by Tracy Wolff
That Amanda Jacobs had wanted to make a difference in the world, not die off with no more than a gasp.
This woman who hadn’t gotten out of bed in close to two days—who had spent the past eighteen months being little help to anyone—was pathetic. Gabby would be so disappointed in her. The thought of her strong, determined daughter made Amanda want to kick her own ass.
The fury grew until it nearly consumed her—fury at the doctors who hadn’t been able to save her daughter.
Fury at a fate that was so cruel as to gift the world with children like Gabby and Mabulu, only to take them away much too soon.
Fury at herself for withering up and trying to die when there were so many people left to help. So many people who lost children to ways other than cancer. So many children she might actually have a chance to save. Not in Africa, where the conditions were enough to bring her to her knees these days, but here, in Atlanta. Maybe she could make a real difference here.
Completely disgusted with herself and her pity party, Amanda threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Then forced herself to make the walk to the bathroom despite her shaky legs.
Forced herself to step into the shower and stand there as warm water cascaded over her.
And when she got out, she actually made herself put a little effort into her hair and dress, to put on clothes that actually fit—in this case, the new pair of jeans and red blouse she’d bought the day after she arrived in Atlanta.
She’d have to see about getting more clothes if she was actually going to do this. One outfit did not a wardrobe make.
She filled a glass with water and choked down the vitamins she’d bought. Then she smoothed the only lip gloss she had—an old tube she’d found buried at the bottom of her backpack—over her lips and slipped into her favorite pair of walking shoes.
More than once, she started to give up, to let the depression and misery drag her to bed. But she didn’t do it, some sixth sense inside of her knowing that if she gave in now, she’d never find her way to the surface again.
When she had done everything she could to get ready, when she could delay going into the real world no longer, Amanda grabbed her pack and—with a deep breath—walked back into the world.
It hadn’t changed much in two days, and yet somehow, it felt as if everything had changed.
When she got down to the bustling street, she looked both ways, trying to decide which direction to go. Finally deciding that straight ahead was as good a direction as any, she started walking and, except for brief moments at traffic lights, didn’t stop for three hours.
She walked the streets of downtown Atlanta, getting a feel for the city and its inhabitants. Traffic was terrible, the streets congested with cars and buses and more people than she had seen in one place in longer than she could remember.
She kind of liked it. The hustle and bustle of people who knew what they were doing and where they were going seemed to call to her, to tell her that everything would be okay.
Stopping for a pretzel and lemonade from a street vendor, she found herself charmed by his syrupy accent and friendly patter. She ate her treat as she wandered, a little shocked at how good the sweet, cold lemonade felt on her tongue.
As she walked, she exchanged pleasantries with people on street corners, asked directions of a couple of teenage boys hanging outside a coffee shop, and generally fell in love with the sweet rhythm of Atlanta. Before long, her cheek muscles were aching from all the unaccustomed smiling.
When she finally did stop, exhaustion suddenly overtaking her worn-down body, it was in front of a posh beauty salon called Charisma. She almost turned away, almost gave herself permission to hide in her hotel room again. Surely a three-hour walking tour of the city counted for something. She hadn’t sulked, hadn’t wallowed.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe she shouldn’t try to push herself any more.
Still, something kept her from retreating. Maybe it was the little voice in her head that said she needed to push herself further. Maybe it was her fear of losing the modicum of control she’d managed to regain. Or maybe it was just the place she stood before, because if there was anyone in the world who needed a little charisma right now, it was her.
Pushing the door open, she stepped into the plush salon and looked around. It was decorated in lush golds and bronzes with smoky-blue accents. The furniture was ornate, the wall hangings quietly expensive and the people who worked there a little over the top. She fell in love at first glance.
A young girl, maybe eighteen or so, was standing behind the reception desk. Her eyes were heavily made up, her blond hair sticking out of her head in pointy blue-tipped spikes. Amanda wondered vaguely if she’d dyed it to match the interior of the shop.
“Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked in a chirpy yet somehow soothing voice.
Amanda shook her head. “I was hoping someone could fit me in.”
“Oh, sweetie, we don’t normally take walk-ins. But what do you want done? Maybe I can talk someone into staying late.”
“I’m not sure what I want,” Amanda answered, a little nonplussed at being called sweetie by someone who was half her age. Finally, she gestured to herself. “What do you think I need?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, um…” She stumbled over her own tongue. “I’ll be right back.”
Right back actually ended up being more like ten minutes, and Amanda almost left twice, convinced the receptionist had forgotten all about her. But she forced herself to stay. She was tired of people looking at her with pity, tired of people not knowing what to say to her. It might be a long journey back to the land of the living, but she was going to take the first steps right now.
“Brick by brick, my citizens.” Caesar’s words, à la William Shakespeare, came to her, and she kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. She had to start laying the first bricks sometime. Why not now?
The receptionist came back with a gorgeous dark-haired man who had a heavy Southern accent and a flare for bright clothes. As he approached, Amanda blinked a little, wondering if it was possible to burn her eyes on the neon-yellow of his shirt.
“I am Marco. Fiona says you would like a makeover?” He eyed her with the same horrified fascination most people reserved for squashed bugs and traffic accidents.
Still, she liked the sound of that. A makeover. Yes, she would love one of those—it was the closest thing to a do-over this world could come up with. “Yes.” She nodded. “A makeover would be wonderful.”
“Of course.” He reached for a limp strand of her hair. “What exactly would you like done?”
“You’re the expert. What do you recommend?”
The look on his face was priceless and Amanda fought the urge to laugh. She knew she was in bad shape, but really, he almost seemed a little afraid of her.
“What’s your name, sugar?”
“Amanda.”
“Right. Amanda, can I be frank?”
“Of course.” She bit her lip to keep from giggling. Which was strange, as she’d never been the giggling type.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your hair is limper than overcooked spaghetti. Your skin is desert dry. You’ve got bags the size of Texas under your eyes and your nails… I don’t even know what to say about your nails. No offense, sugar, but you look like you’ve spent the past year living under a hot rock. And not in a good way.”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He looked earnest and horrified at the same time. “Close. I’ve been in Africa. I’m a doctor and I was working in a clinic there.”
“Ooh, well, in that case, everything makes so much more sense now.” He shook his head. “Still, before you take off to be super-doc next time, you should really talk to me. We can find some products that won’t let this—” he twirled his finger around to encompass all of her “—ever happen again.”
She forced herself to nod seriously. “Thank you. I appreciate that. So, do you think you can fix me?”
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He sighed hugely, but she would have to be blind to miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Marco can fix anyone, sugar. Although, I admit, you might be a challenge. And I was supposed to get off early tonight.” He sighed again. “But it’s not like I can let you go around looking like that, now, can I?”
He turned to Fiona. “Get Lisa, Charles and Sabrina for me.” Then he pointed at Amanda. “You, come with me.”
She fought the urge to salute as she followed him.
“I’m going to be honest, sugar, Marco does not come cheap. But since you’ve been off doing charity work, I figure I can do no less. I’ll give you fifteen percent off the works—provided you don’t argue with me. All I want to hear from you is ‘Yes, Marco.’ Got it?”
She did salute this time. “Yes, Marco.”
He grinned. “Gotta love doctors. They’re such quick studies.”
For the next four hours—well past Charisma’s usual closing time—Amanda was scrubbed, buffed, dyed, polished and made up. She was also fed, twice, and plied with champagne. When she objected to the second plate of fruit and cheese Marco ordered for her, he simply glared and said, “What did I tell you you were allowed to say, Amanda?”
She sighed. “Yes, Marco.”
“Sweet music to my ears, sugar.” He handed her the plate. “Now eat, because you look a little like a famine victim yourself, and while it works for runway models, at your age, it’s not such a good look.”
“Hey! I’m only thirty-seven.”
He quirked one dark eyebrow. “Seeing as how you looked a good seven years older than that when you walked in here, I rest my case.”
Amanda blanched. She wasn’t vain, but having close to a decade added to her age didn’t exactly do wonders for her self-esteem. “You’re going to help me with that, right?” She was a little surprised by the note of desperation in her voice.
Marco patted her cheek. “Sugar, I already have.”
He spun her around so she could look in the mirror for the first time since she’d gotten there, and Amanda couldn’t help gasping at the woman staring back at her. She was still too tired and too thin—Marco wasn’t a total miracle worker, after all—but she looked about a million times better. He’d shortened her hair into a soft pixie cut that made her eyes look enormous. There had also been something in all the masks and treatments he’d used on her hair that brought the shine back.
And the scrubs and polishes he’d used on her skin had made it glow in a way it hadn’t for far too long. With makeup covering her dark circles and an hour-long massage that relaxed her tense muscles, Amanda looked and felt like a new woman. Or at least, a much improved version of the old one.
Marco walked her to the front and handed her a bag full of makeup and hair products, along with a bill that rivaled one month of her normal salary. She was proud of the fact that she didn’t flinch when she handed him her credit card, though at the same time she couldn’t help figuring out how many children in Africa she could have fed with her evening’s indulgence.
Still, when Marco handed her the credit-card slip, she tipped lavishly. And she didn’t argue when he said, “I want to see you back here next Wednesday for another facial and body scrub. We’ll also change your polish and I can work you in for a massage if you’re willing to come in the morning.”
She started to protest, but when he looked at her over the computer, one black eyebrow cocked warningly, she said the only thing she could in the situation. “Yes, Marco.”
He grinned. “Music to my ears, sugar. Sweet music to my ears. Now get out of here and go do something fun. You look like two million bucks.”
“Yes, but do I look thirty-seven? That’s the real question.”
He laughed and shooed her out the door. “Let’s settle for the fact that you don’t look forty anymore. Okay?”
She nodded as she walked out into the humid Atlanta night. Brick by brick, she reminded herself. Brick by brick.
THREE DAYS LATER, she stood outside a run-down wrought-iron fence and contemplated a different kind of makeover. The antebellum house in front of her was, cosmetically, in bad shape. But the bones were good, at least according to the inspection record the bank had given her. And if she closed her eyes, she could imagine what it would look like all fixed up.
She liked the soft brown of the bricks, but they were in desperate need of cleaning. Much of the trim paint had peeled off, which was just as well. She thought the black was too depressing. Maybe she’d have it painted a nice forest-green—the same shade as Gabby’s eyes.
And Simon’s, a little voice from deep inside of her said, but she ignored it. She’d done an admirable job of keeping herself busy these past few days, of not letting herself dwell on what had happened between them. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it.
Beside her, Carol, the real-estate agent, cleared her throat, and Amanda jerked to the present. This was by far the most run-down of the places Carol had shown her, but it was also the one that spoke to Amanda the most.
Makeover. She held the word on her tongue, savored it. She had given herself a makeover—starting with that trip to Charisma and moving on to a shopping expedition of epic proportions, a regular eating schedule that she forced herself to stick to and even a couple of trips to the hotel gym. The result was she was sleeping better than she had in months, and if she still wasn’t feeling like herself, then at least she was giving it her best shot.
But standing here, looking at this house that seemed to cry out for the same TLC she had desperately needed, she knew she’d found the next step on her journey. She turned to Carol. “I want this house.”
The other woman didn’t look surprised, but then, this was their third trip over here in the past two days. “Okay, then. Let’s get started on the paperwork.”
Amanda nodded, allowing the agent to lead her to her car. As she did, she was struck by an almost paralyzing fear. Was she really going to do this? Settle down here, in this strange city where she knew almost no one?
She thought of Boston again, of her daughter’s bright eyes and pink cheeks as they wandered the streets together, before Gabby had gotten too sick. If she did this, if she bought this house, that time really would become a distant memory.
But it was only a memory, and so was her daughter. Gabby was gone, well and truly gone, and it didn’t matter how much she cried or raged, screamed or bargained, nothing was going to bring her daughter back.
Though she’d known that intellectually all along, the emotional acceptance had been harder to come by. Was still hard to come by. She felt her resolve weaken, felt the words welling up on her tongue. It would be so easy to tell Carol to forget it, that she’d changed her mind.
But even as she started to do that, as she began to stumble backward from this step that suddenly seemed far too much, far too soon, the knowledge that it was now or never welled up inside her. She was at a crossroads. She could choose to wallow in the grief of the past or try to find a way around it to a better, happier future. One where she could once again be a productive member of society.
It wasn’t about letting Gabby go, she realized, as she turned to look back at the house. Her daughter had already left long ago. This was about proving she was strong enough not to crawl into the grave with her little girl—which was a lot harder than it sounded.
But she was tougher than she looked, tougher than she’d ever been, Amanda reminded herself fiercely. And she could do this. Even more important, she would do this. She owed it to her daughter and…she owed it to herself. Better to be alive than the alternative, she told herself grimly. She would do well to remember that.
“I want to hire someone to do another inspection, to make sure that I’m aware of all the problems,” she told Carol, more than a little surprised as the words tumbled off her lips. But she didn’t want to take them back. Not this time. “The bank’s inspection was done six months ago and I don’t want any surprises.”
Carol nodded. “I was going to recomm
end that. There are a couple of very reputable companies in town—I can text you their numbers when I’m at the office.”
“Thank you.”
The older woman smiled. “I’m glad you found a house that will work for you.”
Amanda laughed. “Don’t you mean a house I’m going to have to work for?”
Carol cast a last look at the dilapidated house. “Well, that, too. But I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy every minute of it.”
Amanda put a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes so that she could get one long, perfect look at the house she was going to try desperately to turn into a home. “Funny,” she told Carol. “I have that exact feeling.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SIMON FOLLOWED MARK into The Chophouse, one of his friend’s favorite restaurants in downtown Atlanta and one that just happened to be located in the Loews hotel. As they waited for a table, he couldn’t help positioning himself so that he faced the lobby and could see anyone who happened to walk by.
Which was completely stupid.
It had been three weeks since they’d made love, twenty-two days since she’d kicked him out of her hotel room and her life, and as he stood here, desperate to catch sight of her, he felt like a junkie jonesing for a fix.
He wanted to make sure she was okay, he assured himself. That she was taking care of herself and not wasting away into nothingness. When he’d flown to Africa to get her, he’d promised Jack he would take care of her. It grated a little—okay, more than a little—that he hadn’t been able to keep that promise. If he could see her…
The hostess walked them to the table and he practically dumped Mark on his ass in an effort to get the side of the booth that faced the lobby. His friend gave him a strange look, but he shrugged and slid onto the bench. Simon kept a sharp eye on the small section of the lobby he could still see. Thank God it was the part that led directly to the elevators.