surprises.
But this morning his fingers didn't find the silk nightgown clinging to the small of her delicate back or her firm and familiar lightly tanned shoulder. His hand instead groped the cool texture of their antique off-white linen sheet and, for a moment, his eyes widened, disoriented, before he remembered.
Virginia.
They had decided to expand again, one more time, and she was down in Charlottesville, Virginia, preparing for the opening of the new restaurant. The new Jack's.
He lingered in bed for a few moments, smiling at the fact – amazed, really, after all these years – that he still missed her when they were separated. They spoke every day, of course. Three or four times a day, in fact. Even when it was just the minutest details of business, he still got a kick out of talking to her. Even when she was brusquely discussing square footage and the number of tables and the impossibility of finding a quality "anchor" to work the front of the restaurant, he was soothed by the cool huskiness of her voice and the affection that seemed linked to her crisp pronunciation and firm lilt.
Lately they'd been discussing a lot of minute details and Jack thought – realized with a start – that, for the first time in quite a long time, Caroline seemed genuinely happy again.
Maybe for the first time since Kid had disappeared.
It was a wound that, for both of them, had not quickly healed.
Jack saw the effect on Caroline for several years. No one else could possibly have detected it but he thought she seemed lonely and just slightly less joyful. He did not sense her full recovery until they decided to open up this new Jack's.
This was her baby. He'd wanted to throw himself full force into the planning and opening in Charlottesville and, at the beginning, he had. But it soon became clear that Caroline had developed a special attachment to this one. And that attachment had added an extra weight, an importance and sense of urgency she'd never shown before. She was becoming possessive about it; it had become personal with her.
"I watch you sometimes, in New York," she said. "The way you look around the restaurant. Not at the staff, not at the customers, at the place. The bar, the tables, the scuff marks on the floor. It's a living, breathing thing to you."
"It's a part of me," he said.
"Sometimes, my darling husband, I wish you looked at me the way you look at that goddamn swinging door you bought for the kitchen."
"It's an awfully beautiful door." He grinned, and she shook her head in mock dismay.
But then she took his hand, held it lightly, ran her fingers over the calluses on his right palm. "That's the way I feel down in Virginia," she told him, and he was surprised at the seriousness of her tone. "I have something down there that's beautiful. That's mine."
She never said that she wanted to go it alone, to have her head this time, but he knew her too well to miss the signals. And he understood, too, that it was a way for her to do what he'd done in London – to be alone for a while, to develop her own secrets. This restaurant was her idea to begin with. The town was only thirty miles or so from the family farm where she'd grown up; it was still in the family, although rarely used these days. Caroline's father was dead, nearly nine years now. Her mother couldn't bear to sell the property, but couldn't bring herself to live there, either. She basically stopped going to the farm right after the funeral. Too many memories, she said. It was where she'd been young; she didn't want it to see her sink into old age. So the farm had become a kind of elegant retreat, a stately – if ghostly – second home. Caroline's two sisters used it on the occasional weekend. The eldest, Llewellyn, had too many children with too many soccer matches and a husband with too many golf games to make it a permanent retreat. The other sister, Susanna Rae – never married, never particularly connected to the rest of the family, and always
But this morning his fingers didn't find the silk nightgown clinging to the small of her delicate back or her firm and familiar lightly tanned shoulder. His hand instead groped the cool texture of their antique off-white linen sheet and, for a moment, his eyes widened, disoriented, before he remembered.
Virginia.
They had decided to expand again, one more time, and she was down in Charlottesville, Virginia, preparing for the opening of the new restaurant. The new Jack's.
He lingered in bed for a few moments, smiling at the fact – amazed, really, after all these years – that he still missed her when they were separated. They spoke every day, of course. Three or four times a day, in fact. Even when it was just the minutest details of business, he still got a kick out of talking to her. Even when she was brusquely discussing square footage and the number of tables and the impossibility of finding a quality "anchor" to work the front of the restaurant, he was soothed by the cool huskiness of her voice and the affection that seemed linked to her crisp pronunciation and firm lilt.
Lately they'd been discussing a lot of minute details and Jack thought – realized with a start – that, for the first time in quite a long time, Caroline seemed genuinely happy again.
Maybe for the first time since Kid had disappeared.
It was a wound that, for both of them, had not quickly healed.
Jack saw the effect on Caroline for several years. No one else could possibly have detected it but he thought she seemed lonely and just slightly less joyful. He did not sense her full recovery until they decided to open up this new Jack's.
This was her baby. He'd wanted to throw himself full force into the planning and opening in Charlottesville and, at the beginning, he had. But it soon became clear that Caroline had developed a special attachment to this one. And that attachment had added an extra weight, an importance and sense of urgency she'd never shown before. She was becoming possessive about it; it had become personal with her.
"I watch you sometimes, in New York," she said. "The way you look around the restaurant. Not at the staff, not at the customers, at the place. The bar, the tables, the scuff marks on the floor. It's a living, breathing thing to you."
"It's a part of me," he said.
"Sometimes, my darling husband, I wish you looked at me the way you look at that goddamn swinging door you bought for the kitchen."
"It's an awfully beautiful door." He grinned, and she shook her head in mock dismay.
But then she took his hand, held it lightly, ran her fingers over the calluses on his right palm. "That's the way I feel down in Virginia," she told him, and he was surprised at the seriousness of her tone. "I have something down there that's beautiful. That's mine."
She never said that she wanted to go it alone, to have her head this time, but he knew her too well to miss the signals. And he understood, too, that it was a way for her to do what he'd done in London – to be alone for a while, to develop her own secrets. This restaurant was her idea to begin with. The town was only thirty miles or so from the family farm where she'd grown up; it was still in the family, although rarely used these days. Caroline's father was dead, nearly nine years now. Her mother couldn't bear to sell the property, but couldn't bring herself to live there, either. She basically stopped going to the farm right after the funeral. Too many memories, she said. It was where she'd been young; she didn't want it to see her sink into old age. So the farm had become a kind of elegant retreat, a stately – if ghostly – second home. Caroline's two sisters used it on the occasional weekend. The eldest, Llewellyn, had too many children with too many soccer matches and a husband with too many golf games to make it a permanent retreat. The other sister, Susanna Rae – never married, never particularly connected to the rest of the family, and always
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