Page 13 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

As we sat in that sticky pizzeria booth, I told them about the young, perpetually irresponsible version of their dad. The guy with the wavy, usually crazy hair and freckles who would stay out all night with friends and somehow manage to make it to an 8 a.m. class. The comically unprepared frat boy who attempted to run a half-marathon without any training on a dare and cramped up afterward so bad he could barely walk for a week. They howled with laughter at the story of the time he went to an evening class dressed as a hot dog so he could go to a Halloween party immediately after.

Benji and Ava heard about the crappy town house that we rented the year after my graduation. I told them how it had kitchen cabinets too high for me to reach anything useful and how Ben, with his six-foot-two frame, would come up behind me and say,“Whatcha need, beautiful?” and then kiss me before going back to whatever conversation or work he’d been in the middle of. I told them how Ben made life easy. He made loving him so easy. Missing him is the hard part.

“No, not even in Chicago,” I tell Jenny. “The kids were so happy to be in this place they’d heard so much about. More than that, though, Jenny, anniversaries are the easy part in some ways. It’s the small moments like tonight when I feel like my heart might explode.”

Jenny takes a deep breath. She and I have always been good at silence. Sometimes, during our otherwise wild college years when we were a thousand miles apart, we would sit on our respective dorm phones and just hang out in silence while we did our homework, occasionally offering a “Hey, you still there?” to ask each other for synonyms or biology terms or simple commiseration. Silence is the deep intimacy of friendship.

“Do you want me to plan a visit to Canopy?” she asks with a hint of genuine worry in her eyes. “I think it’s going to be a relief for you to be in a new place, but I will get something on the calendar if you need me.”

“No,” I quickly answer. “Absolutely not.”

Jenny lives with her husband in Michigan now. She spent weeks away from him last summer when they were newlyweds to help take care of me and now she’s five months pregnant. Thinking back, I realize her visit to Nashville for theMaisyinterview is probably more than I should have asked of her.

“I’ll be fine,” I say with increased firmness. “I will be a boring hamster on a wheel writing nonstop, living in a construction zone,and taking breaks only to heap handfuls of candy into my mouth for sustenance. My agent, Felicity, will probably pop down at some point, and I promised Dr. Lisa that I’dtryto make new friends.”

“Gracie, I love you, but you can get really antisocial without a bona fide extrovert like me or Ben around,” she says with a smile. “Promise me youwill tryto meet new people and carve out something fresh for yourself? Maybe even go on a date?”

“I’ll do my best,” I answer. “Thanks for this, Jenny.”

“Not sure I did anything special, but tell Ava that I solved everything, okay?” she jokes.

“You can do no wrong in that girl’s eyes, but yes, I will. Good night, love,” I say, hitting the little red button before willing myself out of bed and into my pajamas.

—

Our house sitter,Casey, and her boyfriend come by early in the morning to help me get all of the heavy camp trunks and luggage into the car for the drive. It’s not a pretty job, but it fits. One more thing I definitely could not have done on my own.

We also do a lap around the house so that I can give Casey final instructions to make sure things don’t burn down this summer. I remind her of the cleaning and landscaping schedules and also give her the phone number for the former.

“I’d prefer that you not have any raging parties, but if the house gets disheveled for any reason, just call them and they’ll take care of it,” I tell her. “They auto-debit my credit card, and I likely won’t even notice.”

Casey is the most responsible teenager on the block, so I’m nottoo worried, but sometimes it helps to let people know you won’t disown them if they make a mistake and proactively give a solid solution to potential problems.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Harris,” she says. “I’ll take good care of it, and remember that my parents are right across the street. I’m sure they’re watching us on their front door camera right now.”

The kids walk past us with their survival supplies—tablets, snacks, travel bingo boards—for the four-hour drive. I hand over the keys and do one last look inside the house before joining Ava and Benji in the SUV, which has not an inch of free room to spare. They roll down the windows and wave. Casey is their favorite babysitter.

“Good luck this summer, Mrs. Harris,” she yells from the front step as we pull out of the driveway and start our journey.

Chapter 7

The drive into Canopy isas beautiful as I remember, and I’m instantly thankful we decided to make the trip during the morning. The last little bit of the drive is a gorgeous country highway full of rolling hills and mountain views. It all feels like a ceremonial changing of the guard. I instantly feel lighter and less stressed. The mountains have always had this effect on me, but I realize that I haven’t spent enough time with them as an adult.

“Benji, Ava, we’re almost there,” I yell to the back seat. Like magic, they put down their devices and seem to notice the beauty outside the windows for the first time. This will be Ava’s fifth year coming to Transylvania County for camp, but for Benji it’s just the third. They would each have an additional year under their belt if I hadn’t kept them home last summer. It felt too soon for us after Ben’s death to be away from one another.

They both still get transfixed by the mountains and beautiful scenery that we pass and take turns pointing out horse farms tucked into the valleys. When we pass a road marker indicating downtown Canopy is only three miles away, I flip into parent mode.

“Now, remember what we talked about,” I say, starting a classic mom talk. “The house is a mess, and the guy who sold it to us andthe guy who’s going to fix it will both be there when we arrive. Please be polite and try to imagine what it could look like once the repairs are done.”

We pass the small women’s college and the performing arts center on the outskirts of town. We turn off the two-lane highway onto Main Street and Canopy’s small town “skyline” emerges. My heart swells as we pass my and Ben’s short-lived favorites: the lunch spot; The Drip, a fantastic coffee shop; an amazing little bookstore. It’s all so quaint and perfect but without any pretense or pretending. Canopy is just itself. The streets are bustling with guests and residents having lunch.

I steer the car down Wilson Street and pull into the rough concrete driveway, listening to pebbles bounce around under my SUV. Two trucks are already here, which I assume belong to the Anderson brothers. One is a perfectly clean and polished navy blue that you might expect from a real estate agent who needs to make a good impression. The other is a decidedly more worn-in, slightly muddy white work truck with a few dents that are noticeable as I get closer. Maybe I’ll end up being wrong, but I’d make a hundred-dollar bet right now that I’m right on which vehicle belongs to which person.

I take a deep breath. Home sweet home—for the summer, at least.

Before I can even turn off the car, the kids are jumping out and James is emerging from the house. If it were anyone else, it would be strange to see someone walking out ofyourhouse to greet you, but James makes it feel normal.

“Oh my goodness, this must be Benji and Ava,” he says. “I’ve heard so much about you both.”

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