“Nothing to be sorry about, lovey.” I put my left hand on top of hers and I know we’re both staring at the diamond ring that looks so out of place on my finger. “It really is beautiful,” she says, lifting my hand for a closer look.
Something falls in the other room, clattering to the floor. “Everything’s okay,” Jill calls out. “Nothing’s broken.”
“She’s a good friend,” Becky says.
“So are you.”
“I should have come down sooner.” The words catch in her throat and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
“You made it to the wedding, you brought the ring and Tommy’s tux, and you kept everything running back at the office so I could be here, where I needed to be,” I say, comforting her in an odd twist that makes me feel more normal than I have in weeks.
“And now the funeral.” She takes her hand back, wiping away a lone tear. “I’ve got to tell you: the wedding was much more fun.”
We both laugh, stopping as quickly as we started. This isn’t a time for laughter.
The silence that follows feels awkward and unnatural, another reminder that I have no clue how to do any of this.
The kettle blows, its sharp whistle a welcome distraction.
“Tea’s ready,” Jill says, coming down the hall with a dishrag in her hands, looking like she’s busy at work in the café. “Do you want a cup?” she asks Becky.
“I’d love one, thanks.”
I give Becky a sideways glance. She hates tea, unless it’s the Long Island iced variety. “You don’t have to,” I whisper.
She ignores me, turning her smile up a notch, and I laugh again, appreciating her gesture. If only these two could stay by my side for all the days ahead, then maybe, just maybe I can get through this.
“Where’s the love bug?” Becky asks.
“Up in her room, I think?” I’m a terrible mother. “Or maybe she’s still out for a walk with Beau.”
“Your tea, madam,” Jill says, handing me the blue mug that’s always been mine. “Careful, it’s hot.” I notice she took a generic mug from the cupboard for Becky’s tea and I’m grateful she didn’t use the red one that was Tommy’s.
It’s too hot to take a sip just yet, so I set it on the coffee table. Before my hand leaves the handle, Jill swoops in with a coaster. I bite my lip to hold back a smile as Becky places her mug on the second coaster Jill made sure was ready and waiting.
“I’m going to run down to my house for a minute,” Jill says. “You’re out of Saran Wrap and I don’t want all this food to go bad.”
“We’re not out,” I tell her. “I don’t think we ever had any.”
Jill smiles. “I’ll just be a second.”
I reach for her hand. “Sit down.”
“But—” she protests.
“Sit.”
“There are a lot of things that still need to be done.”
“And there will be just as many things to do in ten minutes. But sit with me first. Please?”
Jill sighs and throws the dishrag over her shoulder before sitting on the arm of the love seat. “I’m sitting,” she says. “Better?”
“Almost.” I hook my arm around her waist and pull her down beside me. The three of us, squeezed onto the sofa made for two. I link my arm with Becky’s and lay my head on Jill’s shoulder.
“Now it’s better.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wishing I could hold on to this moment, surrounded by the two people left on this planet who know my flaws but love me anyway.
I hear Jill take a sharp breath and I reach for her hand. “In case I haven’t said it enough, I love you girls. Thank you for everything, for being here.”
“Of course,” Jill says, her voice wavering.
“There’s no place I’d rather be, buttercup.” Becky leans her head on my shoulder. “Well, that’s a lie. I’d rather be in Paris with the hottie I sat next to on the flight down here.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Jill agrees.
“We’re all single women now,” Becky says. “Too soon?”
I laugh in spite of myself. I can no easier picture myself a single woman than I can a widow. I stop when I hear a creak on the front porch step. I wonder if it’s Adam. He didn’t come to the house after the service. His kids didn’t exactly make him feel welcome, which I can’t blame them for. Maybe he needed to go for a stiff drink first—that would be like the Adam I used to know. I lift my head, waiting for the knock that should be coming.
“Did you hear something?” I ask when it doesn’t.
Becky shakes her head.
We all listen, but don’t hear anything other than the air-conditioning kicking in. “Must have been my imagination,” I say even though I know it wasn’t.
Knock, knock.
Jill sits up; she heard it, too. “Come in,” she calls.
The door opens, slowly at first and then all at once as she walks in, sucking all the oxygen out of the room.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt. I just . . .” Monica stops midsentence.
The jet-black hair CeCe was trying to emulate falls in soft, frizzless curls in spite of the humidity. Her skin looks flawless as usual and her green eyes have a dewy look about them as if she’s been crying. Which she probably has. As long ago as it was and as badly as it ended, Tommy meant something to her once.
Jill’s the first one off the couch. “Monica,” she says.
“Jill.” They hug curtly and I push the memory of the two of them sitting at the café together out of my mind.
“Would you like something to drink?” Becky asks. “We were just having tea.”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
Jill and Becky make eye contact and both head toward the kitchen, leaving Monica and me alone in the room where, not that long ago, she was reunited with Tommy.
“Do you want to sit?” I offer. I can see her hesitation and I don’t blame her. “Actually, I could use some fresh air.”
Monica looks relieved. She follows me out the door and we both take a seat on the front porch swing, as much space between us as the small bench seat allows.
“It was a very nice service,” she says, using those words again. I’m surprised I didn’t see her there; the crowd wasn’t that big, and she has a knack for making an entrance. “I was a ways back, I didn’t want to make a scene.”
“Thank you.”
“I just, I’m just so sorry,” Monica says. It’s hard to hate her when she sounds so sad and sincere. But it’s also hard to forget that she’s the woman who broke Tommy’s heart before it became mine.
I can hear his voice in my head, echoing one of the last conversations we had. His words about how lonely she is in spite of all the glitz and glamour. About forgiveness, and if he can forgive her, why shouldn’t I?
“I have so many regrets about the things I did, the choices I made. I know Tommy was able to forgive me because he ended up where he was supposed to be, with you and CeCe. She really is something, you know.”
I narrow my eyes at her; the audacity of this woman continues to amaze me. “Of course I know.”
“She’s been coming by the set on her days off,” Monica says.
I sit up straight, trying not to let the shock show on my face. The whole point of Jill giving CeCe Wednesdays off was so she wouldn’t be at the café when Monica showed up, not so CeCe could have the day free to spend with her.
Monica doesn’t pick up on my shift in demeanor or she doesn’t care, because she keeps talking. “It’s hard not to think about what might have been, if things had been different. If I had the baby.” My fists tighten as she says the words that confirm my suspicions of her motives with CeCe. “Anyway, my offer, what I told CeCe, to have her come out to L.A. and stay with me for a few weeks, it’s still open.”
“She is my daughter.” I say the words slowly and clearly so there’s no mistaking the matter. “You may regret what you did, but you can’t undo it. And you can’t have my daughter. She is not
going to Hollywood or anywhere else with you.”
“I hate you!”
I look up. CeCe is standing on the sidewalk, listening to us. Her words shoot straight to my heart.
“Dad would let me go,” CeCe says, and I know she isn’t wrong. She takes the porch steps in one giant leap, throwing the front door open as if she can’t get away from me fast enough.
“CeCe,” Monica calls, trying to help. It doesn’t.
My lost and sad and angry daughter hesitates at the door, glaring in my direction. “I wish it was you that died.”
I stand there, accepting my punishment as I silently count to ten, when I know her bedroom door will slam so hard I’ll feel it in my bones.
Monica stands, looking as out of place here as I would in her world. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”
“That’s one thing we can agree on.”
“Let me just give you my card, in case you change your mind.” She reaches into her expensive purse that matches her expensive shoes and pulls out a shiny white business card.
I fold my arms, making it clear I have no interest in having any contact with her, not now or ever. I walk past her and into the house, closing the door on her once and for all.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
CeCe
The last time I stopped talking to my mom, I only lasted a few hours. But that was different because Dad was there. This time, it’s easy.
It’s already been a few days and I haven’t said a word.
She’s talked to me plenty. More like talked at me. I swear, the title of single parent has already gone to her head and she’s making decisions left and right as if she’s the only one affected by them.
She decided that we’re going back to Atlanta today even though school doesn’t start for three more weeks. I know I threw a fit about coming down here in the first place, but it was different then. Everything was different. I was different.
I lie back on my bed and stare up at the collection of dull stars on the ceiling, spinning the blue yoyo around in my hand.
“CeCe?” Mom calls upstairs as if she’s expecting an answer. She should be happy I’m not talking to her because if I were, she wouldn’t like the things I’d tell her.
To say that I’m mad would be the understatement of the century—she’s managed to single-handedly ruin a life that was already pretty ruined. Now, not only am I a girl without a father, but I’m a girl whose mother put her own selfish pride ahead of her only daughter’s dream. Monica’s not even texting me back now. I wrote her to say I was sorry and that I still wanted to go to L.A. with her. I can tell she read the text, but she hasn’t written back. Mom ruined that, too.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs—too light to be Mom’s. They stop outside my door and whoever it is knocks.
“Come in,” I say, since I know it isn’t her.
“Hey,” Beau says.
“What are you doing?” I sit up. “My mom will kill you if she catches you in here.”
“She’s the one who sent me up,” he says. “To help you with your bags.” Beau looks down at the floor where my suitcase is lying open and empty. “You haven’t packed yet?”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t want you to, either.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me off the bed and into his arms. He kisses the top of my head and holds me. He doesn’t say anything else because he knows there isn’t anything else to say.
“Maybe I can stay with you guys,” I say into his shoulder. “I can keep working at the café to help your mom instead of paying rent.” I look up into his blue eyes, which seem to have lost their sparkle. He gives me a sad smile before bending down to kiss me. His hands slip under my shirt; they feel warm against my back.
Usually, this is when I’d brush his hands away and tell him to stop.
But this isn’t usually.
I pull away from his kiss, only for a second so he can see that I’m smiling, so he knows it’s okay.
The smile he gives me back is anything but sad. With his lips on mine, I let his hands drift a little higher. I step closer into his embrace and his hands fall back down to the curve of my waist.
My lips don’t leave his, but I take a step back. He closes the gap, not allowing any distance to come between us. I take another step back and he follows, like a dance. I stop when I feel the edge of my bed behind my knees. Bringing my arms up around Beau’s shoulders, I pull him with me as I lie down.
He pulls back and stands up. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I reach for his hand and pull him toward me, but he resists. I frown. He’s the one who’s been testing the limits since whatever this thing is between us started.
“Shit, you’re beautiful,” he says, taking a step back. “I want to be with you more than anything.”
“I’m right here,” I say. “But we’re leaving soon.”
“I know. We should get you packed.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He turns around and opens the door to the closet, where all my dresses are hanging. He starts taking them off the hangers one at a time, folding them into my suitcase.
“Everything okay up here?” Aunt Jill asks, coming around the corner and into my room. I can tell from the expression on her face that she’s surprised not to have caught us doing something like what we were doing just a few minutes ago.
“I’m helping CeCe pack.”
“You’re not packed?” Aunt Jill shakes her head. “Okay, well, hurry up. Your mom’s almost ready to hit the road.”
I roll my eyes and hope Aunt Jill knows it’s directed toward my mom, not her.
“Are you going to help me or what?” Beau asks, once his mom is out of earshot.
“I thought you didn’t want me to leave.”
“I don’t,” he says. “But it’s not up to us.” I get up and walk between him and my suitcase. He leans down and gives me a quick kiss before turning back to the closet to get more clothes. I step behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. “You’re not helping,” he says. “Look, my mom is already talking about coming to visit. So I’ll see you soon, and we can talk and text all the time.”
“It won’t be the same.” I drop my hands and step away, looking down for a second, which is all it takes for my stupid glasses to slip. I’m seriously getting contacts as soon as I get back to Atlanta. I’ll call and make an appointment myself, just see if Mom can stop me.
Beau drops the sundress he’s folding into my suitcase. It’s the blue one I wore to the barbecue on the Fourth of July. It feels like that was a million years ago, not just a month.
I look up and meet his eyes for a second, and I have a feeling he’s thinking the same thing. In the time it takes me to look away, his arms are wrapped around me, hugging me tight.
“Ahem.” I look up to find Abigail standing in the open doorway with a disapproving look on her face. I bet she’s never even hugged a guy who isn’t related to her before. “I was sent to supervise.”
Beau gives her a dirty look but doesn’t let go. I’m grateful for one more moment in his arms, but know it won’t be long before they send a whole army up, so I wiggle out of his embrace.
“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well help,” I tell Abigail.
She shrugs and goes to open a dresser drawer, lifting folded shorts and T-shirts in stacks, setting them carefully into my suitcase.
I pull a small duffel out from under the bathroom sink and scoop the contents of the drawers inside it without bothering to look through it all. Better to take everything than realize too late that I forgot something.
A few minutes later, Beau is zipping my overstuffed suitcase and telling me to make sure nothing is left behind.
“Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”
He takes the big suitcase and follows Abigail out the door, leaving me alone for what feels like the last time in my room, even though I know we’ll be
back.
The closet is empty except for all the hangers, and I open the dresser drawers one at a time just to make sure. They’re all empty, too. I look under the bed in case a shoe or something is hiding under there. My breath catches when I see an envelope with my name scrawled across the front in my dad’s handwriting. It must have fallen off the nightstand.
I wonder how long it’s been there—Dad hasn’t been upstairs in weeks, unless he gave it to Mom or one of the nurses. I close my eyes and wrap my hands around it, the last note my dad ever wrote to me. My eyes start to well up, but I wipe the tears away before they fall.
“Cecelia,” Mom calls from downstairs.
I roll my eyes and tuck the note into my pocket. I’ll read it later when I have more time. And a little privacy.
The duffel bag in one hand, I switch the light off with the other and head downstairs.
“Oh, good, you’re ready,” Mom says, coming from the kitchen with a Whole Foods bag full of whatever groceries she decided were worth taking back.
I ignore her and walk past her, into the piano room. I stand in front of the card table, looking down at the puzzle with the white sand beach, the crashing waves, and the clear blue sky. The whole picture is pieced together now, except for one piece that’s missing from the blue sky. That’s the way it should be. If my dad can’t finish the puzzle, it shouldn’t be finished. I look back one more time before I go outside, where Beau is lifting my suitcase into the trunk. I put my duffel bag next to it and close the lid.
Aunt Jill has me wrapped in a hug before I even turn all the way around. “I’m going to miss you so much. Thank you for all your help. Lou’s going to miss you, too.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. I hate goodbyes, and I’ve already had my fair share of them this summer.
Aunt Jill pulls back and looks at me like she’s deciding whether or not to say something else. Of course she can’t resist. She pulls me in again and whispers in my ear, “Be good to your mom. Please, for me. You both need each other.”
“Aunt Lexie?” Abigail says, her voice quiet and mousy like her. For a second, I forgot she was even there.
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