Surviving Valencia

When we returned to Savannah in a couple of weeks, everything would be all set for me. The glossy, weatherproof stickers that said GEORGIA’S BEST CITRUS FRUIT would be ready to be picked up from the printers and all the baby clothes I ordered from France would be waiting for me.

Now I just needed to carry on as if everything was the same as usual.

Chapter 66

The trouble with being back in Wisconsin was that it reminded me of when Adrian and I started seeing each other. All it took was one little stroll down Willy Street and a latte at Mother Fool’s to make me doubt my plan. I realized I had to get out of Madison, because it was making me want to stay with Adrian far too much.

“Let’s go to your family get-together a day early, if your Aunt and Uncle won’t mind us spending an extra day with them,” I told him.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” I figured that if there was anything that would make me glad I was leaving, it would be spending time with my in-laws.

On the Friday morning following Thanksgiving, having successfully navigated the previous days’ Royal Tennenbaumness of Adrian’s family, made easier by Alexa’s absence, we were driving from Iowa up to my parents’ house. Adrian was under the impression that everything between us was fine. He had his entire collection of John Denver CDs spread out on his lap, and he was singing along to his favorites. He kept looking at me and smiling for no reason. My phone was turned off because Bruce Dash and company kept calling with design emergencies.

“Are you ready for some more green bean casserole, Mountain Momma?” he asked, giving my knee a squeeze.

“Sure.”

“Do you like the kind with crispy onions on top or slivered almonds?”

“Both are great.”

“That’s what I think,” he said, nodding and beaming.

Today marked the twenty-first anniversary of Van and Valencia’s deaths. Twenty-one years. The time it took to go from being born to sitting in Paul’s Club with Dannon and Luna all those years ago, toasting to adulthood. I’d lived two thirds of my life without Van and Valencia. Yet a day had never passed without me thinking of them.

“Your dress looks nice,” said Adrian.

“Thanks.” I had sewn it by hand. It was pearl grey with rich gold trim in a four inch band along the bottom. It came just above my knees. I wore deep grey tights and boots with it. The combination of Alexa’s fashion magazines and my addiction to Cut-Throat Couture reruns was turning me into a mad designer. I had cut my hair into a short, swingy bob with choppy layers. Adrian was oblivious to the cliché of a new haircut meaning a woman is starting over.

“What have Roger and Patricia got to say about becoming grandparents?” asked Adrian.

“They haven’t said much. Not many things interest them.”

At Adrian’s aunt and uncle’s house in Cedar Rapids the night before, his family had bombarded us with presents. New clothes, old clothes that had been Adrian’s and Alexa’s, an antique christening gown, passed down over several generations. The backseat was filled with boxes of heirlooms that Adrian was eager to sift through with me. Most women would love to have a man who was so excited to become a father. It was all right here, in front of me, for the taking. I began to suspect that I would never be selling oranges from a trailer.

“Would you mind if I drove awhile?” I asked. Our policy had always been that the driver chooses the music, and John Denver had to go.

“That would be good. I could use a little nap. We can switch at the next exit,” said Adrian.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I have always meant to ask you, what’s the story with that treehouse in your parents’ backyard?” Adrian asked.

“Story? There is no story. What made you think of that?”

He pointed to a farm up ahead with a big treehouse high in the wide branches of an old oak tree. I looked at it, and craned my neck to continue looking as we went past. The treehouse was old and droopy. Nowadays everyone has sturdy, easy-to-assemble play structures instead.

“There is a story,” I admitted. “It was for my brother and sister. I wasn’t allowed up there much. Even when they got sick of it, it was still their territory. After they went to college I went up there a little, but I felt like I had to be sneaky. It was the kind of thing that would have made my parents mad. When they died my dad cut down the rope ladder so I couldn’t get in. What an asshole. Now I think it’s starting to rot. There was a hole in the roof where the water was getting in and wrecking it.”

“Oh,” said Adrian. “What a rotten treehouse.”

“Yes,” I said. “Rotten in every way.”

“Rotten as the day is long.”

“Rotten, rotten, rotten!”