Page 27 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Wait. First of all, that’s still a practical answer. Second, are you telling me that you could be in Italy right this second?”

“Tuscany, to be exact. Probably getting served a drink by some handsome Italian man asking me if there is anything else he can do to help me finish my book,” I say, giggling and raising my eyebrows in a very unsexy attempt to convey romance.

“I would argue that getting your house remodeled is way more valuable than whateverthat situationwould’ve been, even if it means you have to watch me sloppily eat sandwiches a few times a week,” he replies, seeming almost disappointed on my behalf that I’m not in Italy.

“Canopy isn’t a consolation prize,” I firmly tell him. “My mom and best friend, Jenny, both thought I was insane to turn down the residency, but the truth is that I knew after the first few days here that I made the right decision. This all feels meant to be. I feel strongly that Ben would want me here finishing the book, even if I do have to watch tomato juice drip down your chin with alarming regularity.”

The other truth is that I can’t imagine a better summer than the one I’m having. I feel lighter, happier, and more productive than I have in years—not just the last year.

“Canopy is happy you’re here,” he says, before adding, “I’m happy you’re here, too. You should know that. This whole situation we’ve got going on has been good for me, too.”

This makes me smile. Big. It’s hard for me to keep my classic Gracie poker face with Josh. We speak so openly and honestly to one another that playing it cool has become nearly impossible.

“You can’t distract me with that smile, Gracie,” he says, looking maybe just a little off his game. “Next question: Did people say or do anything after Ben died that annoyed you?”

“You mean aside from the standard ‘He’s in a better place’ or ‘The universe has a plan for us all’ sort of crap?”

“I hate when people do that.”

“It’s the worst, but over time I came to realize that most people just have no idea what to say in grief-filled circumstances. Americans are terrible at grief. We let ourselves go to a funeral or memorial and then fold the grief up in our pocket and try to never take it back out again. I’m the worst offender.”

“Is that what made you start writing?”

“I have no idea what possessed me to write the first essay. Honestly, it was like an out-of-body experience. But it was like floodgates opening. I suddenly had so much to say. I think it’s the reason I agreed to start writing the biweekly column. I wanted to make a space to talk about grief and to share what it’s like to live and exist in the thick of it, especially when there are no easy answers.”

“Was there anything people said or did that genuinely surprised you?”

“I mean, I guess I was surprised by how many people wanted to give me advice for ‘moving on’ or ‘getting back out there’ who had never themselves experienced anything like this. You learn a lot about people watching them try to help and console you. Even my closest friends missed the mark on this one.”

“What made you decide to write a memoir? Writing a book looks like a lot of work.”

“So much work. Honestly?”

“Honest answers only.”

“The book advance. I got a huge—well, huge to me—advance. It doesn’t come all in one check. It’s broken out into four payments. I saw the advance offer and the consistent income for a few years and decided that I had to do it. Again, practical.”

“So damn practical. You didn’t have even a moment of wanting to be a published writer?”

“I did think it would be pretty great to hold a book in my hands with my name on the cover. I do get more excited about that as time goes by. That, and leaving my kids with something tangible and important that tells this story of me and Ben.”

“Last one for today before I get back to work. What’s the single most important thing you want to get out of your time in Canopy this summer?”

“I really do want to finish the book here. It feels important but also right. I can’t explain it. I want to leave here knowing myself just a little bit better, too, because I am still figuring out who I am without Ben.”

“I can’t speak to who you were before,” Josh says, piercing me with those eyes. “But I like the person I’m getting to know. I think all of your new friends here would agree.”

I smile and look down, bashful and feeling my cheeks getting red. I’ve always been this way with compliments. Flushed cheeks and a nervous smile. He jumps in for one final question.

“Actually, one more,” he begins, rescuing me from my embarrassed flush. “I’m curious about something after the call from the summer camp yesterday. Do interviewers ever ask you about your kids? It dawned on me that I don’t hear them come up during your interviews.”

“No, not usually,” I respond, grateful for the serious line of questioning to help tackle my rosy cheeks. “Mostly because Lucia, my publicist, sets ground rules with journalists.”

“Rules?” he asks, tilting his head. “You can do that?”

“It’s pretty common to put expectations on the table ahead of an interview—things I’m willing and not willing to talk about,” I explain. “Of course, there’s no guarantee that people will follow rules, but for the most part, journalists do.”

“Can I ask why not speaking about your kids is one of the ground rules?”

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