“Pretty much. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, tragedy strikes, someone dies.” I shrugged, proud that I didn’t feel any heat creeping up my cheeks to give me away. “Throw in some legal courtroom drama, a little unsatisfying but poetic sex, and maybe a beach scene, and you’ve pretty much got it. If that’s your thing, you can’t go wrong with either book.”
“Unsatisfying?” Those eyebrows drew tight as he glanced between the books, then back to me. “Someone doesn’t always die.”
Guess he’d read a Harrison book or two. “Okay, eighty percent of the time. Go ahead and see for yourself,” I suggested. “That’s the reason he’s shelved on this side”—I pointed to the general fiction sign—“and not on this side.” I swung my finger toward the romance marker.
His jaw dropped for a millisecond. “Or maybe there’s more to his stories than sex and unrealistic expectations.” His attractiveness slipped a peg or two as he tapped one of my pet peeves right on the nose.
My hackles rose. “Romance isn’t about unrealistic expectations and sex. It’s about love and overcoming adversity through what can be considered a universal experience.” That was what Gran and reading thousands of romance novels had taught me in my twenty-eight years.
“And, apparently, satisfying sex.” He arched a brow.
I willed my skin not to flush at the way his lips seemed to caress that word.
“Hey, if you don’t like sex, or you’re uncomfortable with a woman embracing her sexuality, then that really says more about you than the genre, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. “Or is it the happily-ever-after you object to?”
“I am all for sex, and women embracing their sexuality, and happily-ever-afters.” His voice went all growly.
“Then those definitely aren’t the books for you, because the only thing they embrace is universal misery, but if that’s what does it for you, enjoy.” So much for leaving behind the Ice Queen. Here I was, arguing with a complete stranger in a bookstore.
He shook his head. “They’re love stories. It says so right here.” He held up one of the covers that happened to have a quote by Gran. The quote. The one her publisher had begged Gran for so often that she’d finally relented, and they’d made do with what she had to say.
“No one writes love stories like Noah Harrison,” I read, a slight smile tweaking my lips.
“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton is a pretty well-respected romance writer, wouldn’t you?” A lethally sexy smirk played across his face. “If she says it’s a love story, then it’s a love story.”
How could someone so devastatingly handsome annoy the shit out of me so thoroughly?
“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton was arguably the most respected romance writer of her generation.” I shook my head, filed Gran’s other book back where it belonged, and turned to walk away before I completely snapped at this guy throwing Gran’s name around like he knew the first thing about her.
“So it’s safe to take her recommendation, right? If a guy wants to read a love story. Or do you only approve of love stories written by women?” he called after me.
Seriously? I pivoted at the end of the aisle, my temper getting the best of me as I turned back to face him. “What you don’t see in that quote is the rest of it.”
“What do you mean?” Two lines appeared between his eyebrows.
“That wasn’t the original quote.” I glanced up at the ceiling, trying to remember her exact words. “What was it… ‘No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison.’ The publisher edited it for the blurb.” That was a step too far. I could almost hear Gran’s voice in my head.
“What?” It must have been the way he shifted under the fluorescent lights, but it looked like his skin paled.
“Look, it happens all the time.” I sighed. “I’m not sure you noticed, but here in Poplar Grove, we all knew Scarlett Stanton pretty well, and she was never one to keep her opinions to herself.” Guess that’s genetic. “If I recall correctly, she did say that he wrote with a flair for description and was…fond of alliteration.” That was the nicest thing she’d said. “It wasn’t his writing she objected to—just his stories.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Well, I happen to like alliteration in my love stories.” He walked by with both books, heading for the checkout. “Thank you for the recommendation, Miss…”
“Ellsworth,” I responded automatically, flinching slightly as it left my lips. Not anymore. “Enjoy your books, Mr.…”
“Morelli.”
I nodded, then walked away, feeling his gaze follow me out the door as Mrs. Rivera rang up both books for him.
So much for getting some peace. Worst part of that whole little spat? Maybe he was right, and the books Gran wrote really were unrealistic. The sole happily-ever-after I knew of was my best friend, Hazel, and, since she was only on year five of her marriage, the verdict could hardly be determined.
Five minutes later, I drove onto our street, passing Grantham cottage, the closest of the rental properties Gran owned. It looked vacant, which was the first time since…ever. Only being a half hour or so out of Breckenridge meant rentals never stayed empty for long around here.
Shit. You didn’t make the arrangements with the property manager. That was probably one of the dozens of unheard voicemails, or perhaps one of my thousand unread emails. At least the voicemail box had stopped accepting new messages, but the emails continued to pile up. I needed to pull myself together. The rest of the world didn’t care that Damian had broken my heart.
I pulled into the driveway of the house I’d grown up in and parked. There was already a rental car at the apex of the semicircular drive.
Mom must be here. That ever-present exhaustion swelled, sweeping over me.
I left my suitcases for later but grabbed my purse before heading toward the front door of the seventy-year-old colonial. The flowers are missing. Perennials popped up here and there, all rather desiccated, but there were no bright splashes of color in the beds that usually lined the drive this time of the season.
The last few years—when she’d been too fragile to spend that much time kneeling—I’d flown out to help Gran plant. It wasn’t like Damian had missed me…though now I knew why.
“Hello?” I called as I walked into the entry hall. My stomach churned at the stale scent of ash in the air. Had she been smoking in Gran’s house? The hardwood looked like it hadn’t been mopped since winter, and there was a thick layer of dust on the foyer table. Gran would have shit bricks to see her house like this. What had happened to Lydia? I’d asked Gran’s accountant to keep her housekeeper on payroll.
The doors to the sitting room pushed open, and Mom came through, dressed for company. Her megawatt smile slipped when she saw me, then widened.
“Gigi!” She opened her arms and gave me the two-second, back-pat hug that had pretty much defined our relationship.
God, I hated that nickname.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” I asked the question gently, not wanting to send her into a meltdown.
She tensed, then pulled back, her smile faltering. “Well…I’ve actually been waiting for you, honey. I know losing Gran was a major blow, and now that you’ve lost your husband, I figured you might need a soft place to land.” Her expression dripped with sympathy as she looked me up and down, grasping my shoulders lightly, ending her perusal with a slightly raised eyebrow. “You definitely look heartbroken. I know it’s hard right now, but I swear the next time will be easier.”
“I didn’t want there to be a next time,” I admitted quietly.
“We never do.” Her eyes softened in a way they never had toward me.
My shoulders fell, and the thick defenses I’d built over the years cracked. Maybe Mom was turning over a new leaf, starting a new chapter. It had been years since we’d spent any real time together, and maybe
we’d finally reached a point where we could—
“Georgia?” a man asked through the opening of the French doors. “Is he here?”
My eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“Christopher, if I could have a second? My daughter just arrived home.” Mom flashed him the million-dollar smile that had snared her first four husbands, then took my hand and tugged me toward the kitchen before I could see into the sitting room.
“Mom, what is going on? And don’t bother lying to me.” Please, just be real.
Her expression flickered, reminding me that her ability to change plans on the fly was second only to her emotional unavailability. She excelled at both. “I’m concluding a business deal,” she said slowly, looking like she was considering her words. “Nothing to worry about, Gigi.”
“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.” Gigi was a little girl who spent too much time looking out the window at taillights, and I’d grown up. “A business deal?” My gaze narrowed.
“It all came together while I’ve been waiting for you to come home. Is that so hard to believe? Sue me for trying to be a good mother.” She lifted her chin and blinked rapidly, her lips pursing slightly like I’d hurt her.
I wasn’t buying it.
“How did he know my name?” Something wasn’t right here.
“Everyone knows your name, thanks to Damian.” Mom swallowed and patted her perfect ebony French twist—her tell. She was lying. “I know you’re hurt, but I really think there’s a chance you could get him back if we play our cards right.”
She was trying to distract me. I swept past Mom and into the living room with a smile.
Two men jumped to their feet. Both were in suits, but the one who had peeked through the open door looked to be a good twenty years older than the other.
“Sorry to be so rude. I’m Georgia Ells—” Damn it. I cleared my throat. “Georgia Stanton.”
“Georgia?” The older one paled. “Christopher Charles,” he said slowly, his gaze darting toward the door, where my mother had made her entrance.
Recognition flared at the name. Gran’s publisher. He’d been the editorial director of her imprint when she’d written her last book about ten years ago at the age of ninety-one.
“Adam Feinhold. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Stanton,” the other, younger one said. Both looked positively ashen as they glanced between my mother and me.
“And now that everyone’s been introduced, Gigi, aren’t you thirsty? Let’s get you a drink.” Mom rushed toward me with an outstretched hand.
I ignored her and took over the large wingback chair at the head of the seating arrangement, sinking into its familiar comfort. “And what exactly would my great-grandmother’s publisher be doing all the way in Poplar Grove, Colorado?”
“They’re here for a simple book deal, of course.” Mom sat gingerly on the edge of the couch closest to me and arranged her dress.
“What book?” I asked Christopher and Adam directly. Mom had a lot of talents, but writing wasn’t one of them, and I’d seen enough book deals to know publishers didn’t just hop on planes for fun.
Christopher and Adam glanced at each other in confusion, so I repeated my question.
“What. Book?”
“I believe it’s untitled,” Christopher answered slowly.
Every muscle in my body locked. There was only one book Gran hadn’t titled or sold that I was aware of. Mom wouldn’t dare…would she?
He swallowed, then glanced toward my mother. “We’re just finishing up some signatures and picking up the manuscript. You know Scarlett wasn’t fond of computers, and we didn’t want to chance something as precious as the only existing original copy to the gods of shipping.”
They shared an awkward laugh, and Mom joined in.
“What book?” This time I asked Mom, my stomach pitching.
“Her first…and last.” The plea in her eyes was unmistakable, and I loathed the way it managed to slice into my heart. “The one about Grandpa Jameson.”
I was going to puke. Right there on the Persian rug Gran had loved. “It isn’t finished.”
“Of course not, dear. But I’ve made sure they hired the best of the best to see it through to completion,” Mom said with a syrupy tone that did nothing to settle my nausea. “Don’t you think Grandma Scarlett would want to have her final words published?” Then she gave me the smile. The one that looked open and well-meaning to outsiders but held pure threat of private retribution if I dared to publicly embarrass her.
She’d taught me well enough that I gave her one of my own. “Well, Mom, I think if Gran had wanted that book to be published, she would have finished writing it.” How could she do this? Broker a deal for that book behind my back?
“I don’t agree.” Mom raised her eyebrows. “She called that book her legacy, Gigi. She was never able to handle the emotions of finishing it, and I think it’s only fitting that we do it for her. Don’t you?”
“No. And, since I’m the only beneficiary of her will, the executor of her literary trust, what I think is all that matters.” I laid out the truth as unemotionally as I could.
She dropped the facade and stared at me in pure shock. “Georgia, surely you wouldn’t deny—”
“So you’re both named Georgia?” Adam asked, his voice pitching upward.
I blinked as the pieces clicked into place, and then I laughed. “This is rich.” She wasn’t just brokering a deal behind my back—she was posing as me.
“Gigi…” Mom begged.
“She told you she was Georgia Stanton?” I guessed, giving the suits all my attention.
“Ellsworth, but yes.” Christopher nodded, his face reddening as he caught on.
“She’s not. She’s Ava Stanton-Thomas-Brown-O’Malley…or is it still Nelson? I can’t remember if you changed it back.” I lifted my brows in Mom’s direction.
Mom flew to her feet and glowered. “Kitchen. Now.”
“If you’ll excuse us for one second.” I flashed a quick smile at the duped publishers, then headed for the kitchen, because I wanted her explanation.
“You will not blow this for me!” she hissed as we reached the room where Gran had baked every Saturday.
Dishes lay scattered on the counter, and the odor of spoiled food lingered in the air.
“What happened to Lydia?” I asked, motioning to the mess.
“I fired her. She was nosy.” Mom shrugged.
“How long have you been living here?”
“Since the funeral. I was waiting for you—”
“Let it go. You fired Lydia because you knew she’d tell me you were hunting for the book.” Pure anger raced through my veins, tightening my jaw. “How could you?”
Her shoulders slackened. “Gigi—”
“I’ve hated that nickname since I was eight years old. Again: stop using it,” I snapped. “Did you really think you’d get away with pretending to be me? They have lawyers, Mom! Eventually you would have had to hand over identification.”
“Well, it was working until you walked in.”
“What about Helen?” I scoffed. “Tell me you didn’t offer up the manuscript without Gran’s agent.”
“I was going to bring her in as soon as they made an official offer. I promise. They’re just here to get the book for a read-through.”
I shook my head at her sheer… I didn’t even have a word for it.
She sighed like I’d been the one to break her heart, and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Georgia. I was desperate. Please do this for me. The advance would help me get on my feet—”
“Really?” My eyes flashed toward hers. “This is about money?”
“Really!” She slammed her hands on the granite. “My own grandmother cut me out of her will for you. You got everything, and I was left with nothing!”
Gui
lt pricked unprotected slivers of my heart, the tiny shards that lived in denial, never quite getting the message that not all mothers wanted to be moms, and mine was among them. Gran had cut her out—but it wasn’t because of me. “There is nothing to give here, Mom. She never finished the book and you know why. She said she only wrote it for family.”
“She wrote it for my father! And I’m family! Please, Georgia.“ She gestured around us. “You have all this. Give me just one thing, and I swear I’ll even split it with you.”
“It’s not about the money.” Even I hadn’t read the book, and she wanted to hand it off?
“Says the girl who has millions.”
I gripped the edge of the island’s counter and took deep breaths, trying to steady my heart, to bring logic into a situation that had none. Was I financially stable? Yes. But Gran’s millions were earmarked for charity—just as she’d wished, and Mom wasn’t a charity case.
But she was my last living family.
“Please, honey. Just listen to the terms they’re offering. That’s all I ask. Can’t you at least give me that?” Her voice wavered. “Tim left me. I’m…broke.”
Her confession hit me straight in my freshly divorced soul. Our eyes met, identical shades of what Gran had called Stanton blue. She was all I had, and it didn’t matter how many years or therapists had come and gone, I’d never managed to wipe out the urge to please her. To prove my worth.
Money hadn’t been the catalyst I’d envisioned.
But that was a statement of her character—not mine.
“I’ll listen, but that’s all.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Mom nodded with a grateful smile. “I really did stay for you,” she whispered. “I just happened to find the book.”
“Let’s go.” Before I start to believe you.
The men had a slight tinge of desperation in their tone as they explained the terms they’d offered my mother. I could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that the gold mine that was the very last Scarlett Stanton book was slipping through their fingers, because they’d never really had it.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 2