True Places(100)

“What about us? What about the kids? What are we supposed to do while you’re collecting plants in the forest?”

Suzanne sipped her wine, regarding him patiently over the rim of the glass. “I guess we’ll have to figure it out.”

“Figure it out? What does that mean?” His voice was shrill but he couldn’t help it.

“I can’t know everything right now, Whit.”

“Do you love me? Do you know that?”

He wanted her to smile, a big smile that made her eyes shine. He wanted her to tip her head sideways a little when she did it.

Instead she simply said, “Yes.”

Whit realized he had asked the wrong question. She loved him because she wasn’t the sort of person for whom love was a game. Suzanne’s love was solid. But Whit not only loved Suzanne, he adored her. He cherished her. Suzanne’s love for him might be exactly the sort of love that could persist, unaltered, in the transition from marriage to separation to divorce. She could love him that way forever. This wasn’t news. It was simply news he’d never wanted to hear. As long as Suzanne was at home, tending to their lives, the nuances of his love and her love hardly mattered. Now they did. It dawned on Whit that the woman sitting across from him, as familiar as she seemed, was quite possibly someone he did not know well at all. He wondered if he loved that woman as much. And now that she wasn’t driven by fear, would she still need him?

“What are you thinking?” Suzanne asked.

Whit got up and refilled their glasses to give himself something to do.

“It’s a lot to take in.”

She nodded. No rush.

Whit said, “I wonder if you blame me.”

“For what?”

“For helping make you a zombie.” She smiled a little but said nothing. “I mean, you’ve always been, what, philosophical, looking at us from the outside. I discouraged that sort of talk, relationship philosophy. Hell, I didn’t even know what you meant most of the time. If that was you waving the signal flag of your dissatisfaction, then I’m guilty of ignoring it, or worse.”

She reached for his hand. “Maybe you didn’t understand me for a reason, Whit. Maybe we want different things.”

His heart surged painfully. “Don’t say that.”

“Even if it’s true?”

He wanted to say yes, because it would hurt too much otherwise. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together.

Suzanne squeezed his hand. “This is what we have to figure out.”

He nodded but kept his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to subside.



The next morning, Suzanne stopped at the nursery on her way to see her parents and purchased a Mother’s Day present, a striking architectural display of grasses and succulents presented in a rectangular planter, vaguely Moroccan in design. The echeveria, with their rosette shape and pink-to-lavender-to-blue leaves, reminded Suzanne of her mother: smooth and stunning, with a sharp spike at the tip of each leaf.

Tinsley answered the door, and Suzanne showed her the planter, which she had left at the foot of the steps.

“Happy Mother’s Day, a bit early.” She kissed Tinsley on the cheek. “I figured it would be easier for you not to have to lug it from my house.”

Tinsley peered at the display and smiled. “Thoughtful on both counts. Thank you.”

She ushered Suzanne inside, clicking along the travertine floor with energy and purpose, rattling off her commitments for the day. Suzanne registered none of them. Her father was waiting in the living room, reading the Wall Street Journal. He folded it and set it aside.

“Good morning, Suzanne. Welcome back from your travels.” His tone was neutral, but his point hit home nevertheless.

“Thanks.” She sat in a white leather wingback. Her mother settled herself on the couch next to Anson. “I know you’re both busy, so I’ll get right to the point.”

Suzanne outlined her plans. To appeal to her father’s entrepreneurial interests, she emphasized the uniqueness of the project and the potential for scientific discovery. For her mother, Suzanne described her plans to restore the old brick farmhouse and to create a teaching garden.

“Three brothers inherited the land. The eldest was living there when Iris’s parents first came—he probably knew them somehow—but he died several years ago. According to the Realtor who knows the family, the surviving brothers have been thinking of selling but are attached to the place. She thought my project might be just the thing to encourage them to sell.”

“Especially if the price is right,” Anson said.

“Sure.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Tinsley said.

“Yes.”

“Really, Suzanne. I’m surprised at you. This, this project, will take you away from your husband, from your children. And you expect us to fund it?”

Suzanne had anticipated this response. “Whit and I are putting up some of the money, but it’s not enough. And I’m asking for an advance on my inheritance. I know it’s not mine to ask for, but doesn’t it make sense to use the money to do something positive, something important?” Her father bristled. She appealed to him directly. “I know it’s invested now and that you’ve worked hard to make it grow. I’m just hoping I can make something grow, too, in my own way.” Her father met her gaze, considering.