I’m not the crafty type, so I decided letters were more the way to go. Lessons I’ve learned along the way and want to pass on to you. Love letters to my little girl. I’ll put them all together in a book and keep it for you. And if for any reason I can’t tell you these important lessons in person, you’ll still have my words, so you’ll never have to wonder what I would say.
I won’t waste time on silly or frivolous lessons, only the ones that mean the most to me, so if this book falls into your hands, I hope you’ll give it the attention it deserves.
I’m not a wise woman. Most people wouldn’t call me a woman at all, not yet anyway . . . but I’m learning so many things about myself, and bringing another person into the world has made me grow up fast. I want to be the best mom I can for you, Emily. It’s you and me against the world.
And you know what? I’m terrified. But I’m going to do the very best job I can. I know I’ll make mistakes, but hopefully you’ll forgive me. I never knew how much love I had to give until I held you in my arms.
And PS—I’ll do my best to keep Alan and Eliza off your back . . . mostly I’m guessing they’ll want to stay on mine!
Love you so much,
Mom (It’s so weird to write that!)
CHAPTER 1
EMILY ACKERMAN HUMMED WHEN SHE WAS NERVOUS. No particular song, just whatever melody popped into her head. At that moment, it was the Harry Connick Jr. version of “It Had to Be You,” the one in the old movie When Harry Met Sally. Her mom’s favorite.
The bouncy melody danced around her mind as she closed her eyes and pretended she was anywhere but on the ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket. She made her living pretending, and she’d traveled the globe for the last ten years—why was this so hard?
She leaned her head back, thinking only of the song—of Harry’s smooth, sultry voice—but instead of going blank, her mind wrapped itself around a memory. Her mother, dancing on “their” beach, singing “It Had to Be You” at the top of her lungs while Emily dug her feet in the cool sand and giggled at her silliness.
Emily opened her eyes and found a little boy with dark hair and big brown eyes staring at her.
“You’re loud,” he said.
“Andrew, that’s not polite.” The boy’s mother wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer. “I’m so sorry. We’re working on manners.”
Emily smiled at him. “Sorry. Sometimes I get lost in my own world.”
“Me too,” Andrew said. “I have an imaginary friend named Kenton.”
Emily widened her eyes. “I had an imaginary friend when I was little!” She tried to sound more excited than she felt. She was an actress. It wasn’t that hard.
And yet, for some reason, it left her feeling hollow.
“Mom says people will think I’m out of my mind if I keep talking to myself.”
Andrew’s mother gave him a squeeze. “Andrew, let’s leave the nice lady alone.”
Lady? Emily knew the other side of thirty was a downhill slope, but when people started calling you “lady,” you might as well sign up for AARP.
“I’m Andrew,” the boy said. Then he looked at his mother and blinked. “See? That’s manners.” Then back to Emily. “Now you tell me your name.”
“I’m Emily.”
“Mom says I’m not supposed to call grown-ups by their first name.”
“Oh.” Emily glanced at the boy’s mother, whose expression was a cross between amused and apologetic. “I guess you can call me Miss Ackerman.”
“Miss Ackerman,” Andrew said. “Nice to meet you.”
Emily decided she liked this boy. She hoped he didn’t lose his charm as he got older, and she hoped even more that he remained genuine. So many men she’d known were the exact opposite. Not a single one worth holding on to.
Especially not Max, who, she was convinced, had never told her one honest thing the entire time they were together. Not that it mattered really. Emily’s rules were set up to protect her from getting too attached. She’d never stick around long enough to find out if a man’s motives were impure—three months and she was off. Max had taken their breakup harder than she’d expected. He’d actually cried.
Ugh. The memory of it made her feel like such a jerk.
Emily exhaled. She’d been doing so well. Why did she have to go and think about Max?
The regret wound its way back in, and she could feel her cheeks flush at the memory of him. Maybe he’d actually loved her? Maybe she should’ve given him more of a chance?
But no. She’d taken Mom’s advice to heart, as she did in all things, but especially about this. Her mother knew something about heartache, after all.
Be passionate in other areas, but in matters of the heart, be mindful to use caution. Your heart isn’t something to give freely and without thought. It should be protected at all costs so you can ensure your whole world doesn’t come crashing down around you. Hear me on this, Emily. I know what I’m talking about.
Without thinking, Emily slid her hand inside her bag until it found the soft, worn cover of the book of letters. In all her travels, it was the one thing she always made sure to keep close.
While Emily didn’t know all the details, she knew that Isabelle Ackerman had suffered a great heartache. She only wished her mother had gotten a bit of closure before she died.
The letters were unspecific about so many things, but this was not one of them. This was not an area where she had to wonder what her mom would say—Isabelle had found a way to get her message to her only daughter, and Emily had fully embraced it.
She’d kept her heart safe. When someone got too close—and they did sometimes—she knew it was time to run. Also time to run when she could feel herself liking someone too much, which was what had happened with Max. He was charming and handsome and wealthy, and Emily knew if she hadn’t been careful, she could’ve convinced herself he was worth a little rule breaking.
Thank goodness she wised up before there was permanent damage to her heart.
She had enough damage to deal with, and sadly, none of that could be blamed on Max or anyone else. It had been her own stupid mistakes that had landed her here—penniless and reeling. She hated the way this felt.
An utter failure. That’s what she was.
When she’d finished writing her play, she’d been so confident in it. She’d seen so much potential, and nothing could’ve dissuaded her—not even the rejections from several big-name directors who wanted nothing to do with the project. They’d left her no choice but to produce and direct it on her own.
She should’ve listened. She should’ve started small. She didn’t. Instead, she sank everything she had into the show.
She’d given all her blood, sweat, and tears to her work—and yes, most of what was left of her trust fund. So when the play opened to terrible reviews (“A meandering disaster that doesn’t know what it’s trying to be”) and folded in two weeks’ time, she was left with nothing but people to pay and a humiliating professional failure.
She’d bet on the wrong horse, so to speak. The show had so much promise—she’d been so sure it would be a huge hit. She’d been so wrong.