I’d finished the manuscript at six a.m. but waited until the clock chimed seven before calling Hazel, and it was a respectable noon before I’d shown up at her place after a quick cat nap. She’d been my best friend since kindergarten—the year Mom left me on Gran’s doorstep for the second time—and our friendship had survived despite the vastly different paths our lives had taken.
“So the book is based on her own life?” She leaned forward and wiggled her finger at her son in the blow-up pool in front of us. “No, no, Colin, you can’t take your sister’s ball. Give it back.”
The mischievous little blond who happened to look just like his mother reluctantly returned the beach ball to his younger sister.
“Yep. The manuscript stops right before she left for the States, at least that’s what the letters indicate. And the letters…” I blew my breath out slowly, trying to exhale the ache in my chest. That love, it wasn’t what I’d had with Damian, and it started to make sense why Gran had been so against my marrying him. “They loved each other so much. Can you believe my mother found an entire box of Gran’s correspondence from the war and never even told me?” I stretched my legs out in front of me, resting one bare foot on the side of the pool.
“Well…” Hazel grimaced. “It’s your mom.” She quickly sipped at her iced tea.
“True.” I felt my sigh in the depths of my bones. Hazel did her best not to go negative when it came to Mom, and truthfully, she was probably the only one I’d allow to, since she’d been around through the worst of it. That was the thing about Mom—I could criticize her, but no one else was allowed to.
“How is it? Being home?” she asked. “Not that I’m not personally psyched that you’re here, because I am.”
“You’re just happy to have someone else around you trust to babysit,” I teased.
“Guilty. But seriously, how is it?”
“Complicated.” I watched her children splash in the mid-shin water and contemplated my answer. “If I close my eyes, I can pretend the last six years never happened. I never fell for Damian. I never met Damian’s…fiancée—”
“Noooo!” Hazel gasped, her mouth dropping open. “He’s engaged?”
“He is, according to the seventeen text messages I’ve gotten today. Thank God for do-not-disturb.” The future Mrs. Damian Ellsworth was now a twenty-two-year-old blonde with much bigger breasts than the ones filling my healthy C cup. I shrugged. “I expected it, seeing as she’s due any minute now.” Didn’t make it hurt any less, but it wasn’t like I could change anything that had happened.
“I’m sorry,” Hazel said quietly. “He never deserved you.”
“You know that’s not true, not at first anyway.” I wiggled my ringless fingers at her two-year-old, Danielle, who gave me a toothy smile in return. “He wanted kids. I didn’t give him kids. In the end, he found someone who could. Does it hurt like a bi—” I cringed but caught myself. Hazel would never let me live it down if her kids started swearing because of me. “That he didn’t exactly wait for our marriage to end before hooking up with his lead? Or that it was on one of Gran’s movies? Sure, but we both know she wasn’t the first girl in his trailer, and she won’t be the last. I don’t envy her that.” I’d been the launchpad for his career. I just hadn’t admitted it until the last few years. “Besides, we both know the love was long gone.” It had died little by little with Damian’s affairs that I’d pretended hadn’t happened, hollowing me out until all I had left to hold on to was my pride.
“Fine, you can be all zen about it. I’ll hate him enough for the both of us.” She shook her head. “If Owen ever did something like that…” Her expression fell.
“He never would,” I assured her. “Your husband is wild about you.”
“He might not be too wild about the twenty pounds I’m still hauling around from Danielle.” She jiggled her belly, and I rolled my eyes. “But in my defense, he’s working up to a dad bod, so we’re even. A sexy dentist dad bod.” She smirked.
I laughed. “Well, I think you look great, and the learning center turned out phenomenal! I passed it on the way into town.”
She grinned. “That’s been a labor of love made possible by a very generous donor.” She sipped her tea and looked over her sunglasses at me.
“We need more Darcys in the world,” I answered with a little shrug.
“Says the woman with a thing for Hemingway.”
“I have a thing for the broody creatives.”
“Speaking of broody creatives, you didn’t tell me that Noah Harrison is drop-your-panties gorgeous!” She swatted my shoulder with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t have to web search him to know that! Details!”
He was exactly that gorgeous. My lips parted, remembering the intensity in those dark eyes. I’d probably spontaneously combust if he ever touched me…not that touching was even a remote possibility. I’d heard more than enough from Damian over the years to know Noah was also a cocky jackass.
“I was a little busy absorbing the fact that my mother tried to sell the manuscript behind my back,” I argued. “And honestly, that man is an arrogant know-it-all who specializes in emotional sadism. Damian tried more than once to buy the rights to a few of his books.” Though I should have probably started questioning anything Damian had told me at this point.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Can we at least agree that he’s a hot emotional sadist?”
A corner of my mouth lifted. “We can, because he is. So hot.” Heat crept up my neck just thinking about how good-looking that man was. “Add that to his career, and his ego is almost too big to fit through the door—you should have heard him in the bookstore—but yes, ungodly, impossible levels of hotness.” I wasn’t even starting in on the intensity with which he looked at me. The guy had the smoldering gaze down to a fine art.
“Excellent. Are you going to give him the goods?” She raised her eyebrows. “Because I’d give him whatever he asked for.”
I rolled my eyes. “If by goods you mean the manuscript and the letters, I haven’t decided yet.” I rubbed my forehead as a lump formed in my throat. “I wish I could ask her what she wanted, but I feel like I already know. If she’d wanted the book finished, she would have done it herself.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“She told me once that it was kinder to the characters to leave them with their possibilities, but she didn’t talk about it much, and I never pushed her.”
“Then why are you considering this?” she asked softly.
“Because it’s something Mom wants that I can give her.” I smiled when Danielle dumped a cup of water over my toes.
“If that’s not a loaded statement…” Hazel muttered with a sigh. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” There was no judgment in her tone, merely curiosity.
“Yeah, I think I am.”
“I get why. Gran would get it, too.”
“I miss her.” My voice broke as my throat constricted. “There have been so many times I’ve needed her over the last six months. And it’s like she knew it, too. She set up all those little packages and flower deliveries for me.” The first had come on my birthday, then Valentine’s Day, and so on. “But everything has fallen apart since she died—my marriage, the production company, my charity work…all of it.” The production company had been hard, since Damian and I had started it together, but leaving it behind had been the only way to move forward. Losing the charity work, the foundation, now that made it blatantly obvious that I needed to find something to fill my days. A job, volunteering…something. There were only so many times I could clean the house, especially since Lydia had come back to help.
“Hey,” Hazel snapped, forcing my gaze to meet hers before she softened. “I get leaving the production company. You hated all the movie stuff, but the charity was more than his connections. The blood, the sweat, and the tears that went into it? Those were all you
rs, and now your future is yours to do whatever you want with it. Go back to sculpting. Blow some glass. Be happy.”
“The lawyers are drawing up papers so I can start putting that money to work.” The only caveat in her will when it came to her fortune was that I give it away to what charities I saw fit. “And it’s been…years since I did anything with glass art.” My fingers curled in my lap. God, I missed the heat, the magic that came from taking something at its melted, most vulnerable state and reshaping it into something uniquely beautiful. But I’d given all that up to start the production company when I got married.
“I’m just saying that I know Gran didn’t throw away your tweezers—”
“They’re called jacks.”
“See, it hasn’t been that long. Where’s the girl who spent a summer in Murano, who got into her first-choice art school and put on her own show in New York?”
“One show.” I held up a finger. “My favorite piece sold that night. It was right before the wedding, remember? The one that took me months.” It was still in the lobby of an office building in Manhattan. “Did I ever tell you that I used to visit it? Not often, just on days I felt like Damian’s life had swallowed mine. I’d sit on the bench and just stare at it, trying to remember how all that passion felt.”
“So go make another one. Make a hundred of them. You’re the only person who gets to put demands on your time now, though I wouldn’t argue if you ever want to come volunteer at the center.”
“I don’t exactly have a furnace, or a block, or a studio—” I paused, remembering that Mr. Navarro’s shop had been up for sale, then shaking my head. “I could definitely volunteer with the reading program, though. Just let me know when.”
“Deal. You know Noah Harrison is going to turn that book into a pain fest, right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“I’m counting on it.” It couldn’t end any other way.
…
Three days later, the doorbell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was time.
“I’ll get it!” Mom called, already clicking her way to the door—which was fine with me, since dread had my butt anchored to Gran’s office chair, debating my choice for the thousandth time since telling Helen to send the final contract.
Three days. That was all it had taken them to hammer out the details. Helen had assured me it was more than fair, and we didn’t give up anything Gran wouldn’t have, including the performance rights—those, she’d only ever sold to Damian, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting any more. In fact, it was the best contract of Gran’s career, which was one of the reasons my stomach churned.
The other reason had just walked into the house.
I heard his voice through the door—deep and sure, tinged with excitement. The more I’d thought about this deal, the more I’d realized that he really was the only one who could do it. His ego was earned in this department. He was a specialist in gut-wrenching endings, and this story surely had one.
“She’s in Gran’s office,” Mom said as she opened one of the massive cherry double doors that had closed Gran off from the world while she wrote.
Noah Harrison filled the doorway, but it felt like he consumed the room. He had that kind of presence—the kind that other men paid thousands of dollars in acting classes to try to pull off for Damian’s films. The kind those actors had to have because they were playing roles Gran had written in her books.
“Ms. Stanton,” he said quietly, sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes seeing far more than I wanted them to.
I looked away, tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, and silenced the part of my brain that nearly corrected him. You’re not Mrs. Ellsworth anymore. Get used to it.
“I think if you’re going to be writing Gran’s story, you can call me Georgia.” I brought my gaze to meet his and noted, to his credit, that he wasn’t staring at the shelves of rare books or even the infamous typewriter that Gran had sworn by in the middle of the desk. His eyes were still on me.
Me. As if I were something just as rare and valuable as the treasures that filled this room.
“Georgia,” he said slowly, as if tasting my name. “Then you’ll have to call me Noah.”
“It’s really Morelli, right?” I already knew the answer, along with just about everything regarding his career up to this point. Whatever I hadn’t known at the time of our unfortunate run-in at the bookstore, I’d been schooled on by Helen. Hazel had taken over when it came to the revolving door of women in his life.
“It’s Morelli. Harrison is a pen name,” he admitted with a slight tilt of his lips.
Drop-your-panties gorgeous. Hazel’s description echoed through my brain as my cheeks flamed. How long had it been since I’d felt real, true attraction to a man? And why the hell did it have to be this man?
“Well, have a seat, Noah Morelli; I’m just waiting for them to send the contract.” I motioned to both of the leather, winged-back chairs across from the one I sat in.
“I signed my portion before driving over, so they’re probably accepting it right now.” He chose the one on the right.
“Would either of you like a drink?” Mom offered from the doorway in her best hostess voice. God bless her, the woman had been on her best behavior since Monday. Attentive. Caring. I almost didn’t recognize her. She’d even promised to stay through Christmas, swearing that I was what brought her back to Poplar Grove in the first place.
“Be careful—all she knows how to make are sodas and martinis,” I whispered loudly.
“I heard that, Georgia Constance Stanton,” Mom lectured with a mock scowl.
“I’m not sure about that. Last time she poured a mean lemonade.” Noah laughed lightly, revealing straight, white—but not fake white—even teeth. Had to admit, I was looking for any imperfection at this point. Even his inability to see a romance through to a happily-ever-after was a mark in his favor at this point, which meant I was looking hard.
“And I can do it again,” Mom said.
Ten years ago, I would have said Mom’s chipper, maternal attitude was everything I’d ever wanted. Now it only served to remind me how hard we both had to try to even act normal around the other.
“That would be great, Ava,” Noah answered, never looking away.
“Me too, Mom. Thanks.” I flashed a quick smile that left as soon as Mom shut the door.
“I couldn’t really care less about the lemonade, but you looked like you were about to grind your teeth into dust.” He crossed his ankle over his knee and sank back into the chair, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned on his elbow. “You always this tense around your mom? Or is it the deal?”
He was observant, just like Gran had been. Maybe it was a writer thing.
“It’s been…a week.” It had been a year, if I was honest. From Gran’s diagnosis to her refusal of treatment, to the burial, to finding Damian with— “So, it’s Morelli,” I said, halting the ever-present downward spiral of my thoughts that threatened to pull me under. “I like that better,” I admitted. It suited him.
“So do I, honestly.” He flashed that public smile, the one everyone in New York wore to functions they didn’t actually want to attend but needed to be seen at.
Those pretty smiles were just one of the many reasons I left that city—they usually melted into ugly gossip the minute your back was turned.
His expression softened, as if he’d noticed my defenses rising. “But my first agent thought Harrison sounded more…”
“Generically American?” I tapped the touch pad on my laptop, willing the contract to appear in my email before either of us had the chance to get snarky like we had in the bookstore.
“Sellable.” He shifted, leaning forward. “And I’m not going to lie, anonymity can be a lifesaver sometimes.”
I cringed. “Or it can lead to arguments in a bookstore.”
“Is that an apology?” That was definitely a smirk.
“Hardly.” I scoffed. “I stand by every word I said. I just wouldn’t have offered my opinion quite so freely had I known to whom I was speaking.”
Delight flickered in his eyes. “Honesty. Now that’s refreshing.”
“I’ve always been honest.” I hit refresh again. “The only people who ever bothered to listen are dead, and everyone else hears what they want to, anyway. Oh look, it’s here.” I sighed in relief and clicked open the email.
I’d gotten pretty good at these since Gran had put all her rights into a literary trust and named me as executor about five years ago, so it only took a few minutes to scan through everything that wasn’t boilerplate. There weren’t any changes from the one Helen had sent over for approval earlier.
When I reached the signature box beneath Noah’s, I gripped the stylus, then paused. I wasn’t just handing over one of her works—I was giving him her life.
“Did you know that she wrote seventy-three novels?” I asked.
Noah’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, and all but one were on that typewriter,” he added, nodding toward the World War II-era hunk of metal consuming the left side of the desk. When I tilted my head, he continued. “It broke in 1973 while she was writing The Strength of Two, so she used the closest model she could find while that one was sent back to England for repair.”
My mouth dropped.
“I can nail all of your trivia, Georgia. I told you,” he said, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers with a half smile more dangerously attractive than the flashier one had been. “I’m a fan.”
“Right.”
My heart thundered as I stared at the stylus. In this moment, the choice was still mine, but the second I signed on that line, her story became his.
You still have final approval.
“I know the worth of what you’re giving me,” he said quietly, his voice low and serious.
My gaze jumped to his.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 7