“Mom, the contract is done. It has been for about a month now.” It was all over the news, too—so much for keeping it quiet. Helen was fielding dozens of calls about sub rights. I’d never been so glad to be out of New York City in my life. At least here, I could forward emails or refuse calls from people I knew only wanted access to the manuscript.
In New York, it had been impossible to go to the bathroom at a cocktail party without someone in the industry approaching me about Gran. Then again, I’d always been with Damian, so maybe I’d simply been attending the wrong parties.
“So this little…quarrel you’re having with Noah Harrison isn’t holding it up?” She leaned forward.
“Nope. It’s a done deal.”
“Then why hasn’t the advance been delivered?”
My gaze snapped to hers. “What?”
She fidgeted, her face lining with worry. “I thought the publisher was supposed to pay the advance once you signed.”
“Right, but it’s not all deliverable at once. It takes time on their end.” My stomach churned, but I ignored it. Mom was doing her best, and I had to give her a chance. Jumping to the wrong conclusion would only serve to set our relationship back.
“What do you mean it’s not deliverable all at once?”
Alarm bells chimed in my head, but there was nothing in her gaze except pure curiosity. Maybe she was finally taking an interest? “It’s split in thirds. Signing, delivering, publishing.”
“Thirds.” Mom’s eyebrows shot up. “Interesting. Is it always like that?”
“Just depends on the contract.” I shrugged. “The first part should be in your account any day now, so be sure to watch for it. If it doesn’t show up, let me know and I’ll ask Helen to check up on it.”
“I’ll watch for it,” she promised, rising to her feet. “You look like you’re about ready to work, so I’ll get out of your hair and see what Lydia left us for dinner.”
I shifted in my chair uneasily. “Mom?”
“Hmm?” She turned at the doorway.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I swallowed, hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat.
“Of course, Gi—” She winced. “Georgia. You know, it helped to be around family after my first divorce.” Her smile faltered. “That one took something precious from me, and it was your gran who put me back on my emotional feet and reminded me who I am. A Stanton. That was the last time I didn’t hyphenate, I’ll tell you.” Her knuckles whitened on the door handle. “Don’t ever give away your name again, Georgia. There’s power in being a Stanton.”
My phone lit up with an incoming call. The legal team.
“Your name?” I guessed. “That’s what the first one took?” Say me. Say it cost you me.
“No. I was the naive one who gave that away, but I was twenty. He took my hope.” She motioned to my phone. “You’d better get that.” A little wave of her fingers, and she was gone.
Right.
I swiped to answer the call and lifted it to my ear. “Georgia Stanton.”
…
Two days later, Hazel and I walked out of the Poplar Pub after grabbing some lunch that I’d mostly picked at. Nothing tasted good anymore. It was all just sustenance, anyway.
“So how many times does that make it?” Hazel asked as we headed down the sidewalk along Main Street. With the tourist season in its fall lull and the kids back to school, there was peaceful quietness that wouldn’t be found again until the ski season melted away for those few weeks before summer vacation.
“I’m not exactly keeping count.” Noah called. Noah argued. I hung up. It was just that simple.
“You barely touched your lunch,” she noted, looking over her sunglasses at me and tucking a curl behind her ear.
“I wasn’t very hungry.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “So I was thinking of heading to Margot’s for a pedicure, since you helped me get all the new workbooks organized at the center in record time and Owen’s mom has the kids for the afternoon. What do you say?”
“You absolutely should. You deserve a little pampering.” I moved to the right so Mrs. Taylor and her husband could pass, offering them a smile. I’d missed that—the simple act of recognizing someone on the street. New York was always bustling, pedestrian traffic moving in a steady, purposeful current of strangers.
“So do you.”
“Oh.” We passed my favorite creamery, and the Grove Goods Bakery, which smelled like heaven—Thursday cinnamon rolls. My car was only another block down.
“Georgia…” She sighed, gripping my elbow as we stopped in front of the bookstore. “You’re off a little more than normal today.”
There was no use hiding anything from Hazel. “I’m fine when I’m busy, and I have been until now. Moving, cleaning, everything with the book, digging through the estate paperwork kept me focused on what’s right in front of me, but now…” I sighed and glanced around the town I adored. “Everything about this place is the same. It looks the same, smells the same—”
“Is that a good thing?” Hazel pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.
“It’s a great thing. It’s just that I’m not the same anymore, so I need to figure out where I fit. It’s hard to explain…it’s like I’m itchy, restless.”
“You know what would help?” Mischief lit her smile.
“So help me God, if you say a pedicure—”
“You should jump Noah Harrison.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay.” My temperature rose just thinking about— Stop it.
“I’m serious! Fly to New York for the weekend, hash out the book details, and get laid.” She smiled when Peggy Richardson dropped her jaw, clearly having heard us as she walked by. “It’s basically multitasking. Nice to see you, Peggy!” Hazel even waved.
Peggy adjusted the strap of her purse and continued down the street.
“You’re unbelievable.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, come on. If you won’t do it for you, do it for me. Did you see that shot of him at the beach I sent you yesterday? You can do laundry on that man’s stomach.” She hooked her arm through my elbow, and we started back down the street at a thoroughly indulgent, slow pace.
“I’ve seen all three dozen of the pictures you’ve sent me.” The man had abs for days, and the skin that stretched across the muscles of his torso and back was deliciously inked, too. According to the article she’d sent, he had one for every book he’d written.
“And you still don’t want to jump him? Because if not, I’m totally adding him to my hall-pass list. I’ll even bump Scott Eastwood for that man.”
“I never said I didn’t want to—” I grimaced, slamming my eyes shut. “Look, even if Noah wanted to, I’ve never been a fling kind of girl, and I’m not going to rebound with the guy finishing Gran’s book. Period.”
Her eyes sparkled. “But you want to. And of course he would—you’re hot. You’re divorced, and don’t forget I’m well aware that Damian wasn’t doing it for you.”
“Hazel!” I hissed, my eyes darting over my shoulder, but no one was there.
“It’s true, and I’m just looking out for you here. I know you have a thing for the broody, creative types. Did you see those tattoos? Classic bad-boy vibe, and how many bad-boy authors do you know?”
“There are plenty of bad-boy authors in the world.”
“Like whom?”
I blinked. “Uh. Hemingway?” Bad choice.
“He’s dead. Fitzgerald, too. Shame.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll get a pedicure right now if you drop it.”
“Fine.” She grinned. “For now, but I still think you should jump him.”
I shook my head at her ridiculously bad idea and saw Dan Allen through the glass windows of Mr. Navarro’s shop. “Is Dan still a real estate agent?” He must have it listed.
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“Yep. He helped us find our house last year,” Hazel answered, then waved as Dan caught us staring.
“Do you mind if we take a few minutes before pedis?” I looked again at the bay display windows that flanked the door, imagining how the light would hit them in a few hours with the afternoon sun.
“No problem.”
I opened the heavy glass door and stepped into the shop. There were no more giant aquariums or bales of hamster bedding. Even the shelves were gone. The space was empty except for Dan, who greeted us with a charismatic smile that hadn’t changed since high school.
“Georgia, it’s been forever! Sophie mentioned she saw you when you got into town.” He stepped forward and shook my hand, then did the same with Hazel.
“Hey, Dan,” I looked around his lanky frame to the space at the back of the store. “Sorry to bust in. I was just curious about the shop.”
“Oh, are you in the market for some commercial space?” he asked.
“Just…curious.” Was I in the market? Was it even practical?
“She’s curious.” Hazel grinned.
He launched into real estate mode, telling us all about the ample square footage while he led us past the only fixture that remained, the glass display counter where I’d paid for my first goldfish.
“So why hasn’t it sold?” I asked as he opened the back door that led to what had to be storage. “Mr. Navarro’s been gone for what? A year?”
“It’s been on the market for about six months, but the storage room, well, here, I’ll show you.” He flipped on a light, and we followed him into the massive, unfinished space.
“Whoa.” There were two large garage doors, a cement floor and walls, and a few rows of fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceilings.
“There’s more storage than shop, which Mr. Navarro had liked, since it kept his classic car hobby out of Mrs. Navarro’s driveway.”
There. That was the perfect spot for the furnace. Maybe just a day furnace, though. And a reheating one, of course. The alcove was perfect for an annealing oven, too. I studied the ceiling next. High, but some good-size vents wouldn’t hurt.
“I know that look,” Hazel said from behind me.
“There’s no look,” I replied, already picturing the best place for a bench and block.
“How much do they want for it?” Hazel asked.
The price made my eyes pop. Add the startup costs and I’d wipe out just about everything I had in savings. It was naive to even think about it, yet here I was, doing exactly that. After asking Dan to call me if he got an offer, we headed out for pedicures.
Hazel fired off a text at her mom to join us, and I did the same with mine, but she didn’t answer. Then again, she’d been napping a lot lately.
My toenails were Summer Coral pink as I parked in the garage, the logical side of my brain already at war with the creative, listing every reason I shouldn’t even dream of buying the shop. It had been years since I’d been in a studio. It was risky to start a business. What if I failed at that as spectacularly as I had my marriage? At least no one would put it in the tabloids.
My keys jingled as I tossed them onto the kitchen counter.
“Is that you, Gigi?” Mom called from the entry.
I rolled my eyes at the nickname and headed in her direction. “It’s me. I have the wildest idea. Oh, and I texted earlier about a pedicure—”
Mom smiled, her hair and makeup perfectly done, her suitcases at her side in the entry, lined up like little ducks in a row. Her designer purse was slung over her shoulder. “Oh, good! I was hoping I’d get to see you before I had to go.”
“Go where?” I folded my arms across my chest and rubbed the skin of my arms to ward off the chills as goose bumps rose on my skin. There wasn’t a cure for the instant hit of nausea.
“Well, Ian called, and it turns out he got himself into a little snag, so I’m just going to pop up to Seattle and help him out.” She fished her phone from her pocket.
Ian. Husband number four. The one who liked to gamble.
Pieces clicked into a puzzle that I’d willingly kept myself from seeing. “The advance came in, didn’t it?” I sounded small… I felt small, too.
“I’m glad you asked, because it did!” Mom beamed. “Now, I didn’t want you to worry about a thing, so I told Lydia to make sure the house was stocked with groceries.”
Groceries. Right.
“When will you be back?” Ridiculous question, but I had to ask.
She yanked her gaze from her phone, meeting mine in a flash of guilt.
“You’re not.” It was a statement, not a question.
Hurt flashed in Mom’s eyes. “Well, that was mean.”
“Are you?”
“Well, not right away. Ian is going to need a little looking after, and this could really be our chance to rekindle things. There’s always been that zing between us. It’s never faded.” She fumbled with her phone. “I called an Uber. They take forever around here.”
“It’s a small town.” I glanced around the entry, from the French doors that led to the living room to the framed pictures on the walls. Anything to keep from looking right at her. Bile rose in my throat, and my heart screamed as the fragile stitches I’d thoughtlessly sewn there popped one at a time.
“Don’t I know it.” She shook her head.
“What happened to Christmas?”
“Plans change, honey. But you have your feet under you now, and as soon as you feel like you’re ready to face the rest of the world, you get back to New York City, Gigi. You’ll go stagnant here. Everyone does.” She scrolled through her apps. “Oh, good. Seven minutes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Her face snapped to mine. “What?”
“I told you, I hate that nickname. Stop using it.”
“Well, pardon me. I’m just your mother.” Her eyes widened in sarcasm.
“You know he’s just going to drain your account and dump you again, right?” That’s exactly what he’d done the first time, which was when Gran had cut her out of the will.
Mom’s eyes reduced to slits. “You don’t know that. You don’t know him.”
“But you should.” My jaw ticked, and I embraced the anger that filled my chest, wrapping it like Kevlar around my hemorrhaging heart. I’d believed her like a naive five-year-old, believed that she’d stick around for me this time, even if it was just for the next few months.
“I don’t know why you’re being so nasty.” She shook her head like I was the one delivering the blows here. “I stayed for you, took care of you, and now I deserve to be happy, just like you.”
“Just like me?” I ran my hands down my face. “I’m nothing like you.”
Her expression softened. “Oh, my little heart. You took off for college, and what did you find? A lonely, older man to take care of you. You may have graduated, but don’t lie to yourself—you weren’t there for an education; you were husband hunting, just like I was at that age.”
“I wasn’t,” I fired back. “I met Damian on campus while he was researching filming locations.”
Pity…God, that was pity in her eyes. “Oh, honey, and you don’t think the fact that your last name was Stanton had anything to do with it?”
I lifted my chin in the air. “He didn’t know. Not when we met.”
“You keep believing that.” She checked her phone again.
“It’s true!” It had to be. The last eight years of my life were a lie if it wasn’t.
Mom sucked in a deep breath and rolled her eyes heavenward, like she was praying for patience. “Dear, dear Georgia. The sooner you come to grips with the truth, the happier you’ll be.”
Color flashed through the window beside the door. Her ride was here.
“And what truth is that, Mom?” She was leaving again. How many times
was this? I’d stopped keeping count when I was thirteen.
“When you have someone like your gran in the family, it’s nearly impossible to get out from under that kind of shadow.” She tilted her head. “He knew. They all know. You have to learn to use it to your advantage.” Her soft tone was at odds with her harsh words.
“I’m not you,” I repeated.
“Maybe not yet,” she admitted, grabbing the first suitcase. “But you will be.”
“Leave your key.” Never again. This was the last time she’d blow into my life and leave once she got what she wanted.
She gasped. “Leave my key? To my grandmother’s house? My father’s house? You are a lot of things, Georgia, but cruel isn’t one of them.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Do you know how that makes me feel?” Her hand flew to her chest.
“Leave. Your. Key.”
She blinked back tears as she pried the key from the ring, then dropped it into the crystal vase on the entry table. “Happy now?”
“No,” I said softly, shaking my head. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be happy again.
I stood there frozen in the same entry hall she’d left me in so many times before and watched her struggle with her suitcases without offering to help.
“I love you,” she said, waiting in the doorway for my reply.
“Have a safe flight, Mom.”
She bristled and closed the door.
Then the house was quiet.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching a door I knew from experience would only open again when it was convenient for her. Knowing I was never what she’d wanted and cursing myself for letting my guard down and believing otherwise. The grandfather clock ticked steadily from the living room, somehow steadying my heartbeat. It was a hundred-year-old pacemaker.
Every other time she’d walked out, I’d had Gran’s arms around me.
Alone wasn’t a harsh-enough word for whatever this was.
I pulled myself together and turned back to head for the kitchen, only to be stopped by a knock at the door.
I may have been naive, but I wasn’t green. Mom had forgotten something, and it wasn’t me. She hadn’t abandoned her plans. Hadn’t had a change of heart.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 12