Chapter 8 Holly
My phone dings with the sound I’ve reserved just for Aidan’s texts. Against my body’s will, I roll over in bed and fumble to pick it up.
Hippopotamus?
I smile, scrolling down to see the photo Aidan’s attached. It’s of the foam on his morning latte, which I know he made in his dorm room with the fancy espresso machine my co-workers pitched in to buy him as a high school graduation gift.
ME
Hmmm. I’m feeling rhino. Note the pointy horn. Or maybe, actually, jackhammer on second glance?
Aidan
I see it! Def jackhammer.
Ugh. Like my pounding head.
ME
Glad we agree on the essential things.
I manage to reply, despite my blurred vision. Is this a hangover? Oh God. I think it is.
The last time I had a hangover was seven years ago—after way too many mojitos at Irma’s wedding.
I’m not feeling quite as rough as I did that morning, but still, my mouth is parched and sticky, and I need a Tylenol—or four.
I haul myself to the edge of my bed, sit up, chug some water, then text Aidan.
ME
What has you out of bed so early?
Aidan
Calc midterm monday
ME
Right! Good luck jackhammering the info into that brain of yours. I’m sure you’ll demolish the exam.
Aidan
Ur such a nerd
ME
Takes one to know one.
Aidan
Love you, ma. I’ll call later?
ME
Yup. I’m here. Love you back.
I drop my phone onto my bedside table, feeling quite smug that I’ve raised the sort of son who wakes up early on weekends to study—and can make his own fancy coffee.
I taught him the summer before his sophomore year of high school.
My lessons came with an extensive economics calculation, comparing his hourly wage at the ice cream shop to the cost of a latte from the fancy coffeehouse around the corner.
He’s a fast learner, and even more of a penny-pincher than me (which is saying something).
He quickly mastered the skill and took over our morning coffee routine.
Somehow, when he makes my coffee, it always tastes better. Plus, he’s quite the foam artist.
Even though I miss him desperately, I also love imagining Aidan waking up in his dorm and then making his morning cappuccino just the way he likes it. What if it all goes away? What if Griggs Johnson follows through with his threat?
I desperately need a distraction—and some good, strong coffee. I know just where to go.
After throwing on sweatpants and a ratty old cardigan, brushing my teeth, and downing a couple of Tylenol, I head downstairs and out the back door, then cut across my yard and through the gate onto Joel and Peter’s impeccably manicured lawn.
They’re my next-door neighbors, and also my landlords.
But none of these descriptors captures what they—and Peter’s mom, whom I affectionately call Aunt Edna—mean to me.
The three of them are perhaps the most generous people I have ever encountered.
Their actions remind me every day that it’s possible to both be immensely privileged and have a good heart. Also, they are all real pieces of work.
Through the casement windows I see Joel and Peter in their usual morning routine.
Joel lounges on the sofa in his favorite batik robe, his thick white hair already perfectly combed, reading the Arts section of The New York Times.
Peter sits in the wing chair beside him wearing L.L.Bean slippers, a white polo shirt, and pressed khakis. He’s fiddling with his tablet.
I tug open the sliding glass door.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says in his signature Kentucky accent. “And close the door behind you. No need to heat the great outdoors.”
“Is there coffee made?” I grunt. “I’m out.”
“Good Lord, Holly,” Joel says, lifting his reading glasses to rest on top of his head. “What happened to you last night?”
“Rumor has it, you had a few too many at the 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 on all the 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, that nice boy from such a nice 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.
“You can’t say it, can you?” I demanded, ignoring my mother.