Page 52 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Over the last two days, Josh has only left the house twice—first, to go to his place and grab clothes and toiletries and, second, to grab groceries for us.

Otherwise, we’ve been holed up together in the Craftsman.

We talk, make plans, he repairs, I edit my manuscript, and we simply spend time together trying to figure out this new world of ours.

This morning, for the first time ever, I hand him something of mine to read: the prologue for my memoir (Jeannie’s version).

It was the last thing on the memoir to-do list before jumping into the final pieces of my personal editing process.

In the spirit of radical honesty, I don’t hold back when I hand the printed pages over to him.

“This is the fourth time I’ve written these words, and it’s been brutal every time,” I tell him. “I really don’t want it to be how the book starts, but I haven’t figured out a better solution yet, and I need to email the manuscript in a few days. Before anyone else reads it, I want you to.”

I make myself comfortable on the other side of the sofa while he reads, our legs stretched long and intertwined.

He is so engrossed in the pages that he doesn’t look up once.

I study him in deep appreciation—amazed that this man is mine and that I feel strong enough to share the worst day of my life with him.

Yes, everyone will eventually read it, but for a short period of time, the memory—and all of the pain that comes with it—is protected.

When he finishes the last page, he takes a deep inhale and looks up at me.

“Gracie, this is devastatingly beautiful,” he says, not with sympathy or pity but instead with a mix of compassion and pride. “You are an amazing writer. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to experience it for real.”

“Thanks. I know it’s good, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not right…that there is a better way to tell this story.”

“Aside from the fact that it shares the worst day of your life—very eloquently, I might add—what is the challenge?” he asks, and I can see the wheels in his brain turning, trying to help me solve this problem.

“Honestly? Exactly what I said on Maisy’s podcast. Yes, Ben died, but I hate for it to be the way people are introduced to him. I’m no longer opposed to it being in the book, but it’s the wrong first impression. It feels all wrong for who Ben was as a person—a real person—and what he meant to me.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, so don’t give up hope yet. Is there anyone you can call to try and get inspiration?”

I pause and smile at him. If there is anyone who can help me figure this out, it’s her. Plus, she’s really owed an update on my summer in Canopy.

“There is actually someone I can call, and I think that’s a good idea,” I say, crawling over to give him a kiss before I hop off the sofa in search of answers.

—

I pick up my cell phone and dial Ben’s mom, Cecily.

Over the past year, she is the only person who I could truly share my feelings with.

My own mom has been wonderful, but Cecily and I both lost a great love of our lives the day Ben died.

We usually talk multiple times a week, but the calls have been few and far between this summer.

I told her that this would happen with my busy writing schedule.

I didn’t expect falling in love to be another reason I was so busy.

“Darling, it’s so lovely to see you,” she exclaims while her image bounces around the screen. I imagine she is attempting to balance her phone against something on her dining table.

“I’ve missed our conversations so much, Cecily. I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I say apologetically.

We make small talk for a little while. She shares about the crazy house projects that Ben’s dad, Charlie, is attempting to do on his own and how she sneakily calls professionals to swoop in and help.

She tells me about my nieces and nephews, including the oldest, who is headed off to college in a month.

He’s the first kid I’ve known from birth to college matriculation, and it makes me feel a million years old. I tell her as much.

I share with her all about my conundrum with the prologue, and to my relief, she agrees wholeheartedly with my assessment.

“I truly wish that the first impression your readers have of Ben is one of life and joy,” she says, before suggesting a new direction. “Maybe you could tell the story of how you met?”

“That’s actually covered in the last chapter of the book, and it works so beautifully in that spot. I don’t think I can move it,” I say.

“What about the last conversation you had with him?”

“I thought about that,” I tell her. “The one that sticks out in my mind is our drive home from Canopy when y’all had the kids for the weekend. I do love the idea of the prologue being a conversation between Ben and me.”

“Those are my two suggestions—let life and joy be your guide as you try to figure this out,” she adds.

Cecily never lets silence enter a conversation—in person or over the phone. She always has questions or stories. So, when the silence hits after we talk about the prologue, I’m surprised. She stares intently at me, peering over the tops of her cat-eye spectacles.

“What’s his name?” she asks, smiling. My shock registers on the video call, and she adds, “Gracie, I always hoped—no, knew—this call would come.”

Some people are outgoing and extroverted in a selfish way.

They can fill a room but not remember much about the people in it.

Cecily is the opposite. She is boisterous and fun but also observant.

She always reads your body language and looks you in the eye.

Ben got this quality from her and it was something I loved deeply about him.

You leave every conversation feeling heard and appreciated.

Josh is the same, come to think of it. I shouldn’t be surprised that she figured this out.

“His name is Josh,” I say with a shaky voice. “And it’s all a lot to process.”

“Oh, sweetie, start from the beginning. Don’t leave out the details,” she says with caring eyes and a smile.

For the next thirty minutes, I do exactly that, telling her the story from the very beginning.

How Ben and I came to know James, how James introduced me to Josh, the way the summer has unfolded, my creative bursts of genius, the house somehow coming together, the opening of my heart, and my ridiculous attempts to close it right back up again.

I paint her a picture of who Josh is so that she can imagine him in her mind’s eye.

“He sounds wonderful,” she says. “So, what’s the real problem here, my girl?”

“It’s hard,” I explain. I’m crying. “To believe that I am worthy of a second great love. Why me, Cecily? And why so soon after losing Ben? I’m broken and the kids are pretty broken and why is it Josh’s job to be here while we fix it all? He deserves something simpler.”

I’m a mess again, and I can tell that Cecily is fighting her own emotions. It’s also quiet again, making me uncomfortable.

“It’s my turn to talk now, sweetheart,” she says, breaking the silence and launching into a story that I’ve never heard before about her first marriage to the father of Ben’s oldest brother, Sam.

“You’ve known for a very long time that I was married before Charlie, but the story behind the story isn’t one that I’ve told many people.

I met Sam’s dad when I was eighteen. I was head over heels in love with that man from the day we met.

When he asked me to marry him, I was convinced this was the person I’d be sitting on a porch swing with when I was eighty-five.

Of course, it didn’t end up that way. I was six months pregnant when he left me for some girl he met on a work trip.

I listened to your interview the other day, Gracie—that life you described being snatched away?

That was my story, too. Gone in an instant.

I had exactly eighteen months of thinking life couldn’t get any better.

“Charlie and I had been neighbors since we were little kids.

He came home for the holidays that year—his sophomore year at East Carolina—and saw the state of me.

Puffy eyes, swollen belly, unceremoniously served divorce papers a few days before Christmas.

I thought Charlie was taking pity, judging by the way he stared at me.

He had turned into this strikingly handsome guy, and I was a mess.

“It was warm that winter, and I sat out front on my parents’ porch swing for a long time, lost in my thoughts.

Charlie came over at some point in the midafternoon, and we spent hours talking.

It was the happiest I’d been in a long while.

His mom gave him a supper warning and we got ready to part ways, but somehow, he worked up the courage to tell me exactly how he felt about me.

He’d loved me since we were twelve years old.

He had spent most of high school trying to work up the courage to ask me out but could never quite do it.

He didn’t plan to go to college but went away so he wouldn’t have to see me married to someone else. I had been clueless about all of this.

“Then he told me something I didn’t think was possible: that he still loved me, deeply, and if I could open my heart to him, he would love me and care for me—and for the baby.

I refused to believe it, and that’s the whole point of this story, Gracie: I didn’t feel worthy of Charlie’s love.

I didn’t feel worthy of God blessing me with another love story—a real love.

I didn’t feel worthy, period. Charlie had to convince me that I was worthy, and I still almost blew it a few times over the years.