with no place to go. She could either pour herself another cup of coffee and sit around feeling sorry for herself, or do what she always did when she felt depressed—go to Charleston for some much-needed retail therapy.
With the top rolled back on Bill’s midlife-crisis mobile and Whitney Houston blaring from the radio, Jackie passed the long line of Saturday beachcombers entering the city limits as she headed in the opposite direction. Just thinking about maxing out Bill’s credit cards improved her mood. She would start at one end of King Street and work her way to the other, searching the galleries for any ultra-modern work of art and trendy knickknack she could find.
Bill always preached, “Don’t buy on a whim. Buy things of value that will last, things that will never go out of style.”
His knowledge of antiques was impressive. Unfortunately, he lacked the taste to compliment his collection. With her husband out of the picture, she could hire herself to redecorate Moss Creek Farm. And, since Bill would be paying the bills, she could use her exorbitant consulting fees to buy everything she’d ever wanted.
By the time she’d driven forty miles to Charleston and fought the traffic leading into downtown, her caffeine buzz had transitioned into a headache, dampening her spirits. She merged onto East Bay Street and headed south toward the Battery. Parking on Murray Boulevard, she got out of the car and strolled up and down the promenade, refreshed by the cool salt air on her face. She wove in and out of the residential streets, admiring the restored antebellum homes, peeking through iron gates at hidden gardens, admiring the massive planters overflowing with summer annuals. Exhausted and sweaty, her Tory Burch sandals rubbing a blister between her toes, she found a park bench under a shady oak in Battery Park to rest. Starving, she searched her bag and found a crumbled, partially melted protein bar, which she choked down with half a bottle of warm water.
Stretching her legs out in front of her, Jackie watched a family with identical twin sons and a daughter who climbed on the Civil War cannons. She estimated the boys to be a couple of years older than their sister. When the little girl slid off the cannon and landed on her bottom, the boys rushed to help her to her feet and brush the dirt from her shorts. Jackie imagined the dynamics of her own family if she’d had a third child, a baby girl. She would have called her daughter Annabella, so soft and feminine, the syllables rolling off her tongue. Would Annabella have been a priss pot like Jackie or a tomboy like Sam? Would Annabella’s presence have annoyed Cooper and Sean, or would they have been protective of her like the children playing on the cannons?
If only she hadn’t gone back to work so soon after the twins were born. If only her marriage had been happier. When had her life become one great big if only ? Sadly, the time had long since come and gone for her to do anything about any of it.
The melody from Swan Lake drifted across the street and caught Jackie’s attention. A little girl about eight years old glided across the side porch of her stately home on the toes of her ballet slippers. Tall and lean in a pale-pink leotard and matching tights, with her blonde hair pulled tight in a high bun, the child reminded Jackie of herself at that age. Out of nowhere, two boys appeared in the garden below and began shooting at the little girl with their water guns. The girl stuck her tongue out at the boys and spread her arms wide, welcoming their assault. She curtsied, and they squirted her some more, but when one of them threw a pebble at her, she stomped her foot. “Moommm, Christopher’s throwing rocks at me.”
An adult version of the little girl appeared—simple and elegant in green Capri pants and a white cotton tee. Held in place with a barrette at the base of her neck, her hair was the same white blonde as her daughter’s.
“Leave Lilly alone
With the top rolled back on Bill’s midlife-crisis mobile and Whitney Houston blaring from the radio, Jackie passed the long line of Saturday beachcombers entering the city limits as she headed in the opposite direction. Just thinking about maxing out Bill’s credit cards improved her mood. She would start at one end of King Street and work her way to the other, searching the galleries for any ultra-modern work of art and trendy knickknack she could find.
Bill always preached, “Don’t buy on a whim. Buy things of value that will last, things that will never go out of style.”
His knowledge of antiques was impressive. Unfortunately, he lacked the taste to compliment his collection. With her husband out of the picture, she could hire herself to redecorate Moss Creek Farm. And, since Bill would be paying the bills, she could use her exorbitant consulting fees to buy everything she’d ever wanted.
By the time she’d driven forty miles to Charleston and fought the traffic leading into downtown, her caffeine buzz had transitioned into a headache, dampening her spirits. She merged onto East Bay Street and headed south toward the Battery. Parking on Murray Boulevard, she got out of the car and strolled up and down the promenade, refreshed by the cool salt air on her face. She wove in and out of the residential streets, admiring the restored antebellum homes, peeking through iron gates at hidden gardens, admiring the massive planters overflowing with summer annuals. Exhausted and sweaty, her Tory Burch sandals rubbing a blister between her toes, she found a park bench under a shady oak in Battery Park to rest. Starving, she searched her bag and found a crumbled, partially melted protein bar, which she choked down with half a bottle of warm water.
Stretching her legs out in front of her, Jackie watched a family with identical twin sons and a daughter who climbed on the Civil War cannons. She estimated the boys to be a couple of years older than their sister. When the little girl slid off the cannon and landed on her bottom, the boys rushed to help her to her feet and brush the dirt from her shorts. Jackie imagined the dynamics of her own family if she’d had a third child, a baby girl. She would have called her daughter Annabella, so soft and feminine, the syllables rolling off her tongue. Would Annabella have been a priss pot like Jackie or a tomboy like Sam? Would Annabella’s presence have annoyed Cooper and Sean, or would they have been protective of her like the children playing on the cannons?
If only she hadn’t gone back to work so soon after the twins were born. If only her marriage had been happier. When had her life become one great big if only ? Sadly, the time had long since come and gone for her to do anything about any of it.
The melody from Swan Lake drifted across the street and caught Jackie’s attention. A little girl about eight years old glided across the side porch of her stately home on the toes of her ballet slippers. Tall and lean in a pale-pink leotard and matching tights, with her blonde hair pulled tight in a high bun, the child reminded Jackie of herself at that age. Out of nowhere, two boys appeared in the garden below and began shooting at the little girl with their water guns. The girl stuck her tongue out at the boys and spread her arms wide, welcoming their assault. She curtsied, and they squirted her some more, but when one of them threw a pebble at her, she stomped her foot. “Moommm, Christopher’s throwing rocks at me.”
An adult version of the little girl appeared—simple and elegant in green Capri pants and a white cotton tee. Held in place with a barrette at the base of her neck, her hair was the same white blonde as her daughter’s.
“Leave Lilly alone
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