The Widow

       I didn’t expect to see him here.

             I fumble awkwardly with the buttons on my sweater. I’m wearing a pale silver cashmere cardigan with Swarovski crystals. I’d considered wearing black; what is the rule in the South? How long does a widow wear black?

             My daughter forced me to come here, back to the home of her fond childhood memories, her grandparents’ palatial home on Main Street in the old, somewhat charming town of Laurens, South Carolina, USA.

             I made up an excuse for missing Christmas, but came down for New Year’s. My in-laws welcomed me with stereotypical Southern warmth. They have always liked me – they had arranged the marriage, along with my father and brother – but still I’ve always felt at a distance from them. I was the perfect spouse for their son but nonetheless never good enough. I came from a poor, Northern, Catholic family who moved South, changed religions, and used higher education as a stepping stone into society. I married into a family of old wealth and prestige. I was always just a step away from falling back to my past.

             But I’d had four children – not enough for someone who’d married so young, but not too few to continue a dynasty – and they loved their grandparents. So here I am, sipping Champagne from a Prague crystal glass, watching the grandchildren run around while the nannies eye them nervously. And there he is, across the room.

             He’s not from Laurens.

             He’s from Seven Oaks, which isn’t too far from Laurens.

             He’s still ruggedly handsome with a charming smile, a dimple, a sparkle in his grey-blue eyes, and I can see the outline of his muscles under his tailored jacket.

             My stomach still flops just as it did when I was fifteen years old, tall and gangly, shy and nervous, returning to Seven Oaks after two years in Bismarck, entering a new high school, where all the kids knew me because they knew my insanely cool older brothers.

             Henry Adams was my first crush. And here he is, standing across the room, smiling at me.

             Memories… When I first saw Henry, I didn’t know that he was the cool jock; I didn’t know that the cheerleaders all swooned over him, alongside all the other girls. I didn’t know that he came from an established Southern family, full of American pride, a staple in the community. I didn’t know that he was the ultimate catch.

             I knew that my oldest brother John had recently gotten a job at a law firm in Laurens. I knew that his boss was a proud lawyer with a strong reputation who golfed with our dad. I knew that his boss’s son was also a lawyer, smart, good looking – a perfect match. I knew my family was plotting my marriage to this perfect man.

             But when I first saw Henry, I hadn’t even met my future husband, and I didn’t care. I was fifteen years old; the year was 1985; girls were empowered yet also pink. I saw Henry across the school cafeteria, his loose hair lightly slicked back, his shoulders wide and strong, and I swear – I swear! – I could see the sparkle in his eyes from way across the crowd.

             I was in love.

             Later on, I learned who he was, what a catch he was, what a catch I was (quite surprising to arrive fresh-faced to a high school in the South and already be one of the most popular girls!), but by the time I’d figured that all out, he was dating the head cheerleader. And I couldn’t break that up. I didn’t want to, anyways. If he loved her, then, who was I to get in the way?

             Henry’s approaching me now, oh so casually, two drinks in his hand. One appears to be a Champagne glass, just like mine, but the other is a short glass, with just a bit of clear liquid in it. Does he remember?

             Our senior year of high school, the cheerleader dumped him ruthlessly for a college boy she’d already slept with. But by then, I was practically betrothed to Dana Sutherland III, Esquire. Henry, his self-esteem already crushed, didn’t dare approach me.

             Every summer after that, we’d meet up, drink coffee, and chat about the good ole days, as if we shared many years of fond memories together. I would become lost in our conversations, mesmerized by his charm, until suddenly my ears would pick up whispering, and I would remember that we were in a small town and I was a Sutherland by marriage – a name that needed to stay above gossip.

             One long summer day, we drove separately to Charleston to meet up and wander the old town streets in peace. We ended the day at a bar, where I ordered my favorite drink – plain and simple, a cold Tanqueray, no ice, no nothing. Just cold gin.

             We didn’t kiss; we never even held hands. I was a faithful wife and a loving mother. Henry and I played the part of old friends.

             He holds out his hand, the one holding the short glass. He grins his foolish, dimply grin as he says, “Tanqueray, cold, neat.” I can’t believe he remembers.

             I place my half-empty Champagne glass to the side and take the gin. “Thanks,” I say, looking downwards as if I’m still a bashful teenager, glancing up under my half-closed lids. His hair is turning silver; his skin is more weathered and slightly wrinkled. He’s aged well. “It’d been a long time.” Our summer dates had tapered out. He’d joined the Air Force and traveled. I’d focused on my husband and kids. My husband got a job at a prestigious firm in New York City and eventually made partner. I was busy.

             “Decades,” Henry says, his voice deep and smooth. “But it feels like just yesterday.” He reaches out and his fingers lightly brush my wrist, so gently – I remember, they say. Then his hand returns to his side. He knows he’s in the house of my deceased husband’s parents. We can talk but we can’t provide fodder for gossip. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says then grimaces. “What a cliché thing to say. But I am sorry. How have you been holding up?”

             I shrug. I want to tell him, Good riddance! That was the first thing I felt when Dana’s vital signs ended. When the three long years of chemo and hospice had ended. I’d been connected to Dana for over thirty years. It’d felt like a lifetime. It felt good to be free.

             “He fought hard,” I said. “He was a strong man.”

             “And how are you?” It’s nice to hear those words, to hear someone more concerned about my well-being than upset over the loss of my husband. Yes, I’m grateful for all the support, grateful that he was a well-loved and well-respected man. Grateful for our years together. We had a peaceful marriage. I’m sure I loved him.

             “I went back to school,” I say. “Got a degree in English.” I look into his eyes, expect to see one of the two responses I usually get when I say this – either a flicker of disinterest or a flash of concern mixed with humor – what middle-aged lady needs an English degree? But I see neither of those sentiments. As usual, he is staring into my soul, listening intently. “I teach English to immigrants,” I say. “It’s volunteer, but Dana made sure I’d be comfortable. And it’s reputable work.” I know my in-laws want me to move back to Laurens and spend the remainder of my days tending flowers and mourning. But they are content to say that I am a volunteer in caring profession, giving back to the community.

             I take a sip of my gin; it’s cold and refreshing. Henry bites his lip. “Let’s go outside,” he says. I’m happy to leave the stifling party, happy to talk to someone with whom I feel so comfortable.

             The air is fresh and cool, damp with a hint of rain. No snow this Christmas season, as usual.

             “How long has it been?” he says, his voice more uncertain than usual.

             “A little under four years,” I say, “He passed in February 2020.” The months after had been bitter and lonely, yet peaceful.  I had an excuse to stay in New York, to hibernate by myself.

             “I’m so sorry,” Henry says, and then shakes his head. “I know I keep saying it. I wish I could… I don’t know what I wish… I wish I could go back and time and re-do it all. No, that’s not it, not at all. I wish I could’ve told you how I felt – but would that have made a difference? I don’t know what I’m saying.” He’s rushing out the words, a bit of pink coming into his face.

             “I know how you felt,” I say softly. I never said it out loud, never even dared to think the words. But always, I knew. And I knew I felt the same.

             “If it’s not an appropriate time to talk about it, I understand,” he says. “Hell, I know this isn’t the appropriate place. But it’s not improper – it’s not wrong. I’ve loved you my whole life, but I’ve stayed away. You had Dana – I wouldn’t intervene. You were a good couple, you had those amazing children - how old are they now?”

             “Dana the Fourth is thirty-five,” I say, “Alex is thirty-three. Mary is thirty. The baby, Maddie, is twenty-five. They’re all inside.”

             “Wow,” he says, “time flies.” I nod in agreement. A cool breeze whips through and I instinctively check my hair.

             His hand flies up and touches me gently under the chin, holds me there while he gazes into my eyes. How I can get lost.

             “Let me love you,” he says, he pleads. “I have always loved you. Let me love you now the way I’ve always wanted to.”

             “I’ve always loved you,” I say softly, surprised at my boldness, at my realization. His head lowers and his lips touch mine – so soft and gentle, yet electricity shoots through my entire body. I’m lost.

             Time stands still; a few raindrops splash and wake me up. I’ve been in a warm, comfortable haze, and it was oh, so nice.

             “I can’t,” I say.

             He takes a step back, checks the windows – no one’s watching. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to here,” he says. “I just – I’ve been waiting so long.”

             I lick my lips; I can still taste him. “Me, too,” I say. “But I can’t. What I mean is – I’ve only just become free.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. Is this what I want? “I’ve been another man’s woman since before I was an adult,” I say. “I’ve only been a free woman for a few years. I can’t – I need this. I need my freedom.”

             “I won’t stifle you,” he says. “I won’t control you. You can still be yourself, keep your job, keep your name, hell, keep your apartment. I’m not asking for all that.”

             I look at him, and I feel a strange sort of sad longing. I can never have him, and it’s not because of gossip or betrothals. It’s because I don’t want to be with someone.

             “I just need to be free,” I say.

             And this I have just learned about myself – I relish my freedom. More than I cherish a lover’s embrace.

             I head back inside.