Khaki

A YELLOW JACKET ON A CAN OF CHEERWINE

One thing I always steer my clients away from is any preconceived notion about design. Maybe they think they hate pattern, but pattern is what a room needs to enliven it. Perhaps they think wood floors feel cold, but they would make the room feel grounded and sophisticated. They think black is morbid, but just a touch would make the other colors in the palette come alive as if illuminated by a spotlight.

That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t believe in preconceived notions about other things. If you’ve never been to North Carolina, for instance, you’ve never had proper barbecue. There’s a big debate in our state about whose barbecue is better, the western part or the eastern. But it’s not much of a competition. Anyone can slop a thick, syrupy sauce over meat. When you can make a pork butt fall off the bone and melt in your mouth with proper seasoning, perfect cooking, and a little vinegar, then you know you’ve got talent.

I was telling Daniel all about that controversy that was as big a part of Southern politics as the War of Northern Aggression as we sat across from each other at a red-and-white checked tablecloth in the middle of the lunch rush at King’s Barbecue. He put down his slaw- and barbecue-filled bun and asked, “What’s the matter, Fran?”

I stopped my hush puppy, almost tasting the crispy, golden fried batter, right before it got to my mouth and said, “What do you mean? I’m great.”

I was lying, of course. I’d hardly been able to raise my paddle that morning at the furniture auction we’d gone to in nearby Wilson; my head was so full of the information I’d stayed up all night reading. As it turns out, surgery for this condition I had was somewhat controversial, some saying it actually made it spread faster. I had read heartbreaking tales of women who had gone through surgery after surgery and in vitro after in vitro only to never have a baby of their own. On the other hand, I’d read about women whose doctors had discovered the disease had ravaged their insides only when they were performing a C-section for third or even fourth children. I knew already that life was unexpected, and, as I lay in bed beside my husband, iPad with tab after open tab, I made a command decision: It would hurt and it would be hard, but I was going to be thankful for my child and refuse to let what I didn’t have overshadow what I did.

That’s not to say I would give up; I simply promised myself that I wouldn’t let a struggle for another baby define Graham and me. I thought back to that Doogie Howser doctor patting my shoulder and saying, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jacobs. We’ll get you pregnant.”

“They’ll get you pregnant,” Graham had snickered on his way out of the office. “I’ll get you pregnant.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Arrogant ass.”

I thought I might as well tell Daniel what was going on; he would find out sooner or later. But before I could detail my encounter at the doctor the day before, my phone rang. Graham, breathless as a boy in a game of touch football, said, “I have to talk to you.”

I mouthed Sorry to Daniel, and he grabbed the check and went around the corner to stand in front of the same cash register that had been in the lobby of King’s since I was a little girl. I leaned back in my wooden-slatted chair and said, “What are you so excited about?”

“It’s fate,” was all he said.

“What’s fate?”

“I just ran into Amy Perkinson at the farmer’s market. You know, from Cowlick Farms?”

I laughed every time I heard the name Cowlick Farms because I thought their slogan was so cute: “No hormones. No drugs. Our cows don’t miss a lick.”

But this time, I was too anticipatory to even laugh.

“I was asking her about the new baby, and, out of the blue, she started telling me about how she had endometriosis. She and Bill had tried for years to have kids when she got referred to an herbalist by a friend.”

My mind flashed back to Virginia making me go see a psychic with her one time. I felt pretty sure that going to an herbalist would be about the same thing. But Graham was so excited that I didn’t want to pop his balloon.

“This is it,” Graham said, using the same voice he used when he wanted to get Alex pumped up to go grocery shopping or something equally boring. “This is a sign, and this herbalist is going to be the one that helps us get our baby.”

I was skeptical at best. I could feel the tears of failure and frustration gathering in my eyes as I hung up, and Daniel, with a fresh sweet tea, said, “There’s no way anybody in this town could keep their weight under control knowing there’s a Pig in a Puppy right around the corner.” When he saw my face he paused. “Oh, I didn’t mean you, Fran. You’re a fox.”

I smiled a little, and he put his hand on my arm and said, “See. I knew something was wrong with you.”

I sighed and stood up, picking up my bag as I did to keep the chair from toppling over. “I’m having a hard time getting pregnant.”

“Ohhhh.” He nodded. “I’m so sorry, shug.”

“Shug. Y’all. We better get you home before you turn into a full-blown Southerner.”

Daniel led me toward the door saying, “I read an article in the Times about how popular Indian surrogates are right now.” He took another sip of his tea. “But that would never work for you.”

“Why not?”

“Fran, you can barely let me, a trained professional, pick out a piece of furniture by myself. No way you could let some woman you’ve never met carry your baby without being there to criticize everything she ate and make sure she was following your strict rules.”

He was teasing me, of course. But it made me realize that I needed to let go a little. Flying back and forth between Kinston and New York had seemed fun at first, but with a child, a working farm, a household to run, aging parents, an antiques store, a design business, volunteer projects, blogging, and a new coffee table book on the way, sometimes the bi-state schedule felt daunting. The idea that I needed to unload something from my very full life, simplify a bit, lingered like a yellow jacket on a can of Cheerwine. I caught myself thinking, After all, I am about to be a mother again. And, for the first time in a while, I realized that I trusted my gut feeling more than what I read on WebMD.