The leaves were turning, red, oranges, and yellows a stark contrast to the overcast sky. I watched the house appear over the crest of the long driveway and fought all of the emotions this place evoked. The place that had once been part of a grand dream would no longer be mine in a matter of weeks. We pulled to a stop just outside the side door and I slid my sunglasses back over my eyes, thanking Daniel as I stepped out into the fall afternoon. Butterflies floated in my stomach when I pushed the key into the lock and turned the knob then vanished, replaced again by overwhelming sadness as I stepped into the world of what could have been.
The door closed with a click behind me and I wondered for the millionth time if I had made the right decision when I put our dream house on the market. The realtor would arrive soon, I would sign papers, begin to gather the last of my belongings, the things that would seem alien elsewhere, the things that would always be Vermont, and I would watch the dream of a family and a life in Vermont disappear in the rear view mirror.
"The fieldstone fireplace built by hand," I recited walking through the living room, my hand skimming the sofa table we had picked out on a stroll through a local flea market. The gloomy day seemed to fit my mood and I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders. Placing a few logs in the fireplace, then adding some kindling, I went in search of a lighter thinking one last fire wouldn't hurt.
"Marble countertops…." I remembered the day Fitz first showed me the house like it was yesterday. Remembered making love in front of a raging fire, my name dripping from his lips, carried on the breath of his desire and his all-consuming love for me. The memories tucked into every corner of the house were powerful, easily taking me back to the days we spent walking hand in hand through our orchard, sitting on our porch watching dusk turn to nightfall, holding each other in the wee hours of the mornings as we prepared to part. I shivered again, a combination of the chill in the air and the ghosts of days that had long passed. I lit the fatwood and watched the flame dance, resolved that the only way I would move on was to sell the house.
Leaving the fire to warm the family room, I wandered up the stairs, sturdy Vermont pine smooth beneath my palm as I ascended. The house had begun as a promise, a life we would share, children we would raise, and growing old together, now every room held a measure of regret and unfulfilled dreams. I slowly opened the door to the nursery. The crib was long gone, Fitz having taken it back to his family home not long after I left town. Fitz had chosen a hue called "lemon soufflé" for the room, surprising me with the perfectly appointed space for our future child during one of our many weekends spent picnicking, hiking, and spending quality time perfecting our baby-making skills. The yellow had seemed cozy and welcoming when he had opened the door that summer day. We talked of late nights watching our son or daughter sleep, rocking them to sleep in the antique rocker that had been passed down in Fitz's family for generations. I shook myself from the memory, brushing the tears from my eyes before stepping back into the hallway and quietly closing the door behind me.
As I walked past the home office on my way to the master bedroom the doorbell rang. Appreciating that I could postpone saying my goodbyes to the room that by far held the most memories for me, I rushed down the stairs.
"Susan," I smiled as I opened the heavy door. The crisp air hit my face and with it came the memory of autumn bonfires with Karen, Gerry, and Teddy, watching the two older Grant children rake leaves into piles so their younger brother could jump into them again and again, carving pumpkins, and Fitz hiring a nearby farmer to take us on a romantic hayride.
"Ready to get the place sold?" she asked, unbuttoning her coat, "I don't know much about the new family but from what I understand they have 2 kids. They love the yard, what you and President Grant did with the gardens and they just adored the orchard. They said they always dreamed of making…."
"Jam," I finished, tears again pricking my eyes.
Susan gave me a kind smile and placed her hand on my arm. Intellectually I knew that selling the house was what I needed to do but I couldn't stand the thought of someone else making jam in that kitchen, someone else's plants growing in the greenhouse, strangers wondering what caused the scratch in the hardwood floor near the sink or the small dent in the wall at the end of the hallway.
I offered Susan a beverage as she took a seat at the dining room table and began pulling papers from her briefcase. Returning with a glass of water for her and a wine for myself, anything to take away the nerves I now felt deep in my belly, I sat and looked over the pages before me.
"So this is their offer?" I tried not to sound as dejected as I felt but Susan's expression told me I had failed miserably.
"Maybe you're not ready to sell," she suggested with a kind pat of her hand, "It has to be hard to let go of such a beautiful, peaceful place."
It wasn't the place, it was everything it stood for, it was the places in that house where we hid away when the world got to be too much, it was the nights we spent talking about our dreams, it was the weeks I spent crying, mourning for Gerry, for Fitz, and for what I thought my mother had taken away from him. Those nights I spent wrapped in Fitz's Navy sweatshirt grieving for what we had lost, the same things I still wept for in the early morning hours – our house, our family, our future.
"I don't think I'll ever be ready," I replied, trying to collect myself, "but it's something I need to do."
Susan turned her attention back to the mounting stack of papers before us and I did my best to focus on the task at hand.
"Okay, that should be everything," Susan smiled, straightening the papers, then gesturing to the first, "This is their offer, ten thousand above your asking price. They want everything, the furniture that's left, the artwork, the bed in the master, they just love it all."
"Everything?" It never occurred to me that someone would want things exactly as we had them and for a moment I felt defensive, unsure whether I could leave the house knowing that someone would sleep in the bed where Fitz talked about our future children or sit at the kitchen table where we played Trivial Pursuit and Fitz always let one of the kids win, "I really have to think about that."
"We have two days to get back to them. Think it over and let me know." I was so thankful to have Susan, someone who knew selling the house wasn't just about the property or the material goods.
I took a long swallow of wine then stood to go retrieve the bottle. It was going to take more than a glass for me to look over the itemized list of exactly what the prospective buyers wanted to remain in the house. When I returned Susan was engrossed in a hushed conversation on her cell phone so I picked up the list of items and began to read them over one at a time.
Bed, bedside tables, bench, slipper chair – Master bedroom
Sofas, coffee table, end tables, sofa table – Family Room
Table, chairs, hutch – Dining Room
Table, chairs, stools – Kitchen
Desk, bookcases – Office
I wiped at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater unaware I had even been crying. Seeing my life, the time spent with Fitz in this house, catalogued so neatly, so callously, on the page was a shock to say the least. I composed myself as I continued looking over the list. Finally, after deciding it was all bordering on too much, I lay down the paper and filled my glass again.
"Give it to them," I whispered into my glass, "Whatever they want, just give it to them."
"Are you sure? I know you and President Grant picked out some of that furniture together…" Susan looked surprised at my quick acquiescence.
"Just do it," I tipped the glass back, draining its contents, wondering if Fitz had left any scotch hidden anywhere. I made a mental note to look when I was again alone and turned my attention to Susan, "I can't allow myself to look at most of it anyway."
"I'll let them know then," she smiled, still looking unsure of my hasty decision, "We should be able to finalize a closing date in the next day or so. I'll email you the details for your approval."
We shared a short embrace at the door then I watched the petite brown-haired woman move briskly to her car and disappear from view. Alone again, I added another log to the fire, turning my hands over in the amber glow, the heat warming my chilled hands. I closed my eyes, allowing the crackle from the fire to take me back to the night Fitz told me the house was ours.
This is the house we're going to raise a family in and grow old together. This is our house, Livvie.
"Where did you hide the scotch, Fitz?" I muttered, willing myself not to dwell on what had been as I strode up the steps to what had served as his office. I was surprised when I opened the door and found the room nearly identical to the last time I had dared to venture inside, high back leather chair behind the oak desk, bookshelves full of volumes on subjects from history and politics to science and travel. My eyes involuntarily closed and I inhaled sharply, remembering Fitz's hands running along my spine, sliding to my ass then moving to clutch my hair when he bent me over the desk. My skin heated instantly and goose bumps prickled my arms in memory of him behind me, whispering in my ear, telling me how amazing it felt to make love to me in our house.
I compelled myself to push the memory from my mind and walked to the far side of the desk, opening drawers and rummaging through their contents. It didn't occur to me to worry about what I might find until I opened the top right hand drawer and was met with a stack of papers, every note I'd ever written to him. They were neatly clipped together and appeared well-worn. I involuntarily fell back into his chair, considering the gravity of him keeping the letters. My heart both soared and shattered in that moment. Looking further through the contents of the drawer I found snapshots of us together, tickets to every movie we had seen, the key card from the hotel in Georgia, a news clipping about me joining the Grant campaign and another about me abruptly resigning. The room felt stuffy and I rushed to remove my sweater.
"Oh Fitz…." I felt the tears returning and my heart ached. Had he been back to the house since I left? Did he know I had run to Vermont when he thought I was on a white sandy beach? Or were these mementos left as a means of closure, leaving me, leaving us, in his past. Again, everything so neatly compartmentalized. Everyone had moved on, found new dreams and new endeavors, new places to call their own, new people with whom to spend time. Even I had tried to find new things and new people to occupy my time, but the truth was that I would never truly move on. He would always be part of me, the house would always be part of me. Vermont would forever be synonymous with Fitz and jam and serenity.
I quickly shoved everything back into the drawer, convinced there was no scotch to be found and frightened of finding more of our history lurking in another drawer. Looking at my watch I saw that it was nearly dinner time and decided to send Daniel into town for the makings of a simple meal. I pulled a book from the bookcase and made my way downstairs.
After sending Daniel on his way with a list of what to purchase I settled into the sofa closest to the fire, pulled the knit throw from the back of the couch around my shoulders, and opened the copy of "Fitzgerald Grant: The Early Years". I quickly lost myself in the account of Fitz's childhood, smiling at photos of him sitting in his father's large desk chair as a small child and his thumbs up when he was first elected class president. Photos of him playing baseball and football, smiling as he was crowned homecoming king and looking serious as a member of the debate team.
Why didn't I meet you sooner? What kind of coward was I to marry her and not wait for you?
The words echoed in my mind and I allowed myself to wonder what indeed life would have been like had I met Fitz before he married Mellie. Would our outcome have been different? Would he still have been elected President? Would we have been happy?
The sound of Daniel returning with the groceries rescued me from pursuing my thoughts further and I lay the book on the cushion of the couch before sliding my feet back into my heels and meeting him in the kitchen.
"Thank you Daniel," I smiled, taking a cursory look inside the bags he had deposited on the counter, "You're welcome to join me for dinner."
"Thank you for the invitation but I think I'll just retire to the guest quarters. I think you need your time alone here and there is a football game I was hoping to watch."
"If you change your mind I'm sure there will be plenty," I smiled brightly, a genuine smile, for the first time that day, "Thank you, Daniel…..for everything."
"My pleasure," he smiled blushingly before moving towards the door, "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything else."
I turned my attention to the bags, unpacking them and gathering the ingredients I needed. Filling a pan with water and placing it on the stove to boil, I chopped tomatoes and peeled carrots, adding them to the vegetables already cooking in the sauté pan, hoping the pasta primavera tasted as good as it had when Abby had taught me how to make it. After all of the vegetables were in the pan and the heat sizzled beneath them, I searched for something to stir them. I searched through drawers finding nothing of use before opening the drawer to the left of the sink. It had served as a junk drawer of sorts when the house was used regularly and I was surprised to find it mostly empty save a few pens, a phone book, and a small pale blue box.
My eyes fixed on the box and I tentatively reached for it, my fingers brushing over the edges. I swallowed past the lump in my throat, I knew what was in that box but I didn't know why he hadn't taken it. Willing myself to close the drawer I simply stood staring until I grasped the box, my hand seemingly working of its own volition. I braced my other hand on the counter before slowly opening the box, my knees felt weak and my head swam at the tangible evidence of his promise to me.
"Why Fitz?" I breathed still gazing at the flawless diamond.
I heard the side door open, Daniel no doubt having changed his mind about dinner, and I quickly dabbed my damp cheeks with the linen towel I held.
"So glad you're back," I enthused, not trusting myself to turn around just yet, "I keep coming across things…..they remind me of him….." I took a deep breath, looking towards the ceiling, "Why did you have to leave the ring, Fitz?" I muttered quietly, hoping Daniel hadn't moved close enough to hear.
"Because it's yours, it always was, it always will be." The voice hit me like ice through my veins. My breath caught and tears again stung my eyes as I turned to face him.
Six foot two, brown curls tousled, no doubt from running his hands through them, blue grey eyes, "Hi Livvie," his lopsided grin.
"Hi," I managed, reaching for the counter to brace myself.