that the universe placed me and Aidan in the house next door to these three.
It was the day after Thanksgiving, my freshman year of college, when I realized that I would be leaving Mississippi, probably forever. I was eighteen, almost three months pregnant, and terrified. Aidan’s father and I had agreed that we would tell our parents after the club’s annual post-Thanksgiving brunch. I saw him there, but we studiously avoided each other.
After we got home, I broke the news. My father said nothing to me. He stood up from our formal dining table, pushed his chair back, and announced to my mother, “You’ll deal with her messes.” By contrast, my mother said many things, most of them relating to her absolute incredulity that Aidan’s father, thatnice boyfrom such anice family, would have managed to get me, of all people, pregnant.
She finally stood up from the table and began putting away the etched silver serving pieces that we only used on holidays. She was holding a chafing dish when she said it: “We’ll take care of this quickly and discreetly. No need to drag his family into it.”
“Too late,” I replied. “He’s telling them right now.”
“Oh my Lord,” she sighed. “What have you done?”
My mind reeled. Was she planning to take me for an abortion?Was she worried they wouldn’t let me do it? My parents went to church, of course. Everyone in our world went to church. They weren’t particularly religious, though. By contrast to my parents, his parents were super religious, and vocally conservative. They definitely would not be down for an abortion. That’s what I thought, at least.
My mom was putting the chafing dish in the sideboard when I saw him through the dining room window, walking toward our house. He was still wearing the khakis he’d had on at the club, and a checkered blue button-down. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he was looking at his feet. His auburn hair had fallen into his eyes, and he appeared so sweet and innocent that I had a moment of hope. Maybe this would all work out. Maybe he would fling open the door and announce to my father that he loved me and wanted to marry me, and we’d have a lovely, intimate wedding beside a lake somewhere, and I’d wear blush pink. We’d find a cute little condo in Oxford that our parents would pay for, and even though it would be hard, we would both manage to finish school, and then I’d work while he went to medical school and I’d be a doctor’s wife, maybe even become a nurse someday.
My father must have seen him coming, too, because he walked downstairs and greeted Aidan’s father at the door with a shake of hands.
“I’m sorry for what I did, sir,” he said, before even crossing the threshold.
My father gave a brief nod in reply, then stepped into the hallway.
“I talked with my parents, and they think I’m too young. I need to finish school.”
I stared hard at him from across the room, but he couldn’t look at me, or he wouldn’t.
“So we think it probably will be best if she, uh, you know…” He fell silent.
I couldn’t figure out how this was happening.
“If I what?” I said, my question reverberating through the cavernous room. “Say it.”
“Holly,” my mom scolded. “No need to raise your voice.” This was her worry in such a moment: propriety. This was always her worry.
