SOUTHERN MOTHERS MUST MEDDLE. IT is in our DNA. We can’t help it, and, for heaven’s sake, who would want us to? Our meddling makes the world a better place.
In the seventh grade, Liv and I made a pact to have babies at the same time and do everything in our power to get them married.
It had worked out perfectly according to our plan. Almost. Liv had Mason, I had Amelia, and then Liv had Parker. We were certain Mason and Amelia would grow up and fall in love—especially the months they dated, until it all fell apart for my best friend and her son.
There were times we had discussed the possibility of Parker and Amelia, but the three-year age difference, during high school and college, seemed like a hurdle. But now, Greer was dead, Thad was gay, and three years was nothing. What Southern mother worth her sherry wouldn’t try to fix that situation—for the good of her child, of course? Liv and I were only ever thinking of them, which was what our useless husbands didn’t understand when they made us promise to stop meddling. We promised. Just like they promised to quit smoking cigars.
When the kids had left and the men went to smoke and it was just Olivia and me alone at the table, I walked over to her new gold bar cart, grabbed the bourbon, and spilled some into each of our sweet teas. I tried not to be a little jealous of my best friend and all the beautiful updates she’d just done to her home. But I had made a choice. Liv had a newly remodeled home. I had a family estate, a legacy, and while, yes, all of our assets had to be tied up in it, that was the choice I had made.
Lately, I had begun to wonder if it was the right choice. For years, when the kids had been little and my darling husband had been young and strong and energetic, taking care of a massive working farm and a rambling estate hadn’t been too much for us. But now it was.
I had decided to go back to work to help out with Dogwood’s upkeep. It was paid for, of course. But it seemed like every time I turned around, the house needed a new roof or the water heater broke, or squirrels made a mess of the attic insulation, or a storm busted a few windows. But the day I went downtown to sell furniture, the police had come to get me in just four hours to say that Tilley was wandering down the street in a white negligee hollering for Robert. I couldn’t have that. And a caregiver for her would cost the same as I was making. So that was out.
Truth be told, I wanted Charles to sell the farm. We had had large offers from developers pining for that waterfront property, not caring about the generations of men who had babied the soil, making it a hospitable place for crops to grow. But Charles felt the same way about those thousands of acres that I felt about Dogwood. They were his legacy. And, what’s more, they were our living. I argued that selling the farm would be more than a living; it would be wealth. He argued back the very same thing about selling Dogwood. And I knew that, for him, it was so much more than that. He couldn’t bear to see the land he loved become a cookie-cutter subdivision.
And so, there we sat, on opposite sides of the same fence, not angrily, I might add. We understood each other too well to be angry. It simply was what it was, and at some point, things would become dire, and either Charles would agree to sell a small portion of the farm or I would agree to sell Dogwood. But my secret hope was that one of my children would take it off my hands. Without the maintenance, Charles, Tilley, and I could live in a small house on the property, and Tilley’s disability would cover a little help so we could have some freedom. But I knew it was unfair of me to burden either of my children with this behemoth of a house that I loved so dearly it felt like a part of my very soul.
I had hoped that, one day, when Thad inherited all that lovely money from his grandmother, he and Amelia would move back home, take over Dogwood, and fill it with children they’d adopted. Large homes do need to be filled with children, after all. It’s their birthright, their singular point of pride.
But, right now, we had bigger fish to fry than the house.
“She offers to have his baby, he can’t quit casually touching her the entire night, and they smile at each other like no one else is in the room.” Liv stirred the bourbon into her tea with her knife and said, “How are we the only ones who can tell they are meant for each other?”
I sighed wearily. They did have a spark, those two. And, more and more, I noticed them sneaking off to the side at parties or family events, laughing and sharing private jokes. One could argue that they were good friends, but, in their presence, anyone could feel the current that ran between them.
Liv added, “So does this help the plan or hurt it? I can’t tell.”
I looked at her like she was dense. “Who cares about the damn plan? Can you even imagine the scandal of this? What is wrong with Amelia?”
Olivia motioned for me to sit down and handed me my drink. “Oh, Liz, everyone will be talking about it, but it’s not really a scandal.”
I guessed she was right. Amelia had always been so strong-willed. I didn’t know where she got it.
“And don’t you see, Liz?”
I didn’t see.
“Amelia will get pregnant with Parker’s baby, and they will be together all the time, and they will see what we have known for years.”
I gasped. “That they’re meant for each other.” I paused. “So this is a good thing?”
“I think it could be, if we play our cards right.” Liv got up and began collecting the linen napkins from the table.
I nodded furiously. “We need them here, where we can keep an eye on them, make sure they fall in love.”
“Liz, it’s too good. I’ll make sure the guest quarters are perfect, and they’ll be playing house and having this baby together, and they won’t be able to help but see how beautiful a couple they make.”
“But we’ll have to protest,” I said as she set the napkins on the buffet. They were beautifully monogrammed linen, but they had not been in her family for generations. I got another pang at the thought of letting go of my home.
“Oh, of course. I will have a fit about them living together, that kind of thing—”
“Which will only spur them on,” I finished for her.
We shared a wide smile, and I took a sip of tea as she disappeared into the kitchen. Liv and I would be in-laws yet.
Parker
RUN OF THE MILL
THE LAST TIME I HAD been this nervous about going to talk to George, I had asked him if I could marry Greer. I knew he liked me, but there’s a huge difference between liking someone and thinking they are a suitable husband for your baby girl.
George was a man much like the men I had grown up with. Large and imposing, he wore a suit and tie every day, chewed the end of a cigar, and used words like “acumen” and “acrimonious.” Men of his generation were raised not to let people know what they were thinking. And George’s parents had done a top-notch job, because I could never, ever tell what George McCann was thinking.
Greer would come home and tell me how over the moon her family was for me, and I would think, Really? Even your father?
George had had an incredibly difficult time with his wife’s death, and his pain was so palpable that you could almost smell it before you reached him. I knew that Greer’s wedding would bring up a whole flood of emotions for him. A part of me wished we had just gone ahead and gotten married three months in so that Karen could have seen the wedding. She would have loved that.