“I want us to have a child however we can.” He looks to the east, although the ocean isn’t visible from where we are. We hear the waves crashing.
“So this is what we could do.” He stops and holds up his hand, reminding me of the crossing guard in junior high. “Dr. Noel said she’s performed thousands of in vitros with donor eggs and she’s arranged gestational carriers for couples. She recommends ART—artificial reproductive technology.”
Our server comes back with the tray in one arm and does an overly dramatic swirl as she places it on the stand behind James. She begins to unload it, putting a small bowl of salad dressing and an undressed plate of kale in front of me. Swiftly she puts James’s already-dressed kale Caesar at his place setting.
The outdoor restaurant is filling up. More women in Eres bikinis with matching sarongs tied around their waists are fanning themselves with their menus. Mostly they use their aviator sunglasses—in pink or rose color—as hair bands, pushing their long, spirally hair off their foreheads. Three women have small children and husbands who hold the younger ones in their arms. Maybe they planned their families together—a toddler and a kindergartner per unit. Did they have tummy tucks after their pregnancies? Or did they do sit-ups for months to drop their post-partum fat? I’ve overheard women whispering about both at the Literary Society. Fat that is earned. A grandmother—truly, she’s a “glamma”—looms to the right of the second husband. Her manner indicates that she’s been at a few outdoor resort lunches with her young grandchildren and their clueless parents. My mother and Mimi start zigging through my head. Everybody’s got something that doesn’t fit—Mimi’s warning against the illusion that most women are privileged and satisfied.
“Jesus, what would our mothers say?” I ask.
“I’m not thinking of our mothers, I’m thinking of us.”
“Now that it’s on my mind, I can’t stop. I’m sorry. It’s that my mother’s Palm Beach side would try to hide the whole thing. You know how she can be and your mother is sort of the same. I imagine she won’t like this plan either. One day we show up with a baby and everyone says, ‘Wow, you weren’t pregnant. What happened?’”
“Your mom is such a cheerleader for you, she’d make up some tall tale,” James says.
As he points this out, I realize how deeply James wants a baby. How important a conversation we are having, how he is searching for a solution.
He is staring at the young families about to order fries and hot dogs for their children. “Maybe we should go.” He starts eating quickly, while I can’t swallow.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
James is the closest to tears since the days when he first spoke about his father. His jaw is set, but he needs to be held. I get up from my chair and go to him. I kneel beside him and whisper, “James, listen…”
”No, not really okay,” he says.
I rise and put my hands on the back of his neck, where his skin is warm and strong. He lifts his right arm and motions for a check. The manager catches this and races over, his blue-and-melon-striped tie billowing in the wind.
A table over, two little girls begin their orders.
“Chicken fingers and fries!” the first, who is about five, shouts out. She is chewing on her braid and her bathing suit looks sopping wet.
“One burger! Two milk shakes!” The second little girl, who is possibly seven, also shouts, “Extra ketchup!”
She holds up an iPhone and the younger one squints to see the screen.
“Girls, say please.” The mother comes along in her sarong and bikini top with a towel in her hand. “Who is too wet to be eating lunch without changing first?”
Our server looks into the distance, sighs. It occurs to me that she might not have any children after all.
CHAPTER 4
ELODIE
“It is only a shell—a facade so far,” I say to Aubrey as we face both the ocean and the Intracoastal. We stand outside the scaffolds that lace together our house-to-be.
“Yeah, but look at the view, Elodie!” Aubrey points to the west, where the sun is setting. Streaks of orange and gold mix with a dusky sky. “And a private beach!” She pivots her head to the east.
I know she’s trying her best to cheer me up, remind me of what I have and not what I’ve lost. Along the shoreline, low waves roll in, scant and steady.
“I know it’s dazzling,” I say. “Especially this time of year.”
“Plus, the season is starting,” Aubrey says. “Mom and Mimi are making plans and talking wardrobes.”
“You and Tyler should come to the Rose Ball at the Shelteere. As our guests.”
Aubrey laughs. “Can you honestly imagine Tyler there? Besides, we’ve got eight bands to hear before Christmas and three festivals, including Rakaskella and EDC Orlando.”
I convinced my sister to come with Tyler tonight. The allure being that the walls are in, so we can do a walk-around. As if she cares or covets any part of this five-bedroom Palm Beach house. How we choose to live has to be far-fetched to her, although familiar.
“I know. But please remember you’re invited, if you change your mind. I’m glad you’re around more these days,” I say.
Whenever she comes to Palm Beach, lithe and lean, with her flowing skirts and flip-flops, the chic younger Cutler sister is welcomed. I’m back, up from South Beach, she posts on Instagram.
“Maybe you and Tyler want to come to a black-tie or two, sit at our table.”
“I’d like that, Elodie, but most nights, like I said, we’re with bands or singers—for the gigs. Tyler really can’t get away and I should be there, too.”
“Sure, I get that.” I mustn’t push her too far. Except my mother and I want her in Palm Beach and she resists. This has been going on ever since Aubrey graduated from college; she never bought into coming back to this narrow island with its linear view of life.
Aubrey tilts her neck forward, part sea horse, part dancer, to look at James and Tyler, standing at the dock. James and I only met Tyler at my parents’ house an hour ago. When he walked in with his frayed jeans and wrist tattoos, I watched my mother’s intake at lightning speed. I wish I had been able to tell her what Aubrey has confided in me, that she has found refuge. Tyler is kind to her and attentive to his work.
“You are sworn to say nothing about him,” Aubrey insisted beforehand. “I want everyone to meet him and decide.”
What remains in the ether is Aubrey’s known pattern. After three months she tosses a man out like rotted fruit, only to drag in another version of the same guy. “Fungible,” that’s what James calls Aubrey’s men. Until now. Tyler and Aubrey have been together eleven months. When he hired her to scout out bands in Miami for his company, Lambent Music, he was working in Los Angeles. There was no office and she was the sole employee. Veronica and I were astonished by how seriously Aubrey took her job, how determined she was to hear the singers, especially women vocalists. The night that he got to South Beach, they met at the Dance Room. Aubrey claims Tyler was splendid. At first they flew back and forth on weekends to be together. Then Tyler decided he could bring performers to Florida as well as find talent in the area. A few months later they hired four full-time people and took office space on Lincoln Road.