Chapter 3
It’s a Tuesday morning about a week after our miserable fellowship tour, and Grady is parked on a wooden barstool at my kitchen
island. It’s right where he used to sit every morning, eating his breakfast and dropping crumbs like he was putting it through
a wood chipper.
“What else is there to discuss?” I slump onto the counter and drop my face into my palms. “We didn’t get it—which was a fairly
obvious outcome to me, the person leading the tour. It’s over and done.”
“I just can’t understand why ,” Grady says. “We shouldn’t be dinged for a bimbo intern’s mistake. They could’ve rescheduled, come back and looked when
they could actually get inside the kitchen.”
“Grady.” I stand upright. I open my mouth to tell him the rest of what I think.
“Sorry,” he says, rescuing himself. “I shouldn’t say bimbo , but I stand by the other part. Say we hadn’t had soapsuds spewing everywhere? It would’ve been us. You remember how much
we sank into that kitchen, right?”
I think of the light fixture, the downed flower box, the lack of a canopy bed upstairs that I tried to gloss over. The soapsuds explosion was certainly the flashiest mishap, but it was not our only issue.
“We just weren’t it for them,” I say. “You’re right: They could’ve come back another day. They were doing tours all week,
but they didn’t think it was worth it. They’d made up their minds.”
I cross the living room, my wide-leg pants flowing loosely with each stride. I drop onto our—no, my —sofa. It’s where I’ve sat wrapped in a cable-knit blanket, a gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream in hand, with the TV
screen flickering in the dark each night since we lost the fellowship.
The epitome of doing just fine .
Even Fitz took off for the French Riviera soon after the loss. Thank goodness he has a trust fund—courtesy of the design dynasty
from which he hails, Fitzgerald Interiors—because the man’s got expensive taste in self-care.
Grady comes over and sits down, elbows on his knees. “I’m going to say something at the historic preservation office. I’ve
got some sway.”
I stretch my arms out and drop them on the sofa with a thump. “Don’t. Please . For the love of all things good in the world.”
“Why not? We were good enough.”
I’ve thought about this a lot in the days since South Broad Interiors was named the city fellowship winner, what it means
to be good enough and who gets to decide it. I’d thought we were good enough, too, and maybe we were, at some point, in someone’s eyes. Maybe if we’d had a better day, it would’ve been ours—the rumblings had been that we were a front-runner, after all. But even in the moment after the tour of 29 Smith, when I knew it was just a matter of time until I got the disappointing call and the lights went out on this dream, I couldn’t point to a single thing I’d do differently if given a second chance. Short of double-bracing the flower box, I don’t regret a thing.
“I’m proud of the effort we put in,” I say. “But I can’t change their minds, and neither can your word.”
Grady tilts his head and lowers his voice. “What about my checkbook?” He grins like the devil himself.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want—a fully-paid-for, stolen fellowship award. Then I can walk around town and be proud of what
my soon-to-be ex-husband purchased for us.”
Grady stands slowly. “Ok, when you say it like that...” He pulls his hand up his neck and through his hair and squeezes
his face into a grimace. It’s how he looks when he’s about to unload something undesirable.
“Out with it,” I say.
“It’s just, seeing as we’re not doing the fellowship gig, I think it’s time for me to move on.” Grady looks away.
“The divorce paperwork’s already been filed,” I say.
“No, I mean I need to move on from the firm,” Grady says. “I think I’m going to join my dad’s investment group. I’ll work
from here and travel occasionally to Beaufort for meetings.”
It’s been painfully awkward dancing around each other at the studio. I wanted him gone the moment I laid eyes on that photograph
of his groin. Which is why the sadness that hits me is surprising. “Whatever you think,” I say.
“You’ve wanted me gone,” he says like he’s asking for confirmation. “You haven’t exactly been coy about it... the box of
doughnuts labeled For everyone but Grady , forgetting to invite me to the staff barbecue, telling the IT guy to freeze my computer every other Tuesday morning.”
These things aren’t untrue, but they did happen immediately after his snapshot was virtually circulated around the neighborhood eight months ago. It was childish of me but also, I would argue, not entirely unwarranted.
“I just can’t help but notice that your timing is uncanny,” I say. “Were you planning the same move had we gotten the fellowship?”
I spring up and gently shuffle him toward the door with my palms. He doesn’t answer my question.
Once he’s outside on the step, I lay it on him. “Not to mention, you can’t quit because you’re fired .” I slam the door shut, the perfect period at the end of a conversation I’ve finished.
From behind the closed door, Grady barks out a muffled “No, I quit first!”
I wander back through the house, smiling to myself at getting that last shot off before the door closed. It’s not my best,
most adult behavior, but frankly, I’m tired of giving him my best. Not to mention, the childish tit for tat is a distraction
from the feelings that sit beneath it, well below the surface.
Despite the fact that I want the divorce, it’s hit me with a surprising sadness. There was love between us. I’m sure there was, even if it came and went. At some point it ran out, despite the trying, and we just
ran out of energy to come up with any more. And there were fond memories, but the longer I think about it, those seem mostly
from years back. He and I, together, were supposed to make our own path, to step away from our families to be ourselves. Until
he changed his mind and decided he liked the feel of being a Suffolk better. And it hurts, knowing he couldn’t turn his back
on their stuffy social games, on the routine peacocking of wealth, because he knew it meant losing me in the process.
On top of those dashed hopes, I’m now faced with forging the path for Bishop Builds on my own. Grady may not be my favorite person, but he is good with the financials and particularly good at finding jobs that pay real money. He’s no designer, but he has been helpful on the business side. Him gone is what I wanted—what I still want—but there’s a newness to doing this alone, one I haven’t felt in so long. Still, I know I can manage the fresh nerves fluttering in my stomach.
Just as I’m considering opening the fridge to assess whether I’ll have to hit the grocery store before dinner tonight, my
phone rings. I check it right away as I always do when Hallie’s at school.
It’s my mother, Magnolia the Dragon.
I hit the green button to accept. “Mother,” I say.
“Yes, hi, Magnolia.” She clears her throat. “I heard the unfortunate news.”
Of course she did. Magnolia sits on the Carolina Historic Society board, and half of her friends are tied up in the Charleston
Historic Preservation Society board. It’s as incestuous as the fortunes upon which the members’ families are built, and not
a one of them knows how to keep news of any variety to themselves.
“So you and the girls have been gossiping about me?” I say with a firm yank on the fridge door.
“Heavens, no,” Magnolia says. “But Delta Suffolk called me right away when she heard. She knew you’d be heartbroken. Even
if you are divorcing her son, she doesn’t wish you any misfortune.”
“How very kind of her.” I dig through the vegetable drawer of mostly squishy, moldy options.
“It’s all so sad,” Magnolia says.
I sigh, slipping the crisper in place and closing the fridge. “For once we agree. I wish things had turned out differently,
too, but I’m not sure the folks on that committee would really get me anyway. The light fixture in the—”
“No, child. I’m talking about the separation.”
I imagine her examining her latest manicure, unbothered by the professional loss that’s got me in a medium-serious tailspin.
“Well, I’m much more concerned about the fellowship,” I say.
“Not to bother,” Magnolia says. “I’ve got something for you that’ll fix that all up.”
I pause and wait for her to go on.
“But I can’t explain now. Victor’s got the car pulled around front. I’ve got to go for auction planning—for the one-legged
dogs of South Carolina or something like that.”
“The ASPCA?”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I’m in charge of the wine, so that’s really all I’ve got covered. Anyway, I’ll come to town for lunch
tomorrow. I’ll send you the details.”
“But—”
“Just maybe think about patching things up with Grady in the meantime.”
“Mother, I—”
The line goes dead.
I drop the phone on the countertop and resume my task, scouring the pantry. This is nothing new for Magnolia, and quite frankly
it’s not even close to her worst. Lunch will certainly be more unpleasant than usual because I’ll have to, once again, justify
why I no longer desire to be married to the man who sent a picture of his penis to another woman—a woman who didn’t even want
it, mind you. But it’s all par for the course in the lives of the Magnolias.