Periodically, she refreshed her drink with a teensy splash.
When Charlotte finished, the bottle was empty and her mouth was dry. What would her children think if they knew? What would her church friends think? She’d be kicked out of Bible Study, and that was for sure. This story did not belong to the narrative Charlotte had created about herself, the one that led her from Paris to Savannah, from the ashes of widowhood to a sturdy, purposeful life. This story exposed her as the wanton woman she secretly feared she was. Weak! It made her seem weak, and this was horrible. Only Minnie knew this story, and she had kept Charlotte’s secret (as far as Charlotte knew) to her dying day.
Charlotte was paralyzed above her keyboard, still in control, still considered…if not perfect, then at least free of sin. Respectable. Someone her mother would admire. Oh, Charlotte was so tired of caring what Louisa would think! And yet she still yearned to impress her mother, still heard her disdainful, brittle voice, even though Louisa had been buried at Bonaventure for twenty years.
Charlotte ached to have her children around her, to believe she was still connected to them, still necessary. If she won the contest, they could fly to Europe! They could be together on a cruise ship for nine whole days! It would be like old times, but luxurious.
And then there was sex. Something had been happening to Charlotte. Where once she’d found it possible to ignore sexy thoughts, now she spent hours conjuring imaginary encounters. She gathered parts of the men she saw around the Club and at church: a pair of strong shoulders, a cleft chin, the way a fellow shopper at Publix let his hand graze hers in the string bean bin. Alone, she fit these pieces together and imagined being trapped in country houses, closets, furtive embraces in the rain. She reread the dirty parts of her romance novels, even tearing out juicy scenes to savor later.
Mightn’t a ship full of men have one man for Charlotte?
From the moment she had rushed, too late, to Minnie’s bedside, the question had remained in her mind: What now?
She bit her lip and clicked on the button that proclaimed: Submit.
CORD STARED AT THE champagne in his refrigerator. Who would know if he had a glass, just one glass, to fortify himself for his marriage proposal? His company had paid for the rehab that had finally stuck, but he’d taken the day off. He had at least an hour to himself—more than enough time to have a glass or two, shower, and brush his teeth. He could almost feel the buoyant calm the booze would bring.
Cord took the bottle—someone had brought it over months ago—out of the refrigerator. It was cold, so cold. Ah, if only he could return to the halcyon days before he knew he was an alcoholic…before he understood that the pop of the cork and tickle of champagne bubbles were harbingers of painful dread he could scarcely survive.
Cord’s heart beat in his chest.
It’s too hard, said the lonely voice. Just drink it. Just drink it.
He twisted the wire collerette, ripped off the foil, and pulled the cork free. He jammed his thumb over the bottle’s opening to save every drop.
He had time. He could drink it all and still shower and be ready. He could drink it all in the shower, which briefly struck his lizard brain as a clean and streamlined plan.
Cord felt feverish, but maybe it was his close kitchen, more useful for arranging a selection of appetizers than for baking. He had never actually prepared an entire meal from scratch before, excepting the time he woke in the middle of the night, binge-watched Top Chef, and found himself naked in the kitchen at dawn, various egg creations congealing before him. That was the first time he tried to stop with the Ambien.
Cord wanted the night to be flawless. He’d selected ten kinds of cheese, his last remaining vice. Not only had he ordered a pasta maker and rolling pin from Amazon Prime Now but he’d used them, reveling in his flour-coated hands, turning the wooden handle to create lovely strands of fettuccine, which he’d strung from wire hangers around the living room to dry. There was a bag of salad. Warm baguettes from Levain. And the pièce de résistance, a flourless chocolate torte it had taken Cord three times to get right. Three times! He had actually made two failed tortes (one a sinkhole, one burned) before triumphing with numéro trois.
By the time the torte, now cooling elegantly on a platter, was served, Cord imagined he’d be betrothed, cozied up on the faux Herman Miller divan. After years of mean and unattractive lovers, a wedding in his mom’s Savannah backyard. He could see himself in his mind’s eye: his still-full head of sandy brown hair, his toned six-foot-two physique, just a hint of sexy “I was at the beach and forgot to shave” stubble. His eyes pale blue, like Charlotte’s. He looked a lot like her, in fact, but younger, taller, and macho. With a man’s haircut. And stubble.
Cord looked out the kitchen window of his apartment on West Eighty-sixth and Riverside. He’d probably never stood here in the afternoon; the light on the trees was sort of sad and pale.
His father had told him to be strong, to be a man. Cord wished he could ask his father about the lonely voice. Had Winston heard it, too? If nothing else, Cord’s father had shown by example what could happen if you let your demons take you down.
Cord put his shoulders back. He walked to the sink and poured the champagne down the drain, all of it. He inhaled the smell, which made him feel both ill and desperate for oblivion.
Day 534.
En route to the shower, Cord paused in his dining room. He’d set the table with care: silver salt and pepper shakers, brand-new Williams-Sonoma place settings, a tablecloth and pressed napkins. And one elegant rose.
The shower was too hot and too hard, but if you wanted prewar, you had to roll with the punches. As Cord lathered up, he allowed himself to picture the backyard of his mother’s townhome, lined with azalea bushes. They could erect a pergola for the ceremony, hire some Savannah caterer. Cord pictured himself in a linen Cucinelli suit, holding a mini crab cake. But try as he might, he couldn’t insert Charlotte into the scene. She’d be crying in her golf cart, more likely, or pulling a Blanche DuBois at her makeup table, topping off her glass of crap Chardonnay. Cord put his mother out of his mind. This was his life, maybe his last chance. He’d handle his mother in due time. She’d still love him if she knew him, wouldn’t she?
“What matters,” his AA sponsor had told him, “is that you love yourself. Do you hear me?” Cord had nodded, scoffing inwardly at yet another AA platitude. Love yourself? What did that even mean?
* * *
—
CORD SHAVED, USING THE horsehair soap brush his older sister, Lee, had sent from Los Angeles for his thirty-sixth birthday. (Poor Lee. She tried to act successful, but they all knew she was struggling, even doing that tampon commercial and the Walmart Summer Shoes flyer. She’d always had excellent toes.)
As he surveyed his closet with a towel around his waist, Cord’s chocolate Labrador, Franklin, plodded into the bedroom. “Hi, you,” said Cord, scratching behind the dog’s ears. And then, as he was about to reach for an ice-blue shirt (to match his eyes), Cord heard an awful heaving sound. Alarmed, he turned to see dear Franklin vomiting on Cord’s Louis Vuitton sneakers. “What are you doing?” he asked, panicking. “What are you doing, Franklin? What are you doing?”