A Happier Life

11. Keaton The Popular Table

I am fully aware that I have been a workaholic over the past few years. Maybe that’s part of what made my relationship with Jonathan work while it did: We were both married to our jobs. Now that I’ve had a little time away I know I don’t want to go back to a job that I eat, sleep, and breathe, but I also don’t want to get totally off schedule. Which is why I’m in the dust-and-cobweb-filled detached garage poking at bicycle tires at six forty-five in the morning. Everyone here—like, seriously, everyone—rides bikes. And, as I’m trying to embrace life more, I think I’d like to try it out, see what it’s like. Anyone could see that these bikes are mostly dry-rotted, but I select a pink one that seems the least rusty, locate a dust-covered pump, and attempt to put air in the tires while Salt looks at me skeptically.

“This is going to be fun!” I say. “I’ll put you on your leash, you can get a good run in, and we can ride over to Les Ciseaux and get fresh pastries.”

He tilts his head and wags his tail when I say “leash.” It’s his second favorite word after “chicken.” Ten minutes later, I have wiped the bike down, wrapped Salt’s leash around my wrist, and we are making our way down Sunset Lane. I’m a little teetery from a combination of my less-than-ideal bike and the fact that I haven’t ridden one in ten years. I was nervous about how Salt would do, but this is working out pretty well overall. He is matching the bike’s pace as I admire the sunlight gleaming on the waterfront. Horses graze on the Rachel Carson Reserve, which I have a beautiful view of from the Dockhouse each morning with the ladies, and, as if putting on a show just for me, a pod of dolphin swims my same path down Taylor Creek, jumping every few minutes. They seem to be playing—or dancing. And I wonder if I am actually in heaven. “Look at us, Salt!” I exclaim. “Riding a bike is kind of a hobby, right?”

I turn left onto Queen Street and join the line for the small bakery that produces delicious authentic French pastries. The man in front of me, who I do not recognize, leans down and says, “Hi, Salt!”

It’s uncanny. Everyone in town knows his name. He smiles at me and says, “I hear there’s pain au chocolat today.”

“Yes!” I say, feeling an anxious bubble rise. There are four people in front of me so they could easily run out of my favorite pastry by the time I get there. Fortunately, they don’t. As I take my place inside the small vestibule in front of the counter, inhaling the scent of coffee and fresh bread, I order two pain au chocolat—one for me and one for Anderson, obviously—two croissants for Salt and me for breakfast tomorrow, and a baguette. Because what is chicer than a baguette peeking out of your bike basket? I mean, honestly.

The man behind the counter who I know is also the baker says, with a heavy French accent, “All of this for today?”

I feel so ashamed that, for a moment, I can’t answer until he adds, “I do not like anyone to eat day-old bread” and winks at me.

I laugh and pay him.

As I get back on the bike, situate the leash loosely around my wrist, and turn toward home, I make a note to ask Anderson where I should get new bike tires. I am pedaling like I’m riding through sand.

Despite the slow going, I manage until, less than a block from the house, a squirrel leaps out in front of my bike. I slam the brakes hard, stopping abruptly, and miss the squirrel. At the exact same time, Salt practically leaps in the air and starts running toward it at top speed, yanking my arm and almost pulling me off the seat in the process. “Salt, no!” I yell, pedaling again because my balance is too precarious to pull on Salt’s leash and make him stop. “Salt, no!” He’s zigging and zagging, and I almost topple over more than once. Everything but the baguette is tucked down in the basket, and I’m perhaps more preoccupied than I should be with trying to keep my chic bread from meeting its demise on the asphalt.

Even in my panic, I could swear this is the same squirrel that tried to give me a heart attack in my kitchen.

I hear Bowen’s voice yelling, “Drop the leash!” before I see him emerge from the cluster of trees that line his driveway. “Keaton! Drop the leash!”

Drop the leash.But I can’t drop the leash. What if the dog gets hit by a car?

“I’ll get Salt!” he yells. At what feels like the last second before I am going to flip over the handlebars, I manage to unloop the leash from my wrist and right myself. With that, Bowen sprints into the street and steps on Salt’s leash, yanking him back from the squirrel. I am sweating, my heart is pounding, and now I’m worried all the force has hurt the dog. But the second Salt sees Bowen, he jumps on him like the squirrel never existed. I lay the bike on the sidewalk, tucking my baguette under my arm and retrieving my bag of other goodies, still panting.

“Keaton,” Bowen says, “are you kidding me? You don’t ride a bike with an animal.”

I am sheepish, but, gosh, this man loves to scold me. He wraps the leash around his wrist, and I’m surprised when he puts his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I realize I’m shaking as he squeezes my shoulder, steadying me. “You’re okay,” he whispers.

I look up at him, into those eyes that I could swim in. I’m shocked by how comforted I feel by him right now. I’m surprised that I don’t want him to let me go.

“Dad!” comes a yell from the direction of his house. “Dad! Where are you?”

Bowen releases his hold on me—physically, but maybe not mentally—as Anderson, who I have really adored until this particular moment, appears at the end of the driveway. “Salt!” he yells.

Bowen drops the leash, and Salt bounds toward Anderson in that friendly way that brings out his golden retriever side. (I have to think the pain in the ass that nearly killed me earlier is his poodle side.)

“Thank you,” I say to Bowen. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

He smiles. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

I shake my head, trying to calm my still rapidly beating heart. “Can you believe I could even get one of those old bikes to go?”

He shakes his head. “That was one of my old bikes. I stored it in Becks and Townsend’s garage since I don’t have one. I hope that’s okay…” He pauses. “Trust me, 1970s tires wouldn’t pump.” He walks back across the street, toward Anderson. “Let Salt in the fence,” I hear him say.

I can’t help myself. I watch him walk away. And my pulse picks back up when he looks over his shoulder at me one more time. “Oh! Oh! Anderson!” I run up behind him and he turns. I rummage through the paper bag, and his eyes widen because he knows something good is inside. “Pain au chocolat,” I say, grinning as I hand it to him.

“Yes! Keaton, you’re the best!”

Bowen smiles, and he’s so cute I nearly drop my baguette. “You sure know the way to a man’s heart,” he says.

Although I know he was talking about Anderson, I can’t stop thinking about Bowen all day, as I scrub cobwebs out of kitchen cabinets and even manage to put an entire box of items in the “giveaway” pile. Somewhere around organizing the Tupperware cabinet filled with mismatched pieces in orange, green, and mustard yellow, it occurs to me that Bowen’s “old bike,” the pink one with the banana seat and the basket, must have been Anderson’s mom’s. I wonder what it means that he hasn’t given it away, that he has kept it in storage all this time. I decide it’s a good time to break for dinner, so I can take my mind off it.

I haven’t cooked in years, but ever since I started flipping through Becks’s notebook, I’ve had the urge to try. And her first recipe for chicken salad looks pretty easy, even for a total novice like me.

Earlier in the day, I went down to Beaufort Ace—in the car, lesson learned—where a very friendly woman helped me. “Do you have a ‘large fryer’?” I asked.

She led me over to a shiny deep fryer. I looked from the machine to her and back again. “This not what you want?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m trying to make my grandmother’s chicken salad, and it says you need a large fryer.”

I handed her the notebook, and I’ll give her credit, she tried really hard not to laugh. “Sweetheart, a large fryer is a chicken.” She paused and said, gently, “But maybe you should just substitute with two pounds of chicken breast.”

I wanted to be offended that she didn’t think I could handle a whole chicken, but, well… I was Amelia Bedelia. So I took her advice. The part about boiling the chicken and removing the skin and bones was just too much for me, anyway. So, instead, I dump the pack of chicken into an ancient silver pot with worn black handles, water sloshing everywhere, wash my hands, and cut up the two “ribs” of celery and one small onion with a knife that is still surprisingly sharp. I also presume that Becks made her sweet pickle cubes from scratch. Mine are from a jar. I smile when I read Becks’s note at the bottom of the recipe: I do not use hard-boiled eggs, for it takes away from the taste of the chicken. Most people use eggs, but I have found it tastier without them.

I wash my hands again, clean up my area, and wait for my chicken to boil. I realize that my growling stomach is not going to accommodate the time it’s going to take for this chicken to cool. The idea of mixing mayonnaise into hot chicken makes me want to gag, so, instead, I cut the chicken up once it’s cooked, mix the veggies in, and decide to put it in the fridge and finish it tomorrow. Chicken salad is really a better lunch anyway, right? So, no, this didn’t go perfectly. But it was a start and, regardless, I feel very accomplished.

I opt for a bowl of cereal for dinner instead and am sitting at the breakfast table, thinking how very different my life is here than my life back home. Well, my life in New York. Did it ever feel like home? Thinking about New York makes me think about Jonathan… And my phone is right here, so I decide to just check his Insta profile, super quickly, even though I know he barely ever posts and that, if he does, there is like a ninety percent chance Allison or one of her minions has done it for him. I kind of feel sorry for him. She sucked him back in, and he’d gone willingly. But I’ll give it to the woman: She has that power over people. And not just over the ones she is having sex with.

As if he senses me stalking him, my phone lights up with a message from Jonathan for the first time in three days. I have yet to text him back. But how does one even respond to an apology text from her ex about impregnating his ex while you are still dating? I mean, it’s too absurd. And mortifying. I have felt too furious and embarrassed to even formulate a response. Plus, honestly, I haven’t forgiven him. Not yet. I raise the spoon to my mouth and then set it back down. I am angry, sure. But not raw, vulnerable, or heartbroken.

And, well, that makes me sad. Where was my heartbreak? Had I felt devastated when our relationship ended, even before this fiasco? Sad it hadn’t worked out, sure. Wallowing in my faults and flaws, maybe. But never devastated.

I sigh and read Jonathan’s text: I’m going to give you your space because I know it isn’t fair for how we proceed to be on my terms, but please know I’m here when you want to talk. I really am sorry. I know it didn’t work out between us for other reasons, but there is still no excuse for what I did.

It’s a nice text. The next one is something closer to comical.

Allison and I would really like to fix this. Please let us know how we can accommodate your best transition back into us all working together.

“Fat chance, buddy,” I say out loud. That is when I realize Salt isn’t at my feet. And I haven’t left him in the yard. As if on cue, he starts barking in the living room. “Salt!” I call.

He is sitting at the foot of the couch, looking directly at its center, barking furiously. A creepy feeling washes over me.

“What’s the matter, buddy?”

I look under the couch, on it, behind it, over it.

“Salt,” I say, “there’s nothing there.”

“Nothing you can see,” a voice behind me says, making me scream.

I turn, hand on my heart. “Anderson, you are going to give me a heart attack. You have to knock!”

He looks confused. “Why?”

“Because in New York someone who randomly walks in your house is probably there to strangle you.”

I realize this is another thing on a long list of things one should not say to a child.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, standing just inside the doorway. “I’m just going to my sleepover, and I wanted to see if you needed anything before I went.”

Now I feel bad because that is so adorable I can’t stand it. “Hey, want some cereal before you go?”

“What kind?”

“Lucky Charms.” I make a mental note to buy something green the next time I hit the store.

Anderson looks down at my full bowl. “Wait. Are you having Lucky Charms for dinner? Aren’t you supposed to be a grown-up?”

“Supposed to be,” I say as I fill a bowl for Anderson, who starts eating so ferociously it’s somewhat alarming. “But it hasn’t quite taken.” He shoots me a thumbs-up as he slurps.

“Hey, does your dad know you’re here?” I ask between his crunches.

He points to his mouth like it’s too full for him to answer, which is a hard no.

“Anderson!” I scold.

A light rap on the back door is followed by Bowen’s voice. “Keaton!”

“Come in!” I call.

I raise my eyebrow at Anderson, and he looks guilty.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I was just asking your son if you knew he stopped by.”

He looks at Anderson. “Why aren’t you at your sleepover? I thought when I said you could walk that meant you were going straight there.”

He gives Bowen a knowing look and gestures toward me like, Duh. Someone has to check on her.

“I’m okay, Anderson, but thank you.”

He sighs dramatically as he gets up. “If you need help with the ghosts, you know where to find me.”

Bowen looks at me curiously as Anderson walks past us. “Hey,” Anderson says, picking up the notepad by the phone. “What does this mean?”

“What does what mean?”

I turn as Anderson reads, “There’s a place that I know, it has called out to me, where the sea meets the sky, and the sky meets the sea.”

I look down at the notepad in his hands, resisting the urge to tell him to put it down. “Huh. I don’t know.” I’ve read enough now to know that it is my grandfather’s handwriting. “My grandfather liked to write. Probably just something he scribbled.” Before he died in a tragic, unsolved accident. But before I can ponder further, the phone on the wall rings, Salt starts barking again, and Anderson says, “See you tomorrow!”

I’m not going to answer the phone with Bowen standing right there. It is certainly a spam call, right? But, well, it is so insistent, and I want to feel what it’s like to talk on an old-timey corded phone. I put my finger up to Bowen and answer, “Hello?”

“Wow! I haven’t called this number in forty years!”

“Hi, Uncle Lon,” I say, smiling at his voice.

“How’s it coming?”

“Well, kind of slow.” I wrap the phone cord around my finger and smile at Bowen. “But I’m putting the house on tour.”

“You’re doing what?” Lon and Bowen ask at the same time.

“Yeah, I thought it would be good to get some foot traffic before we put it on the market. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

Lon says, “Keaton, you can’t show people the house before it’s in perfect shape. That’s a terrible idea,” right as Bowen says, “You let those ladies talk you into that? Come on, Keaton. Be smarter. Next thing you know you’ll be chairing the parade committee.”

“Who is that?” Lon asks.

“My neighbor,” I say, taking in Bowen’s jeans, cowboy boots, and button-down. He is freshly shaven, and his hair is clean but tousled. My hot, hot neighbor.

“Is this tour thing going to stop your progress?” Lon asks. “Are you throwing things away?”

“Honestly, Lon, I’m not making much progress. I can’t bring myself to do it. But I can’t think that the tour will be a problem. There’s so much to do here. It might actually help bring in potential buyers.” I look at Bowen. “Hey, I’ll call you later, okay? We can go over the plans for the house when I’m less… busy.”

I hang up. “Sorry. My uncle.”

“Keaton, you can’t just say yes to everything everyone wants from you all the time.”

This strikes me as funny since this man doesn’t know me at all. He looks down at my cereal bowl. “That’s not a proper dinner.” He pauses as if considering something. “I’m going to get wings at Stillwater. Come with me.”

I want to be cool, to be less eager to follow him basically anywhere, but, well, here we are. “Okay,” I say.

“What did I just say?” he says. “You can’t do everything everyone wants all the time.”

I smile. “I heard you. But wings trump cereal. So…”

He smiles too. Salt rushes to him, jumping up.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Down, Salt!”

He listens… Well, not at all. Bowen rubs his head and his ears. “Hey, buddy. You’re just excited to see me, aren’t you?”

I kiss his little furry head and say, “I’ll see you soon. Be good. Don’t eat the couch. Do scare away the ghosts.”

We walk across the street and get situated at the outdoor bar under the covered porch area of a restaurant right across the street labeled “Front Street Grill.” I make a note that, to the locals, this is “Stillwater.” I order wings and champagne. Bowen orders wings and beer.

“Wings and champagne?” he asks when the bartender leaves.

“Everything and champagne,” I say.

He nods. “So what brings you to Beaufort?”

“Well, the house,” I say, as if that’s obvious.

Bowen eyes me. “So what brings you to Beaufort?”

I laugh. “Am I that transparent?”

“Nah. It’s just that house has been empty for almost fifty years, so… Forgive me for assuming you’re fleeing, but, well, I get the feeling you are fleeing.”

“Just the vibe I was hoping to give off.”

I fill him in on Allison and Jonathan and my job and the whole sad story. I don’t know why I’m spilling my guts to this stranger, but I guess it’s mainly because after the house is sold I’ll probably never see him again.

Our drinks arrive and he says, “Well, cheers to fake assholes getting their comeuppance.”

“I like that. Cheers.” We clink our glasses and each take a sip. “They want me to come back,” I say. “Which makes me happy, because I feel like they probably can’t run the company without me.”

“And will you go?” Bowen asks.

“The obvious answer is of course not, but the honest answer is that it wouldn’t be completely off the table. I love my work there; I love my team. I’m mad at Jonathan for cheating on me, but we broke up a month before I knew anyway, so do I even have a right to be mad?”

Bowen stops, his beer inches from his mouth. “Uh, yeah. He impregnanted his ex-wife while you were together. You get to be mad about that.”

I smile. “Okay, thanks. But I’d already come to terms with the fact that, as much as I wanted to, I didn’t actually love Jonathan. He is, like, the guy I should want to marry.”

“But you don’t want to marry him.”

I laugh. “Well, certainly not now.”

“No, I get it,” he says. “Which is why I haven’t dated much in the years since my ex split—”

“Your ex split?” I ask casually.

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that. You have breakfast with the gossip squad every morning. I know you know about my ex. I know you know every person in this town’s entire bag of dirty laundry.”

The champagne bubbles tickle my throat, and I give him my most gleeful expression. “I do! I totally do! It’s so awesome to be at the popular table.”

“So I don’t need to tell you about my sparse failed dating attempts. You probably already know.”

I shake my head, wondering how he has failed relationships. I mean, he’s stony. But, after Jonathan the king of feelings, I don’t hate that about him. Not that this is a date. Obviously not. “I actually don’t know, but how about this: I won’t show you mine if you won’t show me yours.”

He laughs. “That sounds like a really good plan.”

The bartender sets down the wings, and Bowen orders us two more drinks. I’m kind of self-conscious that my hot neighbor is going to see me with sauce all over my face, but he dives in with such gusto I decide I don’t care.

“You have the cutest kid in the world,” I say, changing the subject.

He wipes his mouth with one hand, holding a wing in the other. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he has already met his first great love.”

“Aw, really. Who?”

“You!” he says, laughing.

I laugh too. “No. He’s just really protective of me. It’s so sweet. He’s going to be a very good man. You can just tell.”

“Well, thanks for saying that, because sometimes it feels touch-and-go. I’m sure you know that I’ve had him alone since the day he came home from the hospital. I wouldn’t have survived it without Violet, Arlene, Betty, and Suzanne.”

I take a sip. “Bet they don’t let you forget it either.”

“Not for a minute. But my parents were both working at the time, and I obviously have a job, so I don’t know what I would have done without them during Anderson’s early years.”

It occurs to me that I don’t know what his job is. From the build and look of him, he seems like he’d either be a hot fireman or a hot handyman—although I guess neither of those involve a boat and I know he works on a boat. Or a boat handyman or water fireman. (Was that a thing?) I almost don’t want to ask in case he isn’t one of those things. I don’t want to ruin it. But now it seems weird not to ask. I sigh. “What do you do?”

He examines me. “I don’t have to tell you if it’s so odious to uncover my basic life details.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to be so dramatic.”

“I work for UNC Marine Sciences. I’m a marine biologist.”

“That’s a real thing?” I ask, only half kidding.

“What?”

“Well, you know, it’s like every kid’s dream. They either want to be a ballerina, an astronaut, or a marine biologist. It’s almost like it isn’t a real job.”

“Well, then,” he says, taking another big bite of wing, “I guess you could say I’m living the dream.”

He grins, and I raise my thumb to the corner of my mouth, indicating that he has a huge blob of sauce on his.

He reddens slightly and wipes his mouth. “Note to self: Never eat wings in front of a beautiful woman.”

It takes me a minute to realize he means me. He thinks I’m a beautiful woman?

I shake my head. “Let me tell you, Bowen. The trick is to be who you are, eat what you like, laugh too loud, have opinions too big, from the very beginning. Then people know what they’re in for from the jump.”

“So that’s the trick, huh?” he says.

I nod.

“So, Keaton, what’s your biggest, most controversial opinion these days? Lay it on me.”

Without even thinking, I say something I haven’t even realized yet—at least, not consciously. “I have this weird feeling that my grandparents’ death wasn’t an accident.”

It’s only once I say it out loud that I start to believe it’s true.