Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Oh, I most definitely have those “less than fine” moments. More, I think, than I even realized until they’ve been recently pointed out to me. And while I wasn’t close enough to my father to feel that same pang you’re feeling, I do know there’s no worse feeling than realizing you’ve hurt the last person on earth you would have wanted to.
Yours in shared regrets,
Sir
* * *
Oh man, I so hear that. I’ve been reflecting on some of my childlike behavior in recent days. I’ve treated someone unkindly who, in hindsight, I’m not confident deserved it.
* * *
There is plenty I don’t know about you, to be sure. But I do know that you’re kind.
Twenty-One
Two days after my fight with Sebastian, Caleb’s gone back to New Hampshire, and I find myself wanting the closest thing I have to a mother.
I don’t call first. I should have, but… I didn’t think.
It doesn’t matter. May opens the door to me, takes one look at my limp ponytail, shadowed eyes, and mismatched clothes and brings me in for a long, tight hug that smells like rose perfume and comfort.
She draws back, studies my face, then points at the purple couch. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”
I do as she says, kicking off my shoes and pulling my knees up to my chin as I hear the quiet, soothing noises of the water, the kettle, mugs on the counter.
I hear her voice, not quite hushed, but deliberately quiet as she speaks on the phone. I wince as I realize she’s rescheduling something.
“You had plans tonight,” I say when she comes back into the living room carrying an old-fashioned tea tray. I’m already putting my shoes back on, but she shakes her head sternly.
“A date with a man with good hands,” she says happily, pouring the tea. “Who happens to be free tomorrow night, and more importantly, who understands the importance of family.”
I don’t drink tea very often, but May knows my coffee habits well enough to add two sugar cubes and a generous dash of cream before handing me the teacup.
“This is pretty,” I say, tracing the delicate floral pattern on the rim of the saucer with my nail.
“My first love’s grandmother gave it to us as a wedding gift. I don’t use it often enough,” she says, lifting the cup and gazing at it fondly. “I confess I’ve been committing the ultimate crime by keeping something so dear on a shelf rather than enjoying it. But,” she says, taking a sip of the tea and setting it back on the table. Her earrings are ladybugs today, and they sway as she sits back in her chair. “You’re not here to talk about my mistakes, are you?”
I wince. “So you think I’ve made mistakes?”
“I think you think you’ve made some.”
I pull my knees up once more, resting the saucer carefully atop them as I stare down at the tea, which is more cream colored than tea colored, exactly as I like it.
May sips her tea in silence for a while, letting me gather my thoughts, and I’m grateful for it. As much as I adore my sister and my girlfriends, they’re always so eager to help that they start offering advice before I even know what I’m asking.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” I say on an exhale, taking a sip of tea before setting the saucer carefully on the coffee table. I sit cross-legged, hands folded in my lap. “I feel lost. I used to wake up knowing what each day held. I used to know exactly what I wanted my life to look like—”
“And what was that?” May interjects. “Tell me old Gracie’s vision.”
“I was a successful shop owner,” I say. “Not rich, but comfortable, with a steady influx of regular customers. I was married to a man who was friendly, approachable, good with the customers. We’d run Bubbles together, and in our off time, we’d embrace our hobbies. I’d paint. He’d write music, or whatever his passion was. We’d have children, and they’d do their homework at Bubbles just as I did…”
“It sounds nice,” May says noncommittally.
I nod.
“It also sounds familiar…” she says thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers. “Oh yes. You’re describing your father’s life, and from what I understand, your late mother’s as well. With one key difference.”
“Times have changed, and niche champagne shops are no longer a viable business model?” I say glumly.
“No. The difference is that that was never your vision. You were trying to live his life, Gracie, and you weren’t meant to.”
“Maybe so,” I admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I seem to have a big gaping hole in my life now. I can barely piece together my present, much less my future.”
“Why in God’s name would you want to piece together your future?” May asks, sounding aghast. “Half the fun’s in not knowing.”
I let that soak in a little bit, then squeeze my eyes shut as I speak a truth that’s been dancing around in the back of my mind for months now.
“May?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.
“Yes, my love?”
I open my eyes. “I think the best parts of my life so far have been in my daydreams.”
Saying it aloud is a good kind of pain. Like working out a neglected muscle or stepping into the light after a long sleep.
She lets out a slow sigh, then slurps her tea. “Perhaps,” she says lightly, refilling her teacup and adding a splash to mine as well, though I’ve barely touched it. “But I’m older, I’m wiser, and so I can tell you with complete confidence that there’s no point with regrets. So, moving right along… what shall we do about it?”
The we makes me smile.
“Well.” I pick up the teacup once more, feeling a little stronger for having aired the thought. “I guess I could use some advice on how to get out of the daydream and into real life.”
“Let’s start by embracing it. Your old daydream is dead—sorry, love, but it is. Bubbles is gone, and I’m going to give it to you straight: your chubby musician hasn’t shown up.”
“Yet,” I add instinctively.
She lifts her eyebrows.
“Right. Daydreams again,” I muse. “I told Caleb I’d go out with his friend. I haven’t had a date in a while, so that’s a start.”
“It is. A good one, I’d say. Now, how about your professional life? In those daydreams you speak of, how did you spend your days?”
“Painting,” I say automatically. “I paint all day, every day.”
“And why is that the daydream instead of reality?”
“Well…” I think of Hugh Wheeler, who’s still waiting on those twenty paintings, and the fierce inner debate about wanting to take advantage of the opportunity, but wanting it in my own right, not because Sebastian Andrews called in a favor.
“I’ve got a sabbatical, of sorts, funded by the Andrews Corporation’s blood money. It’s enough to tide me over until I find a new job, but I will need to find a new job.”
“Painting’s a job,” May points out.