Reality Check?
This blog, a.k.a. DearEasyDiaries, is an ever-evolving picture of the life I’ve been blessed to live, and also struggled to survive at times. My story jumps around a bit (or a lot) and definitely doesn’t travel a straight route; there’s no direct path from Point A to Point B, but then what fun would that be? However, it’s not on purpose that I scramble the timeline, or that I can be a little repetitive about particular events; it’s simply that what I feel comfortable with or am ready to share from day to day varies, and there are several topics which take me far longer to delve into than others,, and oftentimes those subjects intersect with parts of past posts. Many times, while I sit at my laptop and am challenged to “wade” through a particular subject or timeframe, another thought or instance flashes through my mind and the new subject is seemingly effortless to recall or share, so I just go with it. I suppose that kind of spontaneity doesn’t make for the most fluid of reading and with that in mind, I thank you for sticking with me!
I’ve never considered myself a prolific or skilled writer, but I am a passionate collector, and whether its Milagros, Crosses, and other Artworks, or thoughts and memories, I have very distinct ideas about the care and keeping of each. It should probably follow that I would have a particular way to catalog all the thoughts that race through my mind, right? No, that’s not the case…at least not until recently. Originally, my notes were always kept on the pages of the annual calendars I kept, or on scraps of paper that filled boxes and files throughout my house. That system was forced to mature a bit, and take on a more organized approach during one of the years my family lived part-time in Georgia. I was offered an opportunity to contribute a bi-monthly column to the lifestyle insert of the local Brunswick, St. Simon’s Island and Sea Island, Georgia newspaper. I had no formal training in journalism, but was absolutely over-the-moon, and beyond honored at the prospect that had been set before me. Even if my column was only regarded as a “fluff” piece, the subject matter concerned an issue near and dear to my heart, and I penned each feature with the same consideration and care as if writing that column was my sole profession. Animal welfare and my great, good fortune to highlight the attention I felt the topic deserved, occupied a significant part of my life, and I was driven to share that concern with the community which had so generously provided me a forum as well as an equally responsive audience. My column entitled “Camp Canine” marked a starting point and launching pad. Who knew where or if that first attempt and public effort to put my feelings and beliefs in writing would lead anywhere? I certainly didn’t; nonetheless I was then… and am still grateful.
ONE OF MY FIRST COVERS AND A PROUD MOMENT.
My passion for the work I did in Glynn County, Georgia at both the public dog shelter as well as the privately funded Humane Society led me to places and meet people I may otherwise never known, and is something for which I will always feel fortunate to have experienced. While penning a bi-monthly column regarding animal welfare issues is wildly disparate from the direction in which my writing would eventually take me, I feel confident saying that immersion in one’s subject matter is vital to the process of obtaining knowledge. That said, the particular “entry” which I’m about to share, was the start of what would eventually evolve into this blog, although originally “born” years ago in a different form. I hope you’ll bear with me as I try to explain the way it unfolded. Initially, while navigating my way through the complicated and treacherous world of divorce (or at least the divorce I endured) my intent was to write a book, and I even went so far as to obtain intellectual property rights to the title, “Diary Of An Outspouse” and the proposed treatment/outline/pages that go along with it. With that as my premise, throughout the decade spanning 2008 thru 2018 I attempted to work through the process of completing the project, while simultaneously raising kids, battling intense legal warfare being waged against me and attempting to remain sane, all the while remaining committed to building a new, happy home and life for my kids and myself. Those years were overwhelming and exhausting, but also incredibly enlightening. Somewhere along the journey, I discovered that my title (which I went to such lengths to protect and the tedious yet thorough page upon page of outline that went along with it) didn’t come close to scratching the surface of the history leading up to the time I was trying to capture. Nor did that first product contemplate all the years spent and experiences encountered, either before or after the label “outspouse,” was assigned me, and all of the accompanying events which warrant attention. After all, those times were part and parcel of what made me, ME… the outspouse. Additionally over time, seeing and hearing the word so repeatedly became far more than a little tiresome. Now, I confess to just kind of hating the term, and while I rarely, if ever, say the word hate…that’s what the word “outspouse” and the emotion it evokes has come to represent! And because the description does manage to effectively conjure up the unfortunate nature of the status it implies, I doubt any of us would care to wear that label for very long, if at all? There’s much, much more to life without being tethered by any one title or identity. Several individuals have suggested that my story and experiences would make for a great series or movie, and while that sounds intriguing, I can’t help but wonder what more I can do now…sooner? I feel driven to discover some way to help all the other “outspouses” out there right now, negotiating their own way through divorce, its aftermath, and oftentimes with the added challenge of co-parenting with a narcissistic, vengeful ex. NO easy task, to say the least! As I continue to chronicle my own journey, which includes so much more than simply being an “outspouse,” I’ll keep looking for, and pursuing, other ways in which I can contribute, give back, and help to make a difference in this world. Working towards achieving that goal has been hugely inspiring, and as such, this blog was born.
First things first…at the time my ex-husband served me with divorce papers, we lived bicoastally between California where I was born and raised, and Sea Island, Georgia, where we had spent several years in response to my then husband’s profession. Much about that has been mentioned in past posts and there’s more to recount in future entries, but for now, it’s worth noting that when I was served, it was without the presence of a much-needed support system. Additionally, because the official process started in Glynn County, Georgia, a beautiful part of the Southeast but very much a “good ol’ boy” environment and not where I was from; it wasn’t home nor where my children and I had a large family network. When Al had my intended “burn notice” delivered, I learned that it meant my children and I could NOT leave Glynn County without Al’s permission. To suggest he might be considered a control freak, doesn’t begin to cover the machinations and obstacles that that man and his team of ghouls were capable of exacting. I’d even go so far as to call the specific circumstances and players involved in my particular situation… fraudulent and corrupt. From what I’ve learned over just the past year or so, my ex, Al, was as deeply embedded in that mire of deceit as was humanly possible! One of the things that kept me “relatively sane” throughout that first appallingly horrid and complex year of my divorce, was a weekly phone call to my “shrink” back home in California. Granted, the term shrink sounds a bit crass but it’s both an appropriate and accurate way to identify James. Not only did he help to “shrink” (or at least hold at bay) the demons that the process created in my mind, but also during those many months, I actually did physically shrink from a size 8 (ok, maybe a 10) to a size 2. The size 2 was pretty short-lived, but you get the idea? Thus, I think the term “shrink” was as fitting an adjective as any other to describe the “therapy” I was receiving. Anyways, James suggested that I put my love for writing to use in a therapeutic kind of way. He proposed that I start an ACTUAL diary, rather than just writing entries in my calendars or on loose sheets of any tablet that proved handy, as I was in the habit of doing. James urged me to write as though I was really talking to someone. Ok…I could do that. Next, and very importantly, he asked me WHO that someone might be? Who could I entrust with all those thoughts…the good, the bad, the ugly, the inconvenient, the scary, and all without fear of being judged? Ironically, the answer was….easy! “Easy” was an actual human from my childhood; she was an amazingly kind, gentle, supportive and genuinely loving being, who had always held a special place in my heart, but would now also hold a place in my healing. With that decision made, all that was left to do was to choose the first vessel; an item which would hold and someday recount and reveal the intimate, real, often volatile, sometimes sweet, and many painful events that would continue to run wild in my mind, my days, and my life for years to follow. So with the first “book” of many to be chosen, that task was completed, checked off, and… here we go!
WHAT “THE DIARY OF AN OUTSPOUSE” MIGHT LOOK LIKE.
September 18, 2007
The steam that enveloped me within those four, white, subway-tiled walls felt as dense and stifling as the heavy, coastal Georgia, salty sea air had felt on my usual, morning beach walk. Somehow, though, the steamy hot shower, with its multiple founts of water pouring down around me, was comforting and helped calm the crazy mix of jumbled thoughts and demons dancing around the inner recesses of my mind. This odd new combination of terror mixed with a sensation of partial paralysis which had taken over my body for the past five days felt like a vice, tightening its grip with each passing day. I could actually feel my physical frame shrinking; it made turning off the stream of hot water, and ending my one complete escape for the day, all the more unpleasant. This one corner of our rather large, but unusually warm, historic and inviting home, which I completely adored, had taken on an entirely new identity; it was no mere master suite any longer…it had become my safe space. Stepping out of the hot, relaxing, albeit far too brief shower, I wrapped myself in one of the many, oversized, thick, white bath sheets neatly folded and stacked beneath the sink, and turned to face the fog, and steam-filled mirror, that consumed the stark wall of more white tile behind the lengthy counter of marbled vanity, with its one enormously deep sink, and single shelf of stainless bars below. I dreaded seeing the state that my four-day old, tear stained face with its puffy and blood shot eyes might have taken on…and with good reason! The face staring back at me was a sobering vision, but interestingly enough, seemed the perfect complement to the empty hole I felt inside. It was almost as though my internal emotions and outward appearance were working in sync to ensure that I was afforded ZERO wiggle room; no chance at all for me to deny, escape or talk myself out of accepting the dismal reality that the past week had brought. What this day, and only God knew how many more such days, held in store was a mystery. Nonetheless, I dried myself off and pulled on a pair of warm, black leggings, fresh from the dryer, and then slipped over, my still damp hair, a softly-worn, lightweight, cashmere pullover. No sooner had I put the clothes on my body, tossed the towel in the laundry basket, when I jumped slightly hearing the shrill ring of our, rarely used, front doorbell. Even though our ivy-clad, white-washed brick, and walled, 1928 Francis Abreu treasure with its sunken, landscaped courtyard, and formal entrance was set amongst a backdrop of lushly planted garden beds, replete with well-established, profusely blooming Camellias, Star Jasmine, Sega Palms, and thick, dense groupings of Ferns set against intricately designed, ivy-covered, iron-barred windows with humidity visibly dripping from each, was to me a work of art, its formal entrance was rarely seen, much less used. The informal pathway leading directly from the enormous Oak draped, gravel parking area in front of Cottage 64 to the side entrance of our oceanfront home, with the whisper of white sand in the very short distance ahead, matched by the comforting vision of our children’s wooden playground, separated by a relatively short, see-thru iron fence from the pool and jacuzzi with a bit of lawn and wall of sea grass providing the only barrier to the always-changing Atlantic Ocean beyond, had become the predominately used entrance to the treasured structure and home we had added to our life for the past three and a half years.
I was followed to the enormous wood framed, thick-glass paned, formal front door by my devoted trio of four-legged “besties,” the two Pembroke Welsh Corgis, Grace and Charlotte, together with German Shepherd Jerrico. The tickling of their varying sizes of canine toenails on the hardwood floors covering all 7000+ square feet of our home, was a constant comfort Somehow, the sweet sound and reassuring cadence of that “pitter-patter” had become a symbol of strength; something I could count on, as my three sentries were never further than a foot or two away. The doorbell screeched again, and seeing who was at the door, I instinctly grabbed Jerrico’s collar with one hand, as I reached to unlock and open the door with my other. Standing there before me was the enormous presence of Parfait, Sea Island flower shop’s delivery man, whose imposing size was matched only by the biggest smile I’d ever seen a person wear. He entered the house, with his customary, booming voice and cheerful greeting, carrying a large crystal vase, dripping with condensation. The vase was holding an enormous bunch of long-stemmed, red roses, and an envelope sticking out from the center of the bouquet. Feeling thoroughly confused and surprised by the delivery, I asked Parfait who the flowers were for, and from whom? My facial expression, as well as the unusually sharp tone in my voice must have been uncomfortably terse, as Parfait looked shaken and the smile vanished from his face. He replied, tentatively, “they’re for you Miss Capone, from himself, your husband.” I could feel the blood draining from my face and tears welling in my eyes, as I haltingly, but stridently responded, “you mean the husband who served me with divorce papers last Friday?”
To this very day, I still feel saddened and ashamed of the way I behaved at that moment, and by the way that I could tell I made that sweet, and gentle giant of a man feel. His voice was trembling and his eyes anxiously searched the entry foyer as he, shakily, asked me where to set the, now wretched expression of floral hypocrisy? I couldn’t speak, but pointed to the carved, antique Pine, console table about five steps away, and Parfait moved faster than I ever imagined to rid himself of that painful symbol, the one which caused me to speak so harshly to him. I’ll never know which one of us, Parfait or myself, felt more embarrassed or more uneasy at that moment? Once I saw the front door close, knew that the courtyard gate was also shut, and watched the white delivery van back out and drive away from our gravel driveway on Tabby Lane, I could do nothing more than sink to the floor, propped against the back of one of the large, linen couches in the living room, immediately adjacent the entry foyer and also the closest place for me to land. I was overcome by yet another uncontrollable wave of emotion and once again, found myself sobbing. There I sat huddled on the floor wondering who, or perhaps more appropriately, WHAT I had fallen in love with and married all those years ago?
This latest breakdown was just one of many that had occurred over the past several days, and each time I was transported back to the prior Friday to relive the horrible few moments and the one sentence that had undermined and shattered my family’s future, as well as dredging up the mixed, but irreplaceable, experiences and memories of the past 17 years. All that seemed to remain were fearful thoughts, and questions of what would become of my marriage, as well as my children’s and my lives?
Sixteen days earlier…
September 2, 2007
It was the Sunday evening of what had become a stifling hot Labor Day weekend, and I couldn’t help but wish, more than a little wistfully, that is was a month or so earlier. We had been back in Georgia for exactly a week, but just ten days prior were still delighting in our hometown and California’s enviable perfect weather. I missed the frequent gathering of family and friends as well as the weekly Sunday suppers spent poolside at Freehaven. We spent the last afternoon of our summer break, waiting for the final “Best In Show” performance of the Santa Barbara Kennel Club’s annual show weekend. Al had spent the entire summer going back and forth between Roblar and Freehaven, and while the summer had definitely held more than its fair share of tense and troubling times, including the “blow-up” with K. Ass and “MP,” (for reference, check my blog entry, “I Know What He Did Last Summer”) I was pleasantly surprised when Al had shown up at the dog show earlier than expected on Sunday. He arrived in a good mood, was genial to everyone gathered ringside to watch the group competition, before the Best In Show finale, and even posed for several pictures with club members and the few judges who were finished with their assignments for the weekend, including Charles Winslew who had awarded our current show dog, Carly, her Best In Show award on Friday. Carly won the Herding Group all three days of the weekend, but had not been Sunday’s BIS victor, and as soon as the show was over, we all drove from Santa Barbara’s Earl Warren Showgrounds to Mercury Air Center in Goleta, the small, private airfield, where our pilot, Greg, was waiting to help load the Jet for our family’s return to Georgia now that summer was officially over for our “little” Capone crew.
Summer 2007 & Its Aftermath
Anyways here we were, back on Sea Island with a week of school already under our belts and in the midst of a very long weekend, but all I wished was for it to be over. Like most other people I usually loved the weekends, and while our traditional Friday Beach Club evening was enjoyable, as our regular Sunday Mass and brunch at The Lodge afterwards had been, I now found myself feeling a bit blue. Normally on a holiday weekend, we would have hosted a Sunday supper for assorted friends, and I would have whipped up a fryer full of chicken, huge bowls of pasta and Caesar salad, together with an assortment of appetizers and beverages, but I was definitely a little more homesick than customary for our usual school-year return and wasn’t feeling inspired to be a very gracious hostess that particular evening. As such, I found myself sitting in my favorite spot in the house, swaying gently back and forth on the extra-deep, dark green cushion covering the wooden swing suspended from the ceiling with heavy iron links, surrounded by my usual stack of magazines and with Jerrico laying off to the side, in what had quickly become “his” spot on the brick floor of our enclosed, oceanfront porch, when Emily walked quietly from the house to the porch, wearing a facial expression that looked like the perfect storm (if there truly is such a thing) of fury and fear. She started speaking, and I could sense that the fear was about to overcome the fury; her voice was low and trembling as she spoke, saying she needed to talk to me. PJ was in his room already asleep, and I responded with a hasty and worried, “yes, of course.” She motioned for me to get up from the swing and follow her, which I did, passing through the living room and down the hallway leading to the bedroom wing, still not having any clue what might be wrong. We walked into the master bedroom, and she closed the door behind us, turning the aged iron knob to the locked position. By then I was really rattled, wondering what it was that held the power to ‘unravel’ my usually composed and confidant 16 year-old daughter? She extended her arm and offered me the pieces of paper in her hand. There were two large sheets of paper from a tablet I recognized, which had notations, numbers and a few quoted sentences in red Sharpie, but none of which made much sense at first glance? Emily proceeded to speak quickly, answering questions before I could even ask them or utter a word.
“Dad’s having an affair; these are the texts, phone numbers and notes I’ve gotten off his cell. I know who she is and have been waiting for the right time to tell you…but there is no right time, I guess. This past week and weekend has been awful, like so much of our entire summer was. He’s been behaving so weird and mean, I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” The words were flying from her mouth, and I made my way across the room to lower myself down on the edge of the bed. I wasn’t certain if I was going to throw up…but I knew I had to sit down. She explained the way she had found out the information, the detailed lengths she had gone to in order to verify the numbers, identify the phone’s owner, and how she had painstakingly copied, word for word, the numerous texts that went back and forth between Al’s cell and this new number. The amount of communication exchanged was startling not just in quantity, but also in the sentiment or rather “sexting” that had been transmitted. This last revelation felt like a strong kick to the stomach, but it also helped me begin to make a bit more sense of the drama-filled summer we had endured, and provided greater insight into Al’s, even more than usual, mercurial moods. I was shattered. The wound that this information would leave wasn’t about to heal anytime soon. Ready or not though, the information Emily shared with me was a reality that I would have to confront. I rose slowly from the bed, steadying myself by gripping the nightstand and reached for Emily who I hugged tightly. I then steered her towards the door, unlocked it, and we quietly walked down the hall together to her small wing at the end. Hugging her again, I tried to comfort and reassure her while she cried, saying she was sorry to have told me. I insisted she had done the right thing, and urged her to get some sleep, telling her I would take care of everything in the morning, and she wasn’t to worry. As I left Emily’s room and started back down the hallway to the master again, my head was spinning. I had NO clue how I was to handle this? In a panic and flooded with emotion, I rushed to my closet, put on a nightgown and climbed into my side of our King bed, which felt waaaay too small right about then. I took two Aleve PM, finished my glass of wine and prayed that I’d fall asleep before Al turned off whatever sports channel had captured his attention and might start this direction. It sounds cowardly I know, but I just had no idea what I might say or do if confronted right then? I felt so miserably naïve, small, and even stupid. Everything that had happened over the summer, including Al’s covert listing of Freehaven, his secretive purchase of Kentucky Road, the ambush by K. Ass and M.P. in addition to Al’s above average animosity, moodiness, and the other utterly unpredictable moves Al had made, was suddenly coming into focus!
September 3, 2007
I woke up extra early, knowing the kids would sleep longer than usual, as it was Labor Day and there was no school. Al was still asleep too, so I got up quietly and headed out to the kitchen to make coffee. Some part of me hoped a fairy Godmother would appear, wave a wand above my head and magically bless me with an instant solution for how to deal with Al and the information Emily had entrusted to me last night? When I first awakened, my head felt a little foggy (hello… Aleve PM and a couple large glasses of wine) but it took all of five, maybe six seconds to snap out of it. The weight of Al’s several betrayals with yet another surprise attack and dramatic situation back in our lives and placed squarely on my shoulders was really getting to me. I felt almost robotic and “out of my body” as I filled the coffee maker’s water reservoir and heaped the scoops of dark French Roast into the filter of the machine. The brewing was not quite finished when I quickly swapped my mug in place of the glass carafe; I couldn’t wait one more minute to taste that warm, strong, and comforting jolt. It couldn’t have been five sips or two minutes later when Al appeared in the kitchen doorway; his expression was stony, and I knew he sensed something was amiss. On any other morning, I would have already been on my way back towards the master to deliver Al’s first cup of coffee to him in bed; a little ritual we had developed over the years and one I particularly enjoyed in Cottage 64, as our master suite with its wall of windows faced directly out onto the Atlantic ocean. Usually I was very content to enjoy that first cup of coffee in bed staring out at whatever colors the sky chose to paint that day. Today, I hadn’t even taken a second mug down from the cupboard, much less entertained the notion of taking a cup of coffee to Al in bed; my pathetic attempt at being mean, I guess? I rallied every bit of strength I could muster, tried my best to remain calm, and focused on speaking clearly No one knew better than me how Al reacted when I (or others) got overly emotional. I clutched the tile countertop of the large kitchen island to strengthen myself and told him that I knew he was having an affair, I knew who she was, and that it was completely unacceptable. I got that succession of phrases out solidly, even with a hint of ferocity, but I could feel my steeliness wavering, as he stared right through me and said I was “crazy and wrong.” His voice was rising as he demanded to know what I was talking about, and who had I been talking to? Again, I harnessed all of the self-confidence I had left…saying simply, “I know it’s true, and you need to get out before Emily and PJ wake up!” I was actually as surprised as I was relieved, when he silently turned and walked back towards the other end of the house. Al returned maybe 5-7 minutes later, having changed from his sweat pants and t-shirt, and now dressed in one of his usual ‘uniforms;’ this specific version featured a navy blue Peter Millar polo shirt with the Sea Island logo, pressed jeans, Cole Haan tasseled loafers, and a woven brown-leather belt. I don’t think he had even bothered to brush either his hair or teeth, but as he looked back while exiting that much-used side entryway door, he only said you’re wrong, and this is no way to handle the situation, before slamming the door behind him. My head was spinning, as I thought about all that had happened over the past summer, as well as the previous 18 years, and weighed those considerations against the overwhelming relief I felt at the moment.
September 4, 2007
How the kids and I got through the rest of that previous, and very long, Labor Day, with little mention or questioning of Al’s whereabouts was surely some kind of beautiful gift God or the universe had decided to give me. PJ didn’t seem remotely concerned or even cognizant that something was “off,” and Emily and I had done our level best to behave as though nothing was amiss. I’m fairly certain that PJ had no idea of the many hushed and emotional discussions that transpired between Emily and I throughout that day, just as I’m also sure he didn’t know that I had called the number on the paper Emily gave me the night before, nor did he know that his Father had been carrying on what seemed like, at least from what I could tell thus far, a pretty serious affair with a woman named Candy, who was apparently a real estate agent back home in Santa Ynez. I would find out MUCH more about her over the next few months, but for the time being all I knew was that she worked for Sothebys, was blond, and her name was disguised in Al’s cell with some kind of code. A reasonable person might draw the assumption she knew Al was married, but didn’t mind. Why would I assume that? Well, call me crazy (you wouldn’t be the first), but I’m pretty sure no one texts in code names unless they have something to hide? If I’m wrong, I’d love to hear another plausible explanation…no, seriously? Regardless of the added weekend drama, I drove the kids to school as usual. I dropped Emily first and then circled back to PJ’s makeshift “homeschool” back on Sea Island next to Al’s temporary office and the always moving, construction site location. We drove across the tiny, two-lane causeway, between St. Simon’s and Sea Island, proceeded through the resident’s entrance of the imposing and guarded Sea Island Gate House, and then continued to PJ’s suite of classrooms.
Brief segue…
Wow… before writing that last sentence, I thought about the reality of the circumstances behind the origin and construction of that gated, guarded, and secure entrance building leading to the narrow six mile stretch of land known as Sea Island. I’ll bet I drove through that gate several thousand times after its creation, but was never struck by the severity or irony of the impact that I felt just now? What its physical presence symbolized then versus what it does now is slightly different, but each hugely representative of a metaphor heralding the efforts and lengths, both seen and unseen that “we” undertake to protect ourselves. It’s also pretty likely that this one brief paragraph will result in a crossover blog entry someday; something that will address the pain, deception, and betrayal that happened within my family of origin and was subsequently transferred into the family of four living in Cottage 64 all those years ago. I promise the subject is absolutely more than a little worthy of further exploration and a post of its own someday… but not today?
For now, I’ll finish the Guard House thought, and the tragic events that precipitated that gated-entry’s arrival! We had just recently purchased Cottage 64, with its oceanfront location on Tabby Lane (12th Street), and had lived there for not quite two weeks, when on one fateful Saturday morning, September 4th 2004, Al and I were sitting in bed enjoying our early morning coffee, talking, and looking out at the ocean before us when we noticed several men running through the sand dunes that not only traversed the entire length of the island, but was also directly in front of our Master Bedroom’s expansive wall of paned windows. Both of us were surprised and taken aback, as we asked one another if what we were seeing was real? To see men darting through the sea grass and sand dunes lining Sea Island’s eastern shore wasn’t a normal sight, at least not something I’d ever seen, not even before we lived in Cottage 64 on Tabby Lane. It felt hugely suspicious and disconcerting too. When we learned later that day where those men had been and what they were running from, I was horrified. I had no idea then, nor could I have imagined the coincidence of what Labor Day weekends would someday come to symbolize? The gruesome details of the horrible incident from which those three men were fleeing, the brutality which their victims had endured, or that that one single event was responsible for Sea Island’s construction of the enormous guard gate which boldly remains today, are difficult realities to wrap one’s mind around? That the ugly and violent scene occurred just four short blocks down from Tabby Lane at the corner of 16th Street and Sea Island Drive would serve as another reminder to remain grateful for my many blessings. Al had never been big on locking doors or taking many other security measures in the recent past, but when he had a security system installed later the same week, the fear from this horrific event was validated! Somewhere, in one of my (gazillion) file boxes, I have a copy of the Sea Island Homeowner’s directory from that year. I believe it was the last year the subject couple’s names appeared on those pages; who would ever want to return to that house and those memories?
Back again…
September 4th 2007
As I steered the G-Wagon onto Sea Island and made the fairly quick, right turn where the old “admin” building and Cloister Collection store were originally located, but which now led instead to Al’s office and PJ’s classroom, I was keenly aware of the silence that filled the car and quickly initiated a little light “chit chat” while simultaneously wondering what the day might have in store? As we approached the abandoned hotel building, now the site of PJ’s interim school as well as the office space for Al, his team of architects, designers, engineers, construction foreman and support staff, I breathed a sigh of relief recognizing that Al’s Porsche was nowhere in sight on the very rough patch of asphalt and ground separating us from the building that was playing temporary host to the variety of livelihoods just rattled off. After walking PJ in to greet Miss Donna, the director of PJ’s team of three teachers, also my personal favorite and a bit of a guardian angel in my eyes, I couldn’t get back to the car and Cottage 64 quickly enough. Taking advantage of an opportunity to digest and process all that had transpired in the past 36 hours was all consuming, so as I guided the car out of the construction zone driveway it was only then, when damn if Al’s Porsche didn’t seem to appear out of nowhere and pulled directly in front of the G-Wagon. He was out of the car and standing beside my door within seconds. I opened the car door and got out to face, yet again, a different man than the one I had asked to leave our house just 24 hours earlier. “This” Al was the carefully measured man who could easily present a sane, calm and warm façade when presented with enough compelling motivation. He asked me how the kids and I were doing, as if nothing had happened at all? His tone and demeanor was similar to any of the thousands of interactions we had exchanged in the past, as if he was returning from another random business trip, or even a long day of work. Surreal, bizarre, and compartmentalized are a few adjectives that come to mind, had I been on the phone with James and he asked me to describe Al’s behavior. My inability to duplicate his cool detachment revealed itself immediately, and I could feel myself looking at him as though he was some freak in a circus? Undeterred, Al continued with another round of questions about the kid’s after-school schedules and activities when I interrupted. Not able to help myself, I stopped him cold. “What in the world is going on in your mind; why are you behaving as though yet another one of your huge secrets and surprise incidents hasn’t just rocked our collective lives and future?” He answered, again coolly, and said simply “none of what you have accused me of is true; I love you and would be happy to sit down and explain everything if you’ll give me the chance?” He even went so far as to say he’d be willing to go to counseling, if that would do the trick and help put my mind at ease?” My frustration was escalating, and I proclaimed abruptly, “I’m not delusional… I know what you’ve done; your calm dismissal and attempt to placate me won’t erase the truth. I can’t just ‘unsee’ the very real evidence of your affair simply because you say so, or because it would be convenient.” I went on explaining I had seen the text exchanges between he and this woman, including the message stating his feelings for her and there was simply no way to ignore that reality. Al’s expression was slowly changing and the usual, predictable touch of aloofness when confronted was creeping back into his tone and deportment.
He was looking at me with an equal measure of irritation and frustration, when he suddenly lost his composure and burst out… “what do you want me to do; how are we going to get past this?”
I was reeling…not just from the bombshell of his infidelity, but also with the memory of our numerous altercations over the summer very fresh on my mind. Dumbfounded by Al’s apparent inability to see the enormity of what his recent betrayals meant to me, I had no idea how to respond or escape the untenable moment. It had been 18+ years since the last time he had been caught, red-handed, cheating. I wasn’t prepared to deal with that same set of circumstances and the resulting feelings again. Plus, now we had two children together, a factor which wasn’t a consideration the first time I learned of, dealt with, and ended up overlooking his infidelity. I composed myself and with every ounce of courage I could muster, looked at him and said “you should go stay at the Blackbanks house for now; I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.” That said, I got in my car and drove down “the drive” to Tabby Lane and Cottage 64’s refuge.
The rest of the day progressed pretty normally, and I tried to focus on holding myself together while I repeatedly poured over the notes, numbers and the visual image Emily had found from the Sotheby’s website of the “bimbo” that had inserted herself into my husband’s phone and life. She wasn’t unattractive; in fact, she actually seemed to fit the mold of all the other women that I knew to be a part of Al’s past. I think I might have been the only brunette that I remember or ever heard of Al becoming involved with? All of the ex’s I knew of were blond, although I don’t recall ever hearing the color of Lorraine’s hair, the girlfriend who committed suicide in the garage of Al’s Long Island waterfront estate ‘The Cliff’s,” but not before blaming Al in the note she left behind, along with her asphyxiated corpse. The bizarre assortment of thoughts that kept popping into my brain were hard to control; what possible difference would hair color have to do with Al’s predilection for deceit and infidelity? More importantly, what was I going to do about our current scenario? How long was it going to take for the fury that I felt inside to ease, and when would the rush of feelings subside long enough to consider a possible resolution? So many unanswered questions. Other than Emily, who discovered and disclosed the news to me in the first place, I hadn’t yet discussed Al’s affair with anyone. It was getting harder and harder though, to keep all this drama bottled up inside, and I felt enormously drained. Finally, I picked up the phone and called my Mom. It was now a decent hour in California, and I so desperately needed to hear a familiar and supportive voice with whom I could safely “vent.” Plus there were questions and feelings I had that wouldn’t have been right to share with my teenage daughter, no matter how mature, thoughtful and caring she was. Some adult subjects need to be shared solely with other adults, and Al’s betrayal absolutely fit into that category. But, I didn’t end up speaking to only my Mom. My youngest sister Lilith happened to be at Mom’s house too, as they lived just a couple doors down the street from one another, and were back and forth quite a bit. It was a huge and welcome release, resulting in an almost hour-long “bitch session,” but I was beyond grateful for an opportunity to express my hurt and anger without having to measure my words. I hung up the phone feeling a bit bolstered, and listened to the string of voicemails that were collecting on our land line. There were a couple messages regarding the upcoming Annual Cancer Gala launch party, which Al and I had been asked to host before we left for our summer break, as well as a call from Jewell to talk about resuming our Friday lunch routine. I wasn’t really ready to speak with Jewell yet, but knew I’d have to soon. She was so dear to me, yet I didn’t want to either burden or worry her with this ugly matter. Jewell and Mac had been more like family than friends over the past decade since we’d become so enmeshed with Sea Island and its southern culture. Mac was the person who originally introduced Al to the James family during their last generational change in leadership of the family-held and operated company in the mid ‘90s, which subsequently led to the development of so many assorted new projects, as well as the complete redesign and building of the storied resort that calls that little sliver of the South East Coast its home. “It” was all hugely the result of Al’s design, planning, and implementation over the past twelve years. I was both awed and inspired knowing the tremendous “force” that Mac was…not just at Sea Island or the surrounding regions, but as the past President of Mead Paper, an innovator, noted contributor to dozens of vital and world renown organizations, companies, charities, serving on “Boards of Directors” all across the country, the subject and standard bearer of compelling reads like, “Up Another Notch,” a husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, dear friend and role model to countless human beings. Lastly and notably, Mac might have been the only single person I ever knew, who unequivocally commanded and held Al’s respect… even reverence. Obviously a unique and significant man, Mac was blessed too with one of the kindest, most genuine, strong ladies and as devoted a wife as I had ever met. Jewell, now too a treasured friend of mine, was not just a friend, but a tremendous example and role model. Our age difference mattered little; Jewell and I shared a deep, if somewhat unconventional, friendship, along with an unspoken understanding of our roles as the wives of dynamic and driven men like Mac and Al. Mac’s longtime association with, and tie to Sea Island, the James Family, and his place as trusted advisor, Board Member and the additional status as a pillar within the community was an integral part of the credibility that had earned Al’s “seat at the table,” so to speak. Al’s own talent held the seat in place, but it wasn’t always an easy position, and I felt almost as responsible as he was for his success. I supported him, smoothed the waters, made friends, entertained his colleagues, volunteered in the community, chaired fundraisers, and most importantly kept he and his home cared for and our children loved. Al had “world experience” that few people in that small island community understood, but he also had a temper when questioned or challenged that accompanied his special skill set. That was often a difficult equation to balance in that land of Southern hospitality. Mac was Al’s “champion” as Jewell was mine. Al and I were proffered opportunities and entrées into a reserved and somewhat exclusive society, and I had always thought we each understood and appreciated the benefit that status afforded our family.
That specific day, however, on September 4, 2007, I was also concerned about the ramifications that Al’s betrayal and any subsequent fallout would have not just on our family and future, but on our friendships and close connections, like Mac and Jewell. With that in mind, I picked up the phone, called Jewell and set up our Friday luncheon plan. I decided not to share my “news” just yet and was committed to keeping a low profile until I had a better understanding of how my feelings about my husband, our marriage and the course I chose to pursue became clearer to me. For the time being, I could talk to James, my Mom and sisters as an outlet, while I sorted through all the considerations that were circling my mind, and thank heavens I had my children. I took my internal struggles and tried to channel them into a positive energy that was directed, devoted, and focused towards them. Al was oddly in and out of the picture for the whole week; he alternated between calling in a rage, or being solicitous even humble, almost vulnerable, combined with retreating in silence. A couple mornings that same week, when I dropped PJ at school in the morning, I saw Al’s car, but not him. He visited PJ’s classroom twice, which PJ was quick to report upon pick-up, but that was the extent of any interaction until the following Monday.
September 10, 2007
I wasn’t terribly computer savvy (if at all) back then and so when Emily came to me early that Monday evening to tell me the internet at Cottage 64 wasn’t working, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do. The answer surfaced about 20 minutes later. The kids were doing homework and I was on the phone in the master suite when I heard a commotion. It turned out to be aggressive knocking (or rather pounding) on our side entrance French doors; in an instant Jerrico was barking and started towards the kitchen, followed by the addition of barking Corgis too. I got off the phone and was heading towards the direction of the noise when the barking stopped. All three dogs were already at the side door, staring at Al, who was standing just outside. I knew as soon as I saw his face, before I reached to open the locked door, that he was fuming. I was afraid to hear what had provoked him this time, but knew there was no choice but to engage. Stepping into the house, he spoke sharply and asked where Emily was? His tone of voice spoke volumes, so before he said even one substantive word I was on edge! As I got to the kid’s hallway I heard PJ’s TV, but rather than correct him for watching and redirect him back to homework, I let it go, not wanting him to get caught in the crosshairs of Al’s lazer-like intensity and anger. I called for Emily from the hallway, and we walked together back out to the kitchen. The minute Al looked at Emily, he lost it; his face turned beet red, and his voice rose to decibels high enough that within seconds, PJ was out of his room and in the kitchen with us. PJ was pleading with his Dad to get out and stop yelling at Emily, while Emily was standing right in front of Al and despite her obvious emotion, not backing down. I grabbed PJ and tried to reassure him it was all going to be ok; he was obviously mad, upset and frantic to protect his sister. I asked PJ to go back to his room, which he did…but begrudgingly. Next, I got in the middle of Al and Emily and demanded he stop his yelling. “What is wrong with you; stop behaving this way and try to be an adult in this conversation!” The situation did not “de-escalate” instantly, but within 20 minutes or so, the bottom line was exposed. Apparently, Emily had gone a little further than just “researching” Candy; she had actually gone on Candy’s real estate office’s website, and wrote a “fairly pointed critique,” (that’s the cleaned-up version) of the woman who had answered the call Emily placed to the “unknown” number in her Father’s cell phone following her discovery of a succession of texts proclaiming their mutual infatuation for one another. Al was FURIOUS, vowing that he would not pay for any wifi, TV, phone or other service at Cottage 64 until Emily agreed to print a retraction. Turning towards me, he asked “don’t you get it?” “She’s threatening to sue you, for the damage done to her reputation from that little internet prank.” Knowing that I would talk to Emily later when we were alone and with a little bit of larceny, not customarily a trait of mine, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to direct a cheap shot at Al, and asked “What damage did I do; I’m not the one having an affair with her? Plus, from the little bit of information I’ve gathered, she HAS no real estate business unless it’s YOURS, and I doubt her reputation is terribly stellar, certainly not after this spectacle with you.” My comment didn’t go over very well, and Al was insistent he wouldn’t leave until Emily wrote a retraction. I confess to getting a bit “down in the weeds,” as my daughter would describe my unfortunate habit of being “slightly” passive-aggressive in the way I phrase particular topics. As such, I spoke back to Al, saying “well, how do you expect her to do that with no internet… since you’ve obviously disconnected it?” Not one of my more mature moments to be sure.
To make a long story short…wait, what the heck did I just say? I’ve never made a long story short. Regardless, Emily finally did agree to write the retraction, which I said I would facilitate by swinging by Al’s office before school the next morning so he could monitor the words that were chosen. That wasn’t good enough for Al, and he demanded Emily go with him to his office that very minute to write and print the retraction. After some more heated back and forth exchanges, that’s what finally happened. I was standing in the kitchen waiting when they returned about 35 minutes later. Emily was obviously shaken; she wouldn’t even look at Al when he attempted to say goodbye, and I can’t say I blamed her. He looked at me and said “thank you, Mizz, that was the right thing to do. I don’t know what’s gotten into Emily?” I spoke quickly, not knowing how long I’d be able to sustain my stern demeanor. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to our daughter… any relationship you may hope to have with her, or any hope of us reconciling is more in doubt now than it was a couple hours ago. You sold out your teenage daughter simply to appease your “slut”… shame on you!” I walked to the doorway where Al was standing and motioned for him to leave. It was a little while longer, after many tears, lots of talking, and more “salty” language, before I got both PJ and Emily settled down. We said good night, and I went to sit in my bed, sipping my glass of Pinot Grigio, staring out Cottage 64’s master bedroom’s picture window into the dark night, listening to the soft sound of waves rolling in, and wondering what “hit” was going to strike next?
September 11, 2007
Not entirely out of the norm, we were a “teensy” bit late leaving the house the next morning, but nonetheless climbed into the G-Wagon and backed out of the gravel driveway for our daily school run! Emily was very quiet, as we pulled into the rear entrance leading to Franklin’s High School building As soon as the car was stopped, I reached over to hug her before she got out of the car, and told her to call if she needed anything! That was the easy part of drop off. When we got back to PJ’s classroom building on Sea Island there was Al, standing outside his Porsche waiting. I got out of the car and walked with PJ to the door of his classroom; he did not acknowledge Al nor his greeting of good morning. Minutes later I walked the short distance back to the car, where Al still stood. I looked at him and searched his face, trying to gauge what might come next. After his behavior the night before, I had no idea what to expect? He looked at me and spoke but with a more vulnerable tone than the man from last evening possessed… “How much longer are you going to punish me Mizz? We HAVE to fix this; it can’t go on?” All I could do was look at Al and say, “It’s been a week, seven days, since I learned about this affair; our children are hurting, I am hurting, and I don’t know what to do? I don’t have an answer for you right now; I can’t erase what happened and make it all better for you this time! I’m not sure what you expected to hear, but I suggest you do what you need to do, because I’m not ready to make any decisions just yet!” As soon as the words were spoken, I climbed back in my car…once again heading for Tabby Lane, Cottage 64 and the little bit of peace it held.
September 14, 2007
It was finally Friday, and the morning school run was finished. Al had been mysteriously absent for the past couple days; I hadn’t seen his car, and he hadn’t attempted to contact either the kids or me since Tuesday morning. I was relieved, but still not ready to “pull the trigger” on any decision that could forever change our entire family’s lives? Even if I chose to forgive Al and tried to patch things up, I knew I’d never feel the same about him. I had already, once before, capitulated and learned to “re-trust” him 18 years ago. Could I do that again, and how would I explain it all to our children. They knew he had been unfaithful, and the range of questions I was fielding daily over the past week weren’t easy ones. This infidelity wasn’t just about me. Al had betrayed our family, as well as our combined and ongoing efforts with all the Georgia to California back and forth travel, and the disjointed lifestyle over the past 8-10 years. The sacrifice our children felt, their perceived loss of stability and their individual preference to be in California was very real; yet once again, everything the kids and I valued was risked due to one of Al’s whims. None of these were easy subjects, and I felt justified in taking time to make such a weighty decision. It didn’t seem unreasonable to require more time than a week and a half to potentially decide the fate of our collective futures? I dialed Jewell’s number as I pulled back onto Sea Island Drive and drove towards Tabby Lane. We were chatting lightheartedly, as I was still being abundantly cautious about divulging anything to anyone, but confirmed our lunch time while pulling into the driveway of Cottage 64. Parking the G-Wagon, I noticed a man in a green polo shirt and khaki pants off to the side of the property, but I figured it was one of Sea Island’s landscape crew, as that was their mandated uniform. Maybe a second or two later, as I was wrapping up my conversation with Jewell, I heard a knock on the window of my driver’s side of the car; I asked Jewell to hold on a moment and rolled my window down. “Can I help you,” I asked? The man in the green shirt, who I now gathered was NOT a member of Sea Island landscape crew spoke, saying “what’s your name?” “Who are you?... I countered. “Are you Mary Capone” he asked? “Yes,” I answered, and BOOM… he responded by tossing a manila envelope through the car window at me while stating, “You’ve been served!”
“MY BURN NOTICE.”
I could hardly breathe, but also realized Jewell had probably heard a good bit of the exchange, as she was still on the other end of the line. I felt paralyzed, but could hear my name being called. It wasn’t actually my name, rather it was Jewell’s voice saying “Darlin…what’s happening, are you alright?” I lifted the cell phone to my ear, and blurted out… “We can’t go to lunch; Al’s just served me with divorce papers!” “Hold on darlin’ I’m getting Mac!” I could hear her calling Mac’s name, but I felt numb. It seemed like forever before I heard Mac’s voice on the other end asking me to recount what had happened. Somehow I spoke, and like a child, did exactly what Mac asked, explaining what had happened over the past couple weeks. True to form, and being the straight shooter he was… stern, strong, and oddly comforting, Mac started speaking, “Mother and I love you all and will be checking on you and the children, but right now, there’s one thing you must do, and do it immediately. “You go take care of business, and find yourself the best damn lawyer you can!”
Wake up call, burn notice, reality check… whatever you choose to call that awakening or the edict I was issued in September 2007, my kids and my lives would be forever altered.