She stopped on the last picture—this one a mirror of the first premiere, taken only a couple months before Scarlett’s death. The rest of the pages in the album were devastatingly blank.
My hands clenched. I had never wanted to beat the shit out of someone the way I did Damian Ellsworth. “I swear, I would never hurt you like he did.” I ground out every word, hoping she registered my conviction.
“I never said he did,” she whispered, two lines forming between her eyebrows as she glanced at me with confusion.
The doorbell rang, startling us both.
“I’ll get it,” I offered, pushing to my feet.
“I’m on it.” She scrambled, the photo album sliding off her lap as she beat me to stand, barely pausing before she raced for the door, nimbly dodging the piles of photos.
I watched from the doorway as she signed for the package. If I hadn’t been sitting next to her, I never would have guessed she’d just unloaded the way she had. Her polished smile was at the ready as she made polite small talk with the driver.
She took the substantial box and said her goodbyes, closing the door with her hip before setting the box on the entry hall table.
“It’s from the lawyers,” she said with a grin, and I wondered for a second if she’d lost her mind. No one was ever that happy to get a box from their attorneys. “Hold on a second; I need scissors.”
“Here.” I stepped forward, whipping my Gerber out of my pocket and opening the knife attachment so I could offer it to her. “I thought you didn’t close on the new studio for another two weeks?” I couldn’t wait to see what she created.
“Thanks.” She took the tool, then ripped into the package with childlike glee. “It’s not for the studio. She sends me something every month.”
“Your lawyer?”
“No, Gran.” Her smile was brighter than any I’d seen from her as she pried back the edge of the box. “She left directions and gifts. So far it’s been about once a month, but I don’t know how long she planned it out.”
“That might be the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.” I took the Gerber back, secured the blade, and slipped it into the pocket of my cargo pants.
“It really is,” she agreed, ripping open a card. “Dearest Georgia, now that I’m gone, it’s up to you to be the witch of the house, no matter where you are. I love you with all my heart, Gran.”
My eyebrows shot up at the witch comment until Georgia laughed and pulled a witch’s hat from the box.
“She always dressed up like a witch to hand out candy to the kids on Halloween.” She plunked the hat on her head, right over her bun, and kept digging.
Right. Halloween was in two weeks. Time was flying, my deadline approaching, and I was still empty-handed. Worse than that, I only had six weeks left with Georgia if I turned the manuscript in on time, which I would.
“She sent you a witch hat and a case of king-size Snickers?” I asked, feeling oddly connected to Scarlett Stanton in that moment as I peered into the box.
Georgia nodded. “Want one?” She plucked a bar from the box and waved it.
“Absolutely.” I wanted Georgia, but I’d settle for the bar.
“They were Gran’s favorites,” she said as we peeled our wrappers. “But she said they were called Marathon bars back in England. I can’t even begin to tell you how many pages of her manuscripts had little chocolate fingerprints at the edges.”
I bit into the bar, then chewed as I followed Georgia back into the office. “All on that typewriter.”
“Yep.” She peered at me with a tilted head, studying me carefully.
“Chocolate on my face?” I asked, taking another bite.
“You should write the rest of the book here.”
“I am, remember? There’s no way in hell I’m going back to New York without a finished manuscript. Pretty sure Adam wouldn’t even let me off the plane.” As it was, I was ducking his calls left and right. Pretty soon he’d be out here, too, if I didn’t pick up.
“I mean…here, here,” she said, motioning toward Scarlett’s desk. “Gran’s office, here. It’s where she worked on it.”
I blinked. “You want me to finish the book in here?” The words came out slowly, stumbling over my own confusion.
She took another bite and nodded, glancing around the room. “Mm-hmm.”
“I don’t always write on a typical schedule…” But I’d be close to Georgia every day.
“So? You have a key. I won’t always be here, anyway, not with getting the studio set up. And if it’s ever ridiculously late, you can crash in a guest bedroom.” She shrugged and hopped over two piles of photos on her way to the desk. “The more I think about it, the more it fits.” She walked behind the desk and pulled out the chair. “Come on—try it on for size.”
I polished off the chocolate bar and tossed the wrapper in the trash can beside the massive cherry desk, hesitating. That was Scarlett’s desk. Scarlett’s typewriter. “You protect that thing like it’s the Resolute desk, coasters and all.”
“Oh, you still have to use coasters. That’s nonnegotiable.” She tapped the high back of the chair and laughed. “Come on, it won’t bite.”
“Right.” I rounded the corner and sank into the office chair, then pulled myself forward so I sat at the desk. Georgia’s laptop lay closed to my right, but on my left sat the famed typewriter.
“If you’re feeling bold…” Georgia ran her fingers over the keys.
“No, thank you. First, I’d probably break it, and second, I make way too many corrections as I go to ever think about using a typewriter. That’s hard-core, even for me.” My eyes caught on the shirt box on the edge of the desk. It was labeled “UNFINISHED” in thick, black marker. “Is that…”
“The originals? Yeah.” She slid the box my way. “Go ahead, but I’m sticking to my guns on this one. Originals stay here.”
“Noted.” I flipped the top off, then lifted the stack of papers to the polished surface of the desk. She’d typed these pages herself, and here I was, getting ready to finish them. Surreal.
The manuscript was thick, but it wasn’t only the word count that stacked up the pages but the pages themselves. I thumbed through quickly. “This is amazing.”
“I’ve got another seventy-three boxes just like it,” she teased, leaning back against the desk.
“You can actually see her write it, then revise. The pages are all in different stages of aging. See?” I held up two pages from Chapter Two, when Jameson had just approached Scarlett where she sat with Constance. “This page here has to be the original. It’s aged, and the quality of the paper is lower. This page”—I waved it slightly, my lips tugging up at the smudge of chocolate at the edge—“can’t be more than a decade old.”