Georgia
Dear Scarlett,
Marry me. Yes, I mean it. Yes, I’m going to ask you again and again until you’re my wife. It’s only been two days since I left Middle Wallop, and I can barely breathe, that’s how much I already miss you. I love you, Scarlett, and it’s not the kind of love that fades with distance or time. I’m yours and have been since the first time I looked into your eyes. I’ll be yours no matter how much time passes before I see your eyes again. Always.
Jameson
“Do you think fifty thousand would cover it for the district?” I asked, wedging the phone between my ear and very sore shoulder as I took notes. I’d pushed it too hard this morning at the gym, but at least I hadn’t fallen.
“That’s more than enough! Thank you!” the librarian—Mr. Bell— exclaimed.
“You’re very welcome.” I grinned. This was the best part of my job. “I’ll send the check out today.”
“Thank you!” Mr. Bell repeated.
We hung up, and I opened the corporate checkbook to the next blank check. The Scarlett Stanton Foundation for Literacy. I brushed my finger over the scrolling script, then filled out the check, this time to a school district in Idaho.
The guidelines were simple: schools that needed books got money for books.
Gran would have loved it.
I dated the check March first, then sealed it into the envelope and scheduled a pickup with an overnight courier. There. Done. Now I could get
to the studio.
A pen with a New York Mets logo rolled as I opened the top drawer, and my heart sank all over again, just like it did every single day. Noah’s pen.
Because for nearly three months, this hadn’t just been Gran’s desk—my desk—it had been Noah’s, too. And because throwing that pen away wouldn’t change that fact, I put the checkbook in the drawer and shut it again.
The pen was my smallest reminder, anyway.
He was everywhere I looked. I saw us dancing in the living room every time I spotted the phonograph, heard the low timbre of his voice every time I ventured into the greenhouse. He was in my kitchen, making me tea. My entryway, kissing me breathless. My bedroom, making love to me. He was in this very office, admitting that he’d lied.
I sucked in a deep breath but didn’t push away the pain. Feeling it was the only way through it. Otherwise I’d be the same shell I’d been after Damian.
The doorbell rang, and I took the envelope to the entryway, but it wasn’t the courier on the other side when I opened the door.
I blinked in pure disbelief, my jaw dropping an inch before I snapped my mouth shut with an audible click.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Damian asked, thrusting a vase of flowers in my direction. “Happy seventh anniversary, sweetheart.”
I weighed the gleeful thought of shutting the door in his face with the satisfaction of knowing exactly why he was here, and went with the latter, stepping back to let him in, then shutting the door as a frigid breeze swept over my skin.
“Thanks, I forgot how cold it is here,” he said, holding the flowers— pale pink roses—with an expectant look.
“What do you want, Damian?” I set the envelope on the entry table. What ploy was he going to try to use to get what he wanted? Guilt? Bribery? Emotional extortion?
“I wanted to talk business.” His brow furrowed as he realized I wasn’t
taking the flowers, and he put them next to the envelope.
“So logically you got on a plane to Colorado instead of calling?” I crossed my arms.
“I was feeling sentimental,” he said in that soft tone he reserved for apologies as his eyes did a once-over down my frame. “You look good, Georgia. Really good…softer, if that makes any sense.”
The grandfather clock chimed. “Don’t bother taking off your coat.
You’ll be gone before it chimes again.”
“Fifteen minutes? Is that really all I’m worth after everything we’ve been through?” He tilted his head and flashed a playful dimple. Emotional extortion it is.
“Counting the time we dated, I’ve already given you eight years of my life. Trust me, fifteen minutes is generous.”
I’d tried to avoid the comparison the entire time I’d been with Noah, but with Damian standing in front of me, it was impossible not to note the differences. Noah was taller, stacked with lean muscle, and held himself with the constant awareness of his body that had developed from years of climbing. Damian was none of those things.
He looked washed out, and what I’d once considered rather angelic was suddenly…meh. The blue of his eyes had nothing on Noah’s dark brown ones. Had I ever really been attracted to Damian? Or was his interest in me what had lured me in?
“I like what you’ve done with it,” Damian noted, glancing around the foyer.
“Thanks.” I’d repainted, going with a white and gray theme as I’d slowly transformed the house from Gran’s to mine. The master bedroom was next—and last—on the list. “You’re using up your time.”
His eyes flashed to mine, narrowing slightly. There you are. “I was hoping to talk to you about The Things We Leave Unfinished.”
“What about it?”
“I want to make you an offer, and before you tell me no, hear me out.” He put his hands up, then took an envelope from inside his coat. “For old
times’ sake.”
“Old times,” I mused. “Like when you slept with your assistant? Or that one makeup artist? Or maybe when you got Paige pregnant and didn’t have the balls to tell me about it, which led to the time I read all about my husband’s baby mama from the sixteen billion text messages in the middle of Gran’s wake?” I tilted my head. “To which of those old times are you referring?”
The veins on his neck bulged above the collar of his coat, and he had the grace to flush. “Those are all regrettable memories. But we have good ones, too. I’m here to help, not hurt, and I have a contract all ready for you to sign. I know Scarlett’s money is tied up in all that charity work, so if you need a little extra, I’ll even look at some of her other works to option. I don’t want to see you suffer.”
“How magnanimous of you,” I drawled. “But you don’t have to worry about me anymore. My gallery is doing just fine since I got back to creating the art I love—you know, when I’m not doing all that charity work.”
He scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.” I deadpanned. “I never wanted the money. That was all you. And let me guess, that little contract you’re so generously offering me not only gives you the rights to The Things We Leave Unfinished, but it also confirms your ownership in the five other options you haven’t exercised yet, since I’m no longer part owner of Ellsworth Productions?” I asked sweetly.
“You know.” His face went slack.
“I’ve always known.” My voice dropped. “Why do you think I walked away without a fight? There was nothing about you worth keeping.”
“It won’t hold up in court,” he bluffed.
“It will. My lawyers have always been better than yours. Gran saw to that when she had those same lawyers word the contract to include in so far that Georgia Constance Stanton remains co-owner of Ellsworth Productions. She didn’t trust you with her stories, Damian. She trusted me. You were just too busy counting dollar signs to read the damn thing
yourself.” I heard the distinct purr of an engine coming up the drive.
His eyes flared with panic. “Gigi, let’s talk about this. You know how deeply I cared for Scarlett. Do you really think this is what she’d want? It would have killed her to know you divorced me. That you gave up on us.” His expression changed again. Ah yes, guilt.
“Gave up on you? She never liked you in the first place, and this conversation was over the minute the divorce papers were finalized. But I do have one question for you.” I shifted my weight, hating to put myself in the position of needing anything from him.
“Anything.” He swallowed. “You know I’m not married yet, right?” He stepped forward, and the familiar scent of overpowering cologne hit me like milk left too long in the refrigerator—everything good having turned rancid. “We can work this out. Go ahead, ask me whatever you want.”
No thank you.
“Did you know who I was that day we met on campus?” He startled.
“Did you?” In that moment, I saw myself through his eyes. A nineteen- year-old freshman, desperate for love and validation. An easy mark.
“Yes,” he admitted, raking his hand over his hair. “And I know who you are now, Gigi. Yes, I’ve made some bad choices, but I’ve always loved you.”
“Right. Because sleeping with other women—a lot of other women—is definitely how you show you love your wife.” I paused, giving myself time for the pain to hit, but it didn’t come. “Oddly enough, my mother warned me.”
My front door flew open and Hazel stumbled in, her hair windblown and her eyes wild. “Oh my God, you have to come watch!” She stopped suddenly, her eyebrows hitting the ceiling at the sight of Damian. “What. The. Hell?”
“Hazel.” He gave her a wry smile and a nod.
“Asshole.” Her eyes narrowed at him as she moved to my side.
“Damian was just leaving,” I said with a quick grin as the clock chimed.
“His time is up.” “Gigi,” he begged.
“Goodbye.” I walked to the door and held it open. “Give my best to Paige and…what did you name your son?”
“Damian, Jr.”
“Of course you did.” I motioned to the open door. “Drive safely, now. The pass gets slick this time of year.” The sound of the door shutting was more satisfying now than it had been the day I’d left our New York apartment.
“Did you tell him?” Hazel asked, unzipping her coat and hanging it in the hall closet.
“About the options? I did. It was fun.” I grinned and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Now, what did you fly in here in a tizzy about?”
“Oh!” Her eyes popped wide. “You have to get online right now.” She grabbed my hand and yanked me into the office, all but shoving me into the chair while she brought up YouTube full screen and typed Noah’s name.
“Hazel,” I warned her softly. The last thing I needed was to see Noah on video, traipsing around New York like he hadn’t broken my heart in a million pieces.
“It’s not what you think.” She clicked on a video of a popular morning show, and I tapped my toes impatiently through the five seconds of ads before it began playing. “Hold on, it doesn’t start until about halfway through, and I damn near spit out my coffee.” She clicked toward the middle of the video, skipping the first ten minutes.
“—does he think he is?” the female anchor asked her partner, who shook his head. “You don’t do that to Scarlett Stanton. You just don’t.”
“I’d have to argue that the publisher must have known what they were getting when they hired Noah Harrison to finish it,” he countered.
“Oh God,” I whispered, my stomach dropping out of my body and off the face of the earth. Knowing Noah might get some negative press for my choice and seeing it were two different things.
“It gets worse,” Hazel muttered.
“How much worse?” I wasn’t sure I could take it. “Watch.”
“I’m not the only one to cry foul,” the anchor said, putting up her hands. “Early review copies are out, and spoiler alert: it’s not pretty. Publication Quarterly calls it, and I quote, ‘An egotistical attempt to outshine the foremost romance novelist of her day.’”
The audience booed, and my hands shot up to cover my mouth. “That’s not fair!” I said through the gaps of my fingers.
“It gets worse,” Hazel repeated.
“How? Are they going to burn a cardboard cutout of Noah?” I challenged.
“Would it bother you if they did?” she asked with mock innocence. I shot a glare her way.
“The New York Daily took it a step further, saying, ‘Scarlett Stanton is rolling over in her grave. Though incredibly well-written and emotionally moving, Harrison’s blunt disregard for Stanton’s bestselling brand of feel- good endings is a slap in the face to romance fans around the world.’ And I can’t disagree.”
“Make it stop.” My hands slid from my mouth to cover my eyes as they flashed a picture of Noah.
“One more minute.” Hazel yanked the mouse out of my reach.
“The Chicago Tribune weighed in with, ‘Not since Jane Austen has a romance author been so internationally loved, yet so disregarded by men. Noah Harrison’s painful, emotionally sadistic ending to Scarlett Stanton’s own love story is unforgivable.”
“Oh, Noah,” I groaned, letting my forehead fall into my hands.
“But maybe the best review, as always, comes from Scarlett Stanton herself, who said, ‘No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison.’” The anchor sighed. “Honestly, what was the publisher thinking? You don’t bring a man into a corner of the industry that women had to claw out for themselves amid the slut-shaming mommy-porn jokes and let him walk all over the very thing that defines the
genre. You just don’t. Shame on you, Noah Harrison. Shame on you.” The anchor pointed to the camera, and the segment ended.
“At least they didn’t set him on fire,” I muttered, staring at the computer screen in horror.
“They just had your gran do it,” Hazel noted.
“They’re not being fair to him. It’s a beautiful, poignant ending.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “It’s a fitting tribute for what she went through in real life. And he had nothing to do with trashing the genre. That was all me!”
“News flash, G. No one reads romance for real life.” She sighed. “Also, that man is so in love with you that I can’t even…anything. I can’t.” She perched on the edge of the desk and faced me.
“Don’t,” I whispered as my heart cracked, the hastily constructed scabs breaking open.
“Oh, I’m going to.” She moved so I couldn’t look away. “That man just trashed his career on an international stage for you.”
“He trashed his career out of contractual obligation,” I countered, but the damage was done. My entire body ached with missing him just like it did every day. Add on the hatred he was getting over my choice, and I was ready to bury myself in a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s.
“Keep telling yourself that.” She shook her head. “He’s Noah Harrison. If he wanted out of the contract, he would have gotten out. He did this for you. To prove that he would keep his word.”
“He lied, and for no good reason.” Frustration welled up, doing its best to overpower the pain. “I wouldn’t have kicked him out in December if I’d known he’d finished the book. I was already in love with him!”
My hands flew to my mouth.
“Ha!” Hazel jabbed her finger at me. “I told you!”
“It doesn’t matter!” My arms fell to my sides. “The ink isn’t remotely dry on my divorce. It hasn’t even been a year!” My spine stiffened. “Isn’t there a rule somewhere that you have to take some time for yourself before shoving all your baggage at the next man?”
“Okay, one, there’s no rule. Two, I’ve seen Noah’s arms. He can carry all your baggage and then some.” Her face scrunched.
“Shut up.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Three, you’re not your mom, G. You’ll never be your mom. And honestly, you were pretty much alone in the six years of that shitty marriage. You’ve had plenty of time for yourself, but if you think you need more, then take it. Just do the world a favor and tell the man.”
I sagged against the back of the chair. “It’s impractical. We live on opposite sides of the country. Besides, it’s been three weeks since he tried to call. He’s probably over it. His rebound rate is astronomical.”
“If by rebound rate, you mean he’s only been seen in public with his sister, then I agree.” She arched a brow at me. “I love you, but you have to get out of your own damned way. He loves you. He screwed up. It happens. Owen screws up every three days, apologizes, makes up for it, and then screws something else up three days later. You figure it out as you go along.” She glanced at her wedding ring and smiled.
“What do you screw up?” I asked.
“I’m perfect. Besides, we’re not talking about me.” Her phone rang and she stood so she could get it free. “Hey, babe. Wait. Say that again. Colin did what with the scissors while you were in the bathroom? How short is short?” Her voice pitched shrill.
Oh shit. I hopped up from the chair and raced for the hall closet, yanking her coat off the hangar and shoving it at her as she strode out the door.
“No, don’t try to round it out!” She waved at me frantically in farewell, then opened her car door. “No, I’m not mad, it could have happened to me, too. It’ll grow back—” Her voice cut off as she got into the car.
“Good luck!” I called out as she drove the semicircle back to the main road, only to have her spot taken by the courier. “One second!” I said, dashing back inside to grab the envelope, and brought the roses, too. “Here, Tom. Take these for your wife.”
“You sure?” he asked, eyeing the roses.
“Absolutely.”
“Hold on, I have a delivery for you,” he said, exchanging my envelope and the roses for a medium-size package. I signed for it, noting the return address of Gran’s lawyer.
Right. It would have been my seventh wedding anniversary. At least she wasn’t here to see what a hot mess that had ended up being. I carried the package in, shut the door, then plopped down on the bottom step of the staircase, setting the box next to me.
Noah Harrison’s painful, emotionally sadistic ending to Scarlett Stanton’s own love story is unforgivable. I sighed and stared at the box, wishing there was some easy answer to all of this. Or maybe there was, and Hazel was right—I was standing in my own way.
I leaned forward and took my cell out of my vest pocket, then opened my messages and typed out a text.
GEORGIA: I’m so sorry about the reviews.
I truly was, but my heart wouldn’t stop screaming joyfully that he’d kept his promise.
The message showed delivered, not read. Who knew when he’d get around to seeing it, anyway. Or maybe he’d never open it.
“From Ice Queen to Hot Mess. Not sure that’s an improvement,” I muttered, picking up Gran’s package. The tape gave way easily, which was convenient, since I didn’t have Noah…or his pocketknife.
Inside there were three manila envelopes. The one labeled read me second was thickest. I set it and the third to the side, then opened the one designated first and pulled out a letter. My heart throbbed, bittersweet at the sight of her handwriting.
Dearest Georgia,
Today is your wedding anniversary. If I’m right about the decline of my health, it’s your seventh. That seventh was a big one for your Grandpa Brian and me. He had just been diagnosed,
everything went sideways, and it was all we could do to hold on to each other.
I hope your seventh goes smoother.
But just in case it doesn’t, I thought it was time you truly understand the depth of love that created you. You, my dearest one, are the product of generations of love, not just the infatuations that some experience but true, deep, soul-mending loves that even time cannot separate.
I hope by now you’ve cleaned out my closet—no, not that one. The other one. Yes, that one, where all the shirts have been replaced by pages courtesy of that little typewriter that has been my constant companion through the joy and the heartache. I hope you’ve found the little alcove in the back of the second shelf. If not, go look—I’ll wait right here.
Found it? Good. This was the work I could never bring myself to truly end. The work that was started for my darling William. I’m sorry I never let you read it while I was with you. My excuses are endless, but the truth is I was afraid you’d see straight through me.
You’ll find that it ends on what had been up until then—the hardest day of my life. The day I lost my sister, my best friend, while still reeling from the loss of the love of my life. That day has only since been eclipsed by the snowy evening that stole William and Hannah. Our family has never been without our share of tragedy, has it?
The story is yours to read now, Georgia. Take your time. I’ve dabbled with it over the years, adding bits and pieces from memory, then setting it aside. Once you reach the end, once you’re there with me on that war-torn street in Ipswich, covered in dust, I
want you to read through the letters bundled at the top of the manuscript.
These are the true testament to the love that created you, the fact behind the moments of embellished fiction. Once you feel that love, taste the acrid smoke of the last air raid on your tongue, and are ready for what happened next, open the next envelope in this package. You’ll realize you’ve always known the ending…it’s the middle that was muddled.
When you’re done, I hope you’ll read the third—and last— envelope in this package.
Please forgive me for the lie.
All my love, Gran
Gran never lied. What was she talking about? My fingers shook as I opened the thickest envelope. I’d already read the manuscript and the letters, wept with gut-wrenching sobs when Scarlett had been notified that Jameson had gone missing, and again when she realized Constance had been killed.
I slipped the stack of papers free and skimmed my fingers over the familiar, hard strikes of Gran’s typewriter.
Then I read.
