chapter sixteen

MEREDITH

It takes an emergency session with Amy, in which she tells me, more or less, that this has been a long time coming, and another few heart-to-hearts with Ellen, before I build up enough courage to even make a plan to talk to Nolan. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say, or where I’m going to say it, only that I have to say something. I give myself a deadline, vowing that the conversation must take place on or before our swiftly approaching seven-year wedding anniversary.

Naturally, after several years of pretty much ignoring our anniversary or, at most, only going to dinner and exchanging cards, this is the year that Nolan decides we need a romantic getaway.

“We haven’t gone away, just the two of us, in years,” he says one night as he comes in from a long run, removing his earbuds and toweling off his sweat in the kitchen. On my list of pet peeves, it is minor, but I have told him before that I wish he’d cool down outside—or at least in a room other than the kitchen.

“What about Napa?” I say, trying to resist the macaroni and cheese that Harper didn’t finish, reminding myself that her leftovers aren’t free calories.

“Yeah. That was three years ago,” he says, gripping the counter as he stretches his hamstrings. “And that doesn’t count—we were there for a wedding.”

“It still counts. Harper wasn’t with us. And we stayed a few extra days,” I say, recalling the trip and how pleasant it was to be away with him. For a few seconds, I’m filled with self-doubt. Maybe Ellen’s theory is correct—we are just going through a rough patch and need a little time and effort to work on our marriage. I ask him what he has in mind, trying to keep mine open.

“Oh, I don’t know. Something beachy…but it’s probably too late to get flights.” He frowns. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“It’s okay,” I say, quickly absolving him. I fleetingly wonder if he feels as conflicted as I do about our anniversary, but I want to let him off the hook either way. “I know you’re busy at work, too.”

Nolan nods and says he’s going to grab a quick shower—then we can talk about it.

Thinking that he has never taken a quick shower in his life, I say, “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

AS PREDICTED, ABOUT an hour later, Nolan finds me in the laundry room, folding towels. “What about Blackberry Farm?” he says, referring to the astronomically expensive resort in the foothills of the Tennessee Smoky Mountains.

“Way too pricey,” I say.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be such a frugal Frieda,” Nolan says. “You can’t take it with you.”

“I know you can’t take it with you. But wouldn’t it be nice to leave some for Harper?” I say, remembering that our first and only trip to Blackberry, also for a friend’s wedding, happened to be the weekend Harper was conceived. I had just gone off the pill the month before, so we weren’t really trying yet—a fact that Josie sometimes brings up when she’s listing all the ways I’m “the lucky one.”

“Two nights at Blackberry isn’t going to break the bank,” Nolan says. “And we still have fourteen years to save for Harper’s college.”

Fourteen long years, I think, but only say, “Okay. Sure. Give them a call. But I bet they’re booked.”

Nolan shakes his head, and as he leaves the laundry room, I hear him say, “Frugal Frieda. Negative Nellie.”

AS IT TURNS out, Blackberry has just one room available and it’s “all ours for just nine hundred a night.”

“Nine hundred dollars?” I say. “Or yen?”

“Ha,” Nolan says. “The cottages are nearly double that.”

“Oh. So this is actually a bargain,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says. “So can I book it?”

“I don’t know,” I waffle, worried that he will feel even more betrayed by what I think I’m going to tell him if the conversation takes place in a nine-hundred-dollar-a-night room at Blackberry Farm. Then again, maybe it will soften the blow, remind us both that no matter what happens in our relationship, we will continue to cultivate beauty in our lives—and always share a special history.

“I need a yes or a no,” he says. “The guy is only holding the room for ten minutes.”

I sigh and say yes because, as I have learned, yes is usually the easier answer.

A WEEK LATER, I drop Harper off at Mom’s, with one duffel bag of necessities and two additional bags of toys that Harper insists are necessities. “You’re visiting for the weekend or the month?” Mom asks, bending down to kiss Harper.

Harper looks at me for the answer and I say, “Just two nights. We’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”

“Well, no rush,” Mom tells me, smiling. “I’m so glad you and Nolan are doing something nice for your anniversary. It’s a special spot for you two.” She gives me a knowing wink.

“Ugh. Mom, c’mon,” I say, rolling my eyes. I can’t remember ever sharing the where and when of Harper’s conception, but obviously I did at some point.

“What?” she says, playing dumb. “I just meant…I know you like it there. I’m glad you’re getting away.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, then launch into weekend instructions, even though Harper enjoys fairly regular sleepovers with her grandmother.

“Is she still allergic to cinnamon?” Mom asks.

“It’s not really an allergy,” I say. “Just a slight intolerance.”

“I get a bad rash here,” Harper says, pointing to her upper lip.

“Nolan’s turning her into a hypochondriac,” I say under my breath.

“Okay, sweetie. We’ll just avoid cinnamon,” Mom says. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Do you have anything else?”

“Have you heard from Josie?” she asks, completely off point.

“Nope,” I say, determined not to be sucked into a conversation about my sister. “Well, I better go. Nolan wanted to get on the road before rush hour.”

“Sure. Sure. Go,” she says, straightening a stack of MLS listings on the kitchen table, a three-and-a-half-million-dollar house on top.

“Is that your listing?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m just showing it. New client.”

“Are you sure this weekend is okay?” I say, knowing that weekends are her busiest times. “Because Ellen said she could take her….”

“It’s totally okay,” Mom says. “Now. Go have fun with your husband.”

“Okay,” I say, kissing my daughter goodbye, fighting a wave of distinct sadness and separation anxiety, and trying not to imagine a life of every-other-weekend goodbyes.

ONCE NOLAN AND I get out of Atlanta traffic, the drive to Tennessee becomes pleasant and easy. Few cars on the highway, bright blue skies. It doesn’t yet feel like fall, the trees still green and lush, but the high heat has finally passed and I’m wearing a light sweater for the first time this season. Nolan’s mood is always pretty good—but it’s downright chipper today, as he whistles, chats, and cranks the volume on his quirky, high-energy “road trip” playlist. As he belts out the lyrics to Katrina and the Waves’ “Walking on Sunshine” and then Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” it’s hard not to feel happy.

Our plan is to drive the whole way and arrive hungry, the Blackberry cuisine rivaling the mountain vistas, but two hours into the trip, we break down and stop at Cracker Barrel—which Nolan unabashedly loves as much for the food as for the peg game and gift shop.

I start to order a salad with grilled chicken but at the last second copy Nolan’s order of dumplings—essentially a big bowl of starch and empty calories. We play the peg game, taking turns until Nolan steals a second board from a nearby table and we begin frantic parallel play. My best is a pathetic four pegs remaining—while he reaches three, then two, looking jubilant.

“We should do this more often,” he says after our food arrives.

I butter an already buttery biscuit and murmur my agreement.

“You need to get away from that firm,” he says.

“You mean quit?” I ask, feeling a hopeful surge.

He laughs and says, “No, I meant more vacations…weekend getaways…but you could quit. If you want.”

I shake my head. “No. We need the money,” I say, taking a small bite of my biscuit.

“No, we really don’t,” Nolan says. “What part of ‘successful family business’ don’t you get?”

“The part that feels dirty,” I say with a smile although I’m only slightly kidding.

He smiles back but looks a little offended. “Dirty? What the heck does that mean? You act like it’s mafia money or something.”

“Okay. Strike ‘dirty,’ ” I say. “It’s just that sometimes…I wish we had made our own way, Nolan. Your money comes with strings.”

“Our money,” he says. He stirs sugar into his tea, as I wonder what I always do—why doesn’t he just order it sweetened? “And there really are no strings. I like working with my dad.”

I think of the occasional skirmishes he gets into with his father, and start to contradict him, but then decide, for the most part, I’m being unfair. I’ve been very lucky in the in-law department.

“I mean, look at Ellen and Andy,” Nolan says. “You think they could afford that house of theirs, plus their New York City apartment, on his salary and her part-time photography work?”

“Probably not,” I say, knowing from my mother what they paid for their house. Plus another half million, at least, for their renovation. And Nolan is right—Ellen seems to have no problem with it. Her mother-in-law sometimes annoys her, but she mostly just adores the Grahams, thrilled to be part of their clan. Maybe that’s the difference, I think, the dumplings suddenly looking like they’ve been marinated in Elmer’s glue.

“And we live in your old house that we paid for ourselves,” Nolan continues, “which is perfectly nice, but far from…lavish.”

I nod, thinking that he is the one who always insists that we can never move, never break that tie to Daniel. After several years of following my mother’s lead and treating his room like a museum, we finally packed away most of his personal stuff and got a new queen-size bed to replace Daniel’s twin. Ostensibly, it is now set up for guests, but we seldom use it that way and often still refer to it as “Daniel’s room.”

“So anyway…the point is…you don’t have to practice law.”

“I know,” I say, conceding this much.

“You just seem so miserable there….What’s the point in that?”

I nod, thinking this is the perfect opening to begin a serious discussion, but also wondering if maybe what I’m doing isn’t a bigger problem than who I’m with. After all, if you’re not happy with your own life, can you really be happy sharing it with another? It sounds like something Amy would say. In fact, I think she has said it. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m not happy.”

It feels like a huge first step, a breakthrough of sorts.

“So quit,” Nolan says. “Quit Monday, first thing. I triple-dog dare you.”

The thought is so liberating that I can’t help smiling. “Maybe I will,” I say, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders. I tell myself that there isn’t a more supportive man in the world. Was I crazy to think that he was the problem, when it had to be that vile job and all the pressure to bill, bill, bill, bill? I think about acting and how much I miss it—and consider all the other creative possibilities, ways I could be spending my time and life.

Then, like a record screeching to a halt, the next words out of Nolan’s mouth are, “Just think. You could be a stay-at-home mother with complete freedom.”

I give him a blank stare, thinking that there is pretty much nothing liberating about staying home with Harper all day, every day. And that, as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I would probably rather bill hours than be trapped at home twenty-four-seven.

“And then…” he says with a slow smile. I hear a dramatic drumroll in my head before he finishes his sentence exactly as I predicted, “we can have another baby.”

My heart sinks, confirmation that something is very wrong in our marriage, and that I must tell Nolan how I feel. I almost pull the trigger right there at Cracker Barrel, but tell myself we need to get back on the road. Then I tell myself that Nolan needs to concentrate on driving. Then we arrive at Blackberry, and we’re too busy unpacking. Then Nolan wants to go for a quick run and we both have to shower and get ready for the evening. Then we’re on the back patio, sitting on oversize wooden rocking chairs, sipping organic martinis as we watch the sun set behind inky blue mountains—too serene a moment to taint. Ditto to our exquisite five-course dinner at The Barn, the award-winning, romantic restaurant on the property. Then, once back in our room, we both crash, too full of fine foothills cuisine and wine pairings to even stay awake, let alone have a big talk.

BUT THE FOLLOWING morning, after I wake up in the high four-poster antique bed and take a few seconds to process where I am and what day it is, I know it’s finally time, that I am out of excuses. I roll over and look at Nolan as his eyes flutter halfway open.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep.

“Good morning. Happy anniversary,” I say, even though I have the sinking feeling that neither will be good or happy.

“Happy anniversary,” he says through a big yawn and stretch. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, squinting at the window. Sunlight is working its way through the closed blinds, but it’s not very bright yet.

Nolan rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Wow. It’s almost eight-thirty,” he says. “I slept like a rock.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Did we fall asleep with the lights on?”

“Yeah. I woke up around two and turned them off.” He smiles, then says, “Wow. No alarm. No Harper. Nowhere to be.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling myself tense as he shifts a few inches toward me, one leg slung over the covers, the other still tangled up in the sheets. I glance down and see his standard morning erection making an appearance in the opening of his green gingham boxers. Although it crosses my mind to just do it, so to speak, I clear my throat and issue a preemptive, foreboding statement. “We need to talk.”

Nolan nods, pulling me toward him, looking into my eyes. If we were any closer, we’d see each other in double. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and say, “Remember yesterday at Cracker Barrel? When you were talking about me quitting and us having another baby?”

“Yes?” he says, looking so hopeful that I fleetingly consider changing course. Saying anything to avoid hurting his feelings. “You think it’s a good idea?”

I slowly shake my head, the high-thread-count pillowcase smooth under my cheek. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”

“Oh,” he says. Then, after a long pause, “And it’s not the job, is it?”

“No,” I say again, this time in a whisper.

“It’s us, isn’t it?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say, my heart starting to race.

“Yes, you do,” he says softly. “You always know.”

He’s right, at least this time, so I take a deep breath and make my confession. “Yes,” I tell him. “I think it’s us.”

When he doesn’t reply, I continue, starting at the beginning. “Do you remember when you asked me to marry you? In the dugout?”

“Of course,” he says, his brow furrowed.

I brace myself but keep going. “I had no idea you were going to propose,” I tell him. I’ve said this before, many times, but have always couched it in terms of a wonderful surprise instead of shock bordering on dismay. “I really wasn’t ready for that….I almost said no….”

He frowns, then says, “So why didn’t you?”

I take another deep breath, then push up onto my elbow, still meeting his gaze. “Because of Daniel,” I finally say.

“What?” he says, abruptly sitting up and leaning against the headboard. “What does that mean?”

I sit up and face him, searching for the right words, wanting them to be honest but gentle. “I just mean…we were there on that field, the two of us, alone….But it was like Daniel was there with us…and I just felt…” I shake my head, my voice trailing off because there is simply no gentle way to put it.

“You felt what?” he asks.

“I just felt that I should say yes. Because of Daniel,” I say again, knowing we are going in circles. “Sort of in his memory.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nolan says, putting both hands to his temples like his mind is being blown. “You’re telling me that you married me because your brother died in a car accident?”

“That’s not what I said,” I stammer, but then realize that he has accurately paraphrased my answer, boiled things down to their essence. If Nolan had popped the question while my brother was still alive, off doing his residency somewhere, then he probably wouldn’t have entered my head at all. Nor would I have considered my parents, who had also factored heavily into my answer.

“Well, then. Please explain,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“C’mon, Nolan,” I say, going on the offensive. “Are you honestly going to sit there and tell me that you would have dated me if Daniel hadn’t died?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think I dated you out of pity?”

“Not pity,” I say. “But…” I look up at the ceiling, trying to articulate what I’ve always felt to be true.

“But what, Meredith?”

“I just think we got together because of Daniel.”

“What does that mean? ‘Because of Daniel, because of Daniel,’ ” he says, imitating me, his voice growing louder. “You keep saying that, but I have no idea what that means!”

“Yes, you do!” I say, raising my voice back at him.

“No! I really don’t, actually.”

I swallow, breathe, and try to calm down before I explain. “Well. For starters, you wouldn’t have played golf with my dad that day you picked me up from the airport…or asked me out…or slept with me that next night…or flown up to see me a week later….None of that would have happened if Daniel had been alive.”

“But, Meredith, that’s just…circumstances,” he says. “That’s like saying that a married couple who met in a bar wouldn’t be together if one of them hadn’t gone to the bar.”

I shake my head. “No. It’s not the same thing at all.” I bury my face in my hands and catch my breath, before looking back up at him. “I think we were both searching for meaning.”

“Oh, Christ, Meredith. Is this Amy talking? Or you?”

“It’s both,” I say. “I said it first, but she agrees with me….You asked me to marry you, and I said yes, because we both wanted the silver lining to a terrible tragedy. Daniel’s best friend marries Daniel’s sister. Happily-ever-after can’t ever happen—not with him gone…but this is the closest we can come—”

“That’s horseshit,” he says, cutting me off, roughly throwing aside the covers, then getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

He slams the door, but I can still hear him urinating, then flushing, then running water. A long minute later, he emerges, wearing workout clothes. The neck of his T-shirt is wet, along with his hairline, and I can tell that he’s just splashed water on his reddened face.

He looks at me for several long seconds, holding on to the bedpost, then says, “I asked you to marry me because I loved you.” His voice is low and calm, but unsteady. “Not because Daniel died.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Well, that strategy isn’t working,” he says, dropping his hand to his side. At first I think he’s referring to how upset he is currently, but then he clarifies. “You don’t say yes to a marriage proposal because you think saying no will upset someone.”

I try to interrupt him, but he continues. “And you don’t say yes because you happen to share a tragic story with someone, either. In fact, most people who share a tragic story end up splitting. Look at your parents.”

“I know, Nolan. I’m really sorry. I just thought I should tell you…I thought you should know….”

“Okay, Meredith. Well, now I know,” he says. “So what am I supposed to do with this information? More than seven years later? What do you want?”

“I want…Daniel back,” I finish, suddenly hating myself more than Nolan ever could.

He throws up his hands in utter disgust. “Well, we can’t have that, Meredith. So short of a resurrection—or…or going back to 2001 in a time machine, what do you want?”

“I want to figure this out,” I say as meekly as I’ve ever said anything.

“How?” he shouts.

“I don’t know,” I say, wincing. “Please stop yelling at me.”

He blows into his hands, as if he’s warming them on a cold day, before turning, walking over to an ottoman, and sitting down to put on his socks and running shoes.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“For a run.”

“May I come?”

He looks up at me. “Because you want to come? Or because you think you should come?” he says, his eyes narrowing and flashing. “Or because you think I want you to come?”

“Because I want to,” I say, but I hear my voice rising in an unconvincing question.

Nolan hears it, too, because he stands, shakes his head, and says, “Actually, Meredith, I think I want to be alone for a while.”