The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,112

come to recognize during my years in New York. Their manner was restrained and their fifty-something bodies were tanned and taut in a way that spoke of personal trainers and winters in Bermuda.

I realize now that I’d bought in to a stereotype, but when I’d thought about the families of unwed mothers, I’d pictured people a little more down on their luck. On the other hand, luck is about a lot more than money.

Becca, a quiet, green-eyed girl with corkscrews of black hair cascading past her shoulders and a peapod bulge under a lightweight gray cashmere maternity top, gave every appearance of being just as well-heeled as her parents, but the look in her eyes told me she felt sad and far from fortunate. Maybe that’s why I took her hand first and covered it with both of mine before greeting her parents.

“Becca, I’m so glad to meet you. So glad you’re here,” I said, turning back to her.

“Thanks.”

She smiled shyly and looked around, her eyes coming to rest on the crape myrtle in the far corner of the garden, which, after a very slow start, had obligingly come into full bloom the previous week.

“What’s the tree? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Crape myrtle. Very common here in Charleston.”

“It’s pretty.”

“It was looking a little sad until recently. It had some kind of powdery mildew. But my cousin Teddy pruned it and sprayed it with some organic something or other. Neem oil? I don’t remember for sure but it must have been good, whatever it was. The tree perked right up. Teddy’s a wonderful gardener, which is lucky for me and the garden. So far, I’ve managed to kill every houseplant that has ever had the misfortune of coming into my possession.”

I made a cringing face and Becca smiled; it was as if she’d suddenly forgotten to be sad.

“I want to study horticulture and landscape design in college. I was accepted to Penn State for the fall semester, but . . .” She cast her eyes down and placed a protective palm on the peapod. “Guess that’ll have to wait for a while.”

Anne Dowling took a step forward. “Maybe we should go inside. It’s awfully warm out here.”

“Good idea. This humidity takes a little getting used to. Come on inside. I’ve got a big pitcher of cold sweet tea inside—something else that’s very common in Charleston,” I said as Becca fell in step beside me. “I bet there are all kinds of things you’d like to ask me.”

Becca smiled shyly. “Well, I kind of feel like I know you already. I used to read your column. Once I even—”

Mrs. Cavanaugh suddenly appeared at my side. “Miss Fairchild, you’re very kind. But I think it might be better if you just showed us the house and we skipped the tea. We have to catch a flight to Chicago this afternoon, so there’s really no time to linger.”

The two women exchanged a look that was hard to read. Mrs. Cavanaugh fixed her eyes on her daughter, but Becca was the one to break the gaze first, looking away and then down. When she lifted her eyes, the sadness was back.

I didn’t know these people, this family. I couldn’t imagine what the last few months had been like for any of them. Mrs. Cavanaugh might have been just as sad as Becca but more skilled at masking it. It couldn’t be easy, giving up a grandchild. I couldn’t imagine how she could, or why. It wasn’t because she lacked the means to feed another mouth, that was clear. So maybe Becca was the one driving this train? She was young and bright and obviously had big plans for the future, plans that might not include a baby. It made sense. She could have opted for an abortion but decided not to. Or perhaps she had wanted an abortion but her mother had pressured her not to. Maybe that explained the tension between them.

Over the years, I’d gotten used to thinking I had the answers, reading a few lines of a letter and supposing I understood what the writer had done in the past and should do in the future. If there was anything I’d learned since digging into my family’s past, exploding the myths of who my people were and what they’d been through, it’s that I don’t have a crystal ball into other people’s lives. I did not and could not know what these women had been through, nor could I understand