A Soft Place to Land (38 page)

She was approaching Wymberly Way. She remembered the last time she was on this street, during winter break of her senior year of college, when she had first visited Gabe in Atlanta and had wanted to show him her childhood home. She hadn’t even made it to the house. She had become so anxious she had vomited.

She turned left onto her old street.

God, the houses were impressive, each one more so than the last. How could the owners of these—these manors—keep everything about them so impeccable? There was no lawn that needed mowing, no exterior that needed painting, no flower bed that needed tending. Everything sparkled. The houses were old, but the copper gutters, the roofs, the cars parked out front (though most cars were parked discreetly in the back) were brand-new, or, in the case of the ancient Rolls, perfectly restored. They shone, they gleamed, they screamed:
Money is no object here!

She passed the white wood house with the two-story columns, the wide porch, the black rockers. It looked like the admissions building of a southern university. She passed the brick monster flanked by wings that looked as if it could hold the entire Mafia. She passed the brick Tudor-style house her father had always loved, the one he said was second in beauty only to theirs. And then she slowed down completely, for she was in front of 3225 Wymberly Way, the house that seven years earlier she had not been ready to face.

But today she was.

Ruthie pulled into the driveway, as if she belonged, parking next to a black Mercedes. The Mercedes looked as if it had just been waxed. Ruthie marveled once again at how everything in Buckhead managed to stay so clean, as if rust and dust and wear were part of some other, lesser world.

From the exterior, the house was as elegant as ever. Symmetrical, stately gray stone. Two manicured boxwood trees, each in a blue glazed pot, framing the black front door. A Palladian window above, its glass wavy, as was the glass in all of the windows, which must have been recently cleaned, given how the afternoon light reflected off them so brilliantly.

As she walked to the front door, she remembered the feel of the driveway’s irregular round stones against the soles of her shoes. Once the pointy heel of her mother’s pump got stuck in a crack between two of the stones. Naomi was able to slip her foot out of the shoe but could not loosen the heel. Finally Phil went inside and retrieved the can of WD-40, sprayed some around the heel, and managed to yank it loose.

The only thing Phil really knew how to do around the house was spray WD-40.

Ruthie’s heart rate was elevated, she was perspiring even, but
she did not hesitate. Boldly she walked to the front door—a door her family had rarely used, always going in and out of the back—and pressed on the bell. She heard chiming inside, heard the scurry of a dog’s nails against hardwood, and then heard the sound of barking just on the other side of where she stood.

She waited. Wondered if whoever drove the Mercedes was home but was choosing not to answer, for fear that Ruthie might be a burglar scoping out the place, or at the very least someone trying to sell something. She remembered selling Girl Scout cookies on Wymberly Way when she was in fourth grade. How hard it was to get people to come to the door, but once they did, how competitive the neighbors were with each other, scanning the order list, seeing how many boxes others had ordered and then ordering that many plus one more.

She rang the doorbell a second time, which started the dog barking again.

There was a voice coming from inside, scolding the dog, calling it “Shugah,” telling it to hush.

“Who is it?” the voice asked, and Ruthie saw a woman with a helmet of coifed hair the color of the inside of a pineapple pressing her nose against one of the windows to the side of the door.

Ruthie stepped in front of the window so that the woman could get a good look at her, could see that she was not dangerous. Ruthie smiled, gave a little wave.

The woman opened the door.

“May I help you?” she asked in a gravelly lockjaw.

She was elegantly dressed, wearing creased black pants and a starched white shirt open at the neck, the collar framing her preserved face. In her fifties, or possibly her early sixties, her skin was smooth and nearly wrinkle free, the result, surely, of very expensive surgery. Wrapped around her right wrist was a thick gold cuff, and on her earlobes were little knots of varnished gold. Her wedding ring was gold, too, no longer the fashion but surely the fashion back when it was given to her.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m Ruthie Harrison. My family used to live in this house, from 1979 to 1993.”

The woman made a little O with her lips. “We bought the house in 1993,” she said. “And have been here ever since.”

Ruthie nodded, stoic. “My parents were killed in a plane crash. My sister and I continued living here for a few months while the custody details were sorted out, but then I ended up moving to San Francisco with my aunt. This is the first time I’ve been back—not to Atlanta but to the house—since then.”

“You poor thing,” said the woman. “Of course I remember the details of your parents’ death. So very, very sad. Gave Spencer and me second thoughts about buying the home, to be honest, but then we decided the best thing we could do would be to move in and love it, bring life to it again.”

Ruthie wanted to object, to tell this woman that life had never left Wymberly Way, that she and her sister had filled the home with life even after her parents were gone. But that would be a lie. Those few months after her parents had died were mostly somber, a waiting game for an unwanted outcome.

The woman glanced at her watch. “My manicure appointment is in just about an hour.”

“I don’t want to hold you up. I just happened to be in the neighborhood—”

“It’s a standing appointment. My husband, Spencer, is a surgeon. Works with his hands, and for that reason, I suppose, he’s always liked for me to keep mine in good shape, too. It’s our thirtieth wedding anniversary today, if you can believe it. We’re going to Eugene’s.”

“Happy anniversary. Enjoy Eugene’s. Linton Hopkins is an amazing chef.”

“Oh, he’s the best. The absolute best.” She glanced at her watch, which was metal and shiny and surely expensive. “I suppose I don’t have to leave for another forty minutes. Would you like to come in for a moment? Look around? Have a little drink?”

Ruthie felt compelled to say yes, even though she generally found it difficult to make small talk with strangers. But she was here, wasn’t she? She might as well go all the way through with it.

She stepped inside, onto the walnut floors, floors she once slid
on in socks, before her father bought the Oriental runner. She took it all in: there was the ornate banister with the wrought-iron scrolls and the cherrywood rail, there was the curved archway that divided the entrance hall from the dining room, and there was a curved archway again (an architectural detail that would echo throughout the house), leading from the hallway down the three stairs and into the living room.

But the colors on the walls, the paintings, the furniture—all were different. It was obvious to Ruthie, after being there for only a moment, that the couple who lived there now fit into Buckhead, were comfortable in this world. Naomi never was. Their possessions implied a confidence, a boldness of those so deep within the inner chambers of society that they were allowed to make statements. Point in fact: the walls of their dining room were painted a deep, fiery orange, startling and intense.

There were antiques everywhere. Oriental rugs adorned all of the floors. Phil had bought Oriental rugs for the floors, too, but these were older, the colors faded in a telltale sign of inherited wealth. These rugs had been passed down. Across from where Ruthie stood was an enormous glass vase, resting on an antique chest. The vase was filled with blossoming branches from a cherry tree, imported, surely, for it wasn’t yet the season. Sitting by the stairs leading down to the recessed living room were two porcelain dogs, each painted a shiny white with little red swirls.

“I’m Evelyn Edge,” the woman said. “And you said your name is Ruthie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ruthie, slipping back into the old southern manners, the manners her parents did not enforce but Alex Love’s mom did. (Ruthie’s mother had not liked to be called ma’am, said it made her feel old.)

“What may I get you to drink? An iced tea or something stronger?”

“Something stronger would be wonderful if you don’t mind,” said Ruthie, hoping she wasn’t being too forward but not caring
enough not to be. She needed a drink in order to handle being back in this house.

“Wonderful. I’ve got white wine and I’ve got the makings for a gin martini. My husband almost always insists on a martini when he comes home from work.”

There was a part of Ruthie who adored the Evelyn Edges of the world, these throwback women who seemed to have no ambivalence about being their husband’s helpmate, the keeper of the home, the raiser of the children, the maker of the drinks.

Ruthie felt ambivalent about nearly every decision she ever made—major and minor. Even on her wedding day, she had experienced doubt, a feeling that had troubled her deeply, that caused her to wonder if she was making a mistake. Ruthie knew that her mother, though she felt guilty over leaving her first husband, never, ever doubted her decision to marry Phil.

“White wine is fine,” Ruthie said. “Thank you so much.”

“Make yourself comfortable in the living room and I will be right back with some. Is sauvignon blanc okay?”

“That’s perfect.”

She pointed Ruthie to the living room, though of course Ruthie knew where it was. Then Evelyn walked through the orange dining room and toward the swinging kitchen door, the door that once killed Ruthie and Julia’s new kitten when it swung back just as the kitten was trying to dash through its opening. It had smacked the animal hard on the head, breaking her neck. It had been Naomi who—accidentally—let the door swing back on the kitten, and who had to deliver the sad news to her daughters, who were upstairs getting ready for school.

Ruthie walked down the three steps to the recessed living room, with its wood-beamed ceiling and shiny walnut floor, covered in yet another faded Oriental rug. There was a grand piano in the corner of the room with photographs in polished silver frames atop its closed lid. She thought of her father, proclaiming, “Addie Mae
loves
polishing silver!” She sat on one of the sofas, which was covered in a linen slipcover the color of sand. There
were bright decorative pillows on top of it, splashes of yellow, red, and orange. Shugah made her way into the living room, and Ruthie, immediately, wondered if she was allowed.

During the few years that Ruthie’s family had owned cats—they kept getting run over, and then the kitten was killed and Naomi said no more—their animals had never been allowed in this room. Phil always kept the doors closed for just that reason.

It was in this room that Phil and Naomi had entertained their (infrequent) guests, in this room where they set up the Christmas tree, in this room where Santa had come that one Christmas Eve, bringing with him soft peppermints that you chewed instead of sucked.

Ruthie never knew who that Santa really was. The most logical guess would have been that it was her father, dressed in a red suit and white beard, except Phil was in the living room the entire time Julia and Ruthie were, grinning at his girls. When they demanded to know who Santa was, Phil had said, “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Evelyn returned to the living room, holding two stemmed glasses of wine, each filled nearly to the top. “This is what we call a country club pour,” she said, in her modulated accent.

A country club po-or.

She sat in an upholstered chair catty-corner from Ruthie, crossed her legs at the ankles, and lifted her glass.

“Cheers,” she said, which came out as “cheer-ahs.”

Ruthie raised her glass vaguely in Evelyn’s direction, though they did not clink rims.

“Spencer and I grew up in Atlanta. He attended college here, at Tech. I went to Hollins for my first two years and then to Vanderbilt, where my daughter Lauren also went.”

“My father went to law school there.”

“What was his name again?”

“Phillip Harrison. But he went by ‘Phil.’”

“Oh yes, I knew that. From the documents when we bought the house.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook her head. “But no, I didn’t know him otherwise.”

Ruthie remembered being at a Christmas party at the Loves’ house, when she and Alex were eleven. It was a party for adults, but Mrs. Love insisted the girls put on dresses and come be seen for a little while before going back upstairs to watch
Dirty Dancing
and consume the mini quiches they had pilfered from the buffet. Again and again Ruthie was asked by the Loves’ guests who her parents were, and again and again the guests would, upon hearing her answer, shake their heads and say, “No. No, I don’t know them.”

“When Spencer and I first married we lived in a little starter house in Garden Hills. On Sundays we would drive around this neighborhood, making a game out of pretending we lived in one of the big, beautiful homes on Habersham, or Peachtree Battle, or Wymberly Way. This house was always one of our favorites. But the first time it came on the market, when your father must have bought it, we were still building up our nest egg and couldn’t yet afford it.”

Ruthie did not say anything, but she imagined that most likely Evelyn and Spencer could have always afforded Wymberly Way. Evelyn, with her lockjaw accent and utter certainty of self, dripped old money. Probably she just had some idea of protocol, a planned order of how life should unfold. First the starter house, then the babies, then move into the big one you’ll never leave.

“You’ve done a beautiful job designing the interior,” said Ruthie, who knew from Mimi to say “design” instead of “decorate.”

“My mother loaned me her eye. She was always wonderful with interiors.”

“My aunt has a real gift for it, too. She’s the one who took care of me after the accident, she and my uncle. She ran an interior design firm in San Francisco. Still does, actually, Sullivan Design.”