A Happier Life

19. Keaton Becks and Townsend Style

You’re wearing that?” Harris asks as I walk downstairs in what I have formerly thought is an adorable pink and white linen maxi dress with a tie in the back. He is sitting on the plaid couch in the family room, beer in his hand, as my grandparents’ huge antique TV drones in the background.

I cross my arms, and he looks up. “Well I was wearing this,” I say.

He scrunches his nose. “Don’t you think it’s a little, I don’t know… revealing?”

I can’t help but laugh, mostly because that is such a word our mother would use. “Revealing?” I look down at the dress, which extends to my ankles and up to my collarbone. The back is low, but not super low. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“I just don’t want Bowen to get the wrong idea.”

“There’s no wrong idea. We’re going out with, like, a group of people.” But then I think about what Anderson said. Is Bowen trying to impress me? Because I’m definitely hoping I impress him.

I sit down beside Harris and pick up the remote, which looks like it could incinerate a human with a single click. “You watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show?”

“It seems sort of wrong to watch modern-day programming inside the time capsule.”

“When in the seventies do as the seventies do?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then he sighs.

“What now?”

“It’s just… come on, Keaton. You’re barely out of the Jonathan thing and you’re just jumping in with the next guy.”

“What do you mean? We’ve never even gone out on a date.”

“Fine. But I think you like him. And I think you need to be careful.”

I nod resolutely. “I do like him, Harris. And if I discover that he likes me back, I will be thrilled.”

He just looks at me.

“I think you’re getting a little bit ahead of yourself,” I add.

He shakes his head. “Nope. I saw the way he looked at you. And Anderson’s no fool. That dad of his is about to make a move.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

I smile, and Harris sighs again.

I point at the TV screen. “Do you think things were simpler then?” I look around. “Well… now?”

We laugh, and it feels nice. There’s something about the bond between a brother and sister that can’t ever really be broken, something about the person who has been by your side through every single thing you’ve ever faced. There’s a comfort level with Harris I don’t have with anyone else, an understanding we share about the lives we’ve led that no one else could ever get. But it’s simple moments like this that I love most.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think they had their own share of problems.” He looks down. “Shag carpeting, for starters.”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock at the front door just a few feet away. I scramble up off the couch, but Harris scrambles faster. He pulls the door open, arms crossed, and appraises Bowen. He is wearing what I intuitively know is a new button-down shirt tucked into his jeans, with very, very nice shoes.

Harris is also looking at the shoes, and despite the grief he’s given me, looks begrudgingly impressed.

“Where are you taking my little sister?” he asks. “And what time will you have her home?”

Anderson appears from behind Bowen and says, “Come on, Harris! I’m ready to school you at pool. Does New York City money spend better?”

We all laugh, and I take Bowen’s hand to get him out of there before Harris can ask any more obnoxious questions.

The hand holding is kind of a utilitarian move until Bowen doesn’t drop my hand. And that makes me feel tingly all over. And I realize I’m actually holding hands with a man I find very attractive. But, I remind myself, this is a regular night with our regular group, and I’m turning it into something it isn’t.

“Have you had a good day?” I ask. Bowen nods and smiles at me, heading down the boardwalk.

He is a man of few words, and I’m trying not to let that make me nervous. He turns his head to me. “You are beautiful,” he says.

Not I look beautiful. But I am. It is a small distinction that makes me blush. I don’t know how to answer. Returning the compliment seems forced. Saying thank you seems like I agree with him. So I just pull closer to him as we walk.

“You don’t smell like fish. Not even a little,” I say.

He laughs.

“It’s kind of unsettling, actually.”

We walk down one of the private docks and I spot a Carolina blue and white boat. The R/V Capricorn, which belongs to UNC Marine Sciences. Bowen points to it and says, “Our vessel for the evening.”

I feel myself brighten. “Really? This is awesome. I haven’t gotten to see Beaufort by water yet.”

He helps me step onto the boat, and I’m instantly glad I wore flat sandals. A man is inside the pilothouse, and Bowen waves. “That’s Captain Ron.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You aren’t captaining?”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

I smile and call, “Nice to meet you, Ron!” He waves but doesn’t come out, and I get the feeling he’s trying to stay out of the way.

“Where is everyone else?” I ask.

Bowen looks disappointed. “Well, I thought maybe I could take you on the boat for a little bit and then we’d meet up with them. Is that okay?”

I smile, surprised and delighted. And I’m laughing on the inside too, because… was he too nervous to ask me out? He had to, like, spring a date on me? “Oh, well, I mean, yeah. Yes. That sounds perfect.”

Bowen walks into the pilothouse and reappears with a bottle of white wine tucked under his arm, two glasses, stems between his fingers, and a charcuterie board that I know Black Sheep let him take to go. I wonder if this is his go-to move. But then I remember Anderson saying that Bowen doesn’t really date, and I feel instantly better. Ron pulls the boat away from the dock, and I marvel at the gorgeous sunset. The entire blue sky has turned hot pink and vibrant orange. Bowen hands me a glass of wine and I take a sip, the cold, crisp Sancerre the perfect antidote to this warm, still evening. Bowen sits, and I lean beside him. He points to a cluster of wild horses grazing on the Rachel Carson Reserve as we ride by.

“Two distinct species of horse live on that island,” he says. “And they have never interbred. Not once since they got here hundreds of years ago.”

“Wow,” I say.

A group of egrets sits patiently, stalking fish in a patch of marsh grass. “I’ll take you kayaking in there later if you want,” he says, pointing toward the marsh.

I smile and nod, loving that we’ve just gotten here, and he’s already seeing a next time. But I remind myself to take it slow. Because even though this feels like a date—and Bowen is definitely wearing a date shirt and date shoes—I’m still not totally positive it is one. I don’t want to jinx it, so I’m going with the flow.

“Do you think you’ll always live here?” I ask Bowen, studying him, noticing how comfortable he seems.

He nods. “I really do. It’s a great place for me to work, but more than that, it’s got great people. I always know that Anderson has someone to keep an eye on him. I have friends here, family, your meddling buddies.”

I smile. “They really are something, aren’t they?”

“What about you?”

I shake my head. “I love it here, but I don’t have a job or the hope of finding one imminently. I’m squatting at my grandparents’, but once that sells, I won’t have a place to live. It’s beautiful, and I love feeling like I’m a part of something. But I have to be realistic that it probably isn’t a fit long-term.”

He makes a perfect cracker with jam, cheese, and soppressata and hands it to me. We both half sit, half lean against the side of the boat. “Don’t people basically work remotely now?”

I nod. “I guess. But New York has been my home for so long now and… I don’t know. I know all the reasons I shouldn’t go back to All Welcome, but you were there. You heard Allison’s offer. It’s incredible.”

Bowen rolls his eyes, and I hit him lightly with the back of my hand. “You can’t be serious, Keaton. Allison? She’s just so…” He trails off, but I can fill in the adjectives he’s searching for.

“I know. But, I mean, you’ve only seen this one, admittedly kind of vapid side of her. Sure, she is a little selfish, but she’s also totally brilliant, and she’s believed in me and encouraged me in a way I can’t express. She always makes a big deal out of my ideas—”

“It’s because they’re good ideas,” Bowen interrupts.

I laugh. “You have no idea if they’re good.”

“I know they’re good because they’re your ideas.”

Well now, that is sweet. My face flushes. “I’m just saying, most CEOs aren’t promoting women in their early thirties to the head of their company. She can be tough, but she’s also kind, and she really does want to help people. And I want that too, so it makes sense.”

“Sure, I get that,” Bowen says. “But there are plenty of ways for you to help people right here in Beaufort.”

A pair of dolphins jumps up right by the boat, as if to say, See how great it is here? “I love it,” I admit. “It’s paradise. But there’s no reason for me to stay.”

“No?” he asks, turning toward me. “No reason at all?”

“Well, I mean, I have to finish the house. And I love the Dames. And I have made some friends here.” He’s looking at me intently, and I hear myself babbling. Suddenly, my palms are sweating, and I’m aware of how quickly my heart is beating.

Bowen stands and takes one of my sweaty hands in his, pulling me up. He seems so calm, in contrast to me, whose pulse is pounding wildly. And, by the way he’s looking at me, I think maybe, just maybe, this attraction I feel isn’t one-sided.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stupidly, my mouth suddenly dry.

He studies my face, as if reading it, and puts his hand under my chin. “Giving you a reason to stay.”

Butterflies explode in my chest as his lips meet mine, as he wraps his arms around me. In his kiss, I feel all the things he hasn’t been able to say to me. I don’t want to stop kissing him, but he pulls away, and I look up at him. “You make a compelling argument,” I say, realizing how breathless I am.

“I want you to stay.”

I nod, unable to form words.

He kisses me again so softly that my knees literally go weak—as though, if he weren’t holding me up, I might just slide right down onto the deck. He kisses me tentatively and then longer, deeper.

I actually forget that we are on the water, and I feel disoriented.

He breaks the kiss and grins at me, lightening the intensity. “See,” he says, “Anderson has just gotten really attached to you, and I’m afraid of how he might feel if you leave.”

I laugh. “Anderson, huh?”

He nods and kisses me again.

I take a sip of wine. “Well, Anderson and I have time to get to know each other a little better and figure things out before I make my next career move.”

Bowen eyes me. “Sounds like you’re getting a little too cozy with my son.”

I smack him on the leg, and he laughs, putting his arm around me.

I can’t help but think of my grandparents, of their instant connection—at least, if my grandfather’s journals are to be believed. Is there a chance that Bowen is my Townsend? Could it really be that easy? I don’t know Becks’s side of the story, but there’s just something about the way she preserved all her entertaining details, her recipes, her secrets, that makes me feel confident she was truly happy in life. The more I delve into trying on her day-to-day for size, the more I understand why. I want to know more. I want to do more. I want to carry on this legacy that she began.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly getting an idea. “I found this notebook of my grandmother’s where she kept these super-detailed lists of her dinner party guests and menus and all sorts of other things, like what the guests had in common and questions she planned to ask to keep the conversation flowing.”

“I’m doing well if I can find a clean shirt.”

I smile. “Well, in the spirit of honoring her memory, I was thinking about hosting a party for the ladies and their husbands and Harris, of course, after the Old Homes Tour. Want to come?”

“I’d love it. And how about if I get Anderson to keep Salt at our house so you can focus on getting ready?”

“Can he do that? Stay home alone, I mean?”

Bowen nods. “Well, I mean, we’re right next door.”

“Okay. Well, if you’re sure.”

By the time we’ve had dinner and dessert, I am practically floating. I feel a little guilty about not meeting our friends tonight, but I don’t want to break the spell. As we walk down the dock heading home, I am light-headed and full-on smitten.

Bowen walks me up my front steps, lit only by the moon, and takes me in his arms, kissing me for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, and also the first. I want to take him inside, upstairs, but before I can, the front porch light flips on. “I will kill him,” I say. Harris’s face appears in one door pane, and I pull away when I see Anderson’s in another.

“Do you think they saw us?” Bowen whispers. “Or can we still sneak over to my house?”

We both laugh, because we are not inconspicuous in the least.

“Tonight was perfect,” I say. “I’m sorry it has to end.”

He nods.

As Harris opens the door, Bowen asks, “What should I do to help you get ready for the tour after-party?”

“How about if you come up with the questions?”

“Questions for what?” Harris asks.

“You know how I was telling you about Becks’s party notebook?”

“Yeah.”

“We are having a good, old-fashioned dinner party,” I say. “Becks and Townsend style, complete with one of her menus and table-wide conversation, just how she liked it.”

“I want to come,” Harris says.

“Me too,” Anderson chimes in.

“You are going to dog-sit Salt at our house,” Bowen says.

Anderson looks up at me excitedly. “Really?”

I nod.

“Awesome!”

“And you,” I say to Harris, “are going to help me cook.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how.”

“He’s lying,” I say. “He went to the Culinary Institute of America for a semester while he was finding himself.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

Bowen shakes his head. “Someone’s going to have to help her. She doesn’t know how to cream butter.”

I look at him, aghast. “They told you about that?”

Bowen just smiles, and Harris says, “Fine. I’ll cook.”

“But we’re cooking things from Becks’s notebook,” I add.

When Anderson has run home and Harris has gone upstairs, Bowen and I sneak one more kiss under the stars, and everything inside me feels soft and puddly with how much I adore him. He makes me think that maybe I could stay here, that maybe I could make a new life, a happier life.

I know tomorrow is going to be really busy with the tour, and I want this table set like it’s ready for one of Becks’s famous dinner parties when people walk in the door. So after Bowen leaves, in my dreamy wine-and-kiss-fueled glee, I put a record on my grandparents’ old hi-fi, wondering what it must have felt like living in this beautiful house when my grandparents were here. I pull a large linen tablecloth out of the closet and spread it delicately on the wooden table, which I have polished to perfection. As I pull my grandmother’s chargers out of the corner cupboard and set one at each place, I think of the friends she must have had around this table, the friends I have made here in such a short time. I open a box that holds the most delicate, beautiful mother-of-pearl-handled dessert forks and knives and decide to use these beside the dessert plates. And, as the Carpenters sing the opening lines of “We’ve Only Just Begun,” I think of who will be sitting beside me at this table. Bowen. This man who needs me in his life. This man who, although we’ve only just begun, wants me to stay.