Chapter 25 #2
Moira Allyson had managed to stay sober for a whole year—precisely 365 days—not taking a single sip of alcohol since last
year’s birthday weekend. Whenever she felt the overwhelming urge to drink, she would lean on God and her friends and even
her boys for support.
Moira praised the Lord that she and her boys had mended their fractured relationship.
Brent, still deep into his premed program at Vanderbilt, made it a point to call her often, their conversations longer with each passing week.
Bradford came home from the University of Georgia for several weeks during the summer, eager to spend quality time with his mom.
They cooked together, took walks, and talked about their life with Jeffrey.
They also talked about the hopeful future.
Bradford was sure that after he graduated from UGA next year, he wanted to return home and take over Allyson Supply.
Moira didn’t just have her sobriety—she had her family back.
Through the Celebrate Recovery program at Oglethorpe Church, she started up relationships with people she could reach out
to during vulnerable moments. One of those friends was Dr. David Marlow, who had been sober for seven years and shared her
faith in the Lord. He also thought Moira was beautiful.
Dr. Marlow was a widower whose wife had died of cancer ten years earlier. Like Moira, he drank heavily to numb his sadness
and didn’t believe he would ever find love again. What began as a friendship—going to the movies, enjoying steaks at local
restaurants, drinking sweet tea with lemon under her favorite live oak—soon developed into something unexpected. In Moira’s
presence, Dr. Marlow felt his heart, once hardened by grief, gradually begin to soften. Similarly, Moira started to believe
she could love again too—not in the same way she had loved her dear Jeffrey, but in a new way, a different way.
A few months into her relationship with the handsome salt-and-pepper-haired David, Moira stood under the bright lights of her bathroom vanity, her heart anxious and her mind racing with sad but determined thoughts.
It was finally time for her to confront the reminders of her late husband.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for his toothbrush, which was still sitting by the sink, along with his watch and shaving kit.
As she carefully placed everything into a rubber tote, she felt a bittersweet sense of relief.
It was a small but significant step forward.
It wasn’t about erasing memories but rather about moving on.
She didn’t love Jeffrey any less, even though he was gone.
Love didn’t vanish with people. It just changed shape.
She turned her attention to the closet, where Jeffrey’s clothes were still hanging. Slowly she began to pull out his fancy
suits, favorite shirts, comfortable jeans, and the casual jacket he always wore on chilly nights by the firepit in the backyard.
She neatly folded each item and placed it into a cardboard box to take to the local donation center. As she checked the pockets,
she found hard candies, peppermints, scraps of paper, and crumpled tissues. It was emotionally exhausting as she remembered
times and places associated with each piece of clothing. Even after all his clothes were boxed up, the closet still held his
scent, causing tears to well up in her blue eyes. It felt as if she was packing away parts of her heart, but she knew this
was a necessary step toward healing.
Later that same day, as she cleared off the desk piled high with Jeffrey’s papers and keepsakes, Erin came in, took her hands,
and led her in a beautiful prayer. Together, they thanked God for the love Moira and Jeffrey had shared and asked that Moira
continue to be surrounded by joy, and even excitement, for the new beginnings, the new plans, that the Lord was preparing
for her.
That same night Moira had the most vivid, lifelike dream. In it, she was in the courtyard, standing barefoot on the damp grass,
with the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. The fountain bubbled behind her, and the moonlight made everything glow in silver.
The crepe myrtle rustled in the wind, and then Jeffrey appeared.
Moira couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Her throat felt tight, and her body froze at the sight of him. He flashed that same smile that had undone her a thousand times before—the same one that had swept her off her feet back at the fraternity house in ?92.
“You always get that look when you’re overthinking,” he said softly while stepping closer to her. “It’s the same look you
had when you bought that awful red couch.”
She laughed lightly and finally said, “I miss you.”
He reached out, and his hand took hers.
“It feels like I’m leaving you behind,” she admitted.
“No,” he responded tenderly. “You’re not.”
He stepped around to face her completely, the moonlight illuminating him, making him look almost angelic.
“I was yours, Moira, and you were mine. That will never change. But if he’s good to you, if he makes you laugh . . . if he
sees you the way I did, then it’s okay to be his now.”
She blinked back tears. “But what if it changes how I remember you?”
“It won’t,” he replied. “Don’t waste your future on our past. It gave you all it could.”
And just like that, the silvery light shifted and Jeffrey was gone.
Moira woke up with the smell of jasmine still in her hair and the feeling of his hand still in hers. For the first time in
a long while, she didn’t cry. She simply breathed and allowed herself to wonder what might come next.
“Happy birthday, Moira Allyson,” Celia Kate said while she held up the Mason jar of pink punch. “You’re even more beautiful
than you were last year!”
“Hear, hear,” Nell answered, also lifting her drink.
“Hear, hear!” Erin repeated.
“I’m just thankful you survived another year with those homicidal fleabags.” Gemma nodded to the white cats at the shore.
The five of them sat under the broad, reaching arms of the live oak, its limbs swaying just enough to catch the afternoon
light. The sun was low, spilling gold across the Ogeechee River as it wound through the marshes. In the stillness, only the
sound of cicadas and the occasional splash of a mullet jumping broke the quiet.
Nell had kicked off her shoes, her legs tucked under her, a jar of tangy punch cradled in both hands. Celia Kate was leaning
back, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, closing her eyes behind her tortoiseshell sunglasses as she slowly sipped her
drink. Moira’s laugh came soft, directed at something Gemma had just said. Gemma, ever the storyteller, twirled the straw
in her jar, the ice clinking gently. Erin, quiet for now, gazed out over the marsh, her expression a peaceful look of rest.
Each woman sitting there was an improved version of the person she had been a year earlier, no longer grappling with fear
and longing for faith. Because of the gracious Author of joy, the sweet support they provided each other, and a soul-nurturing
weekend on Allyson Island, everything had changed.
Their jars of sweet-and-tart pink liquid caught the light and glowed like the stained glass windows at Oglethorpe Church.
No one was in a rush to speak. No one was in a rush to leave. The river, the oak, the marsh, and the friends—they’d all stay
a while longer.