So in a restaurant full of people watching, I’d broken a good man’s heart.
“That’s why he quit,” Benjamin said.
“Yeah.”
The day Jason had left, I’d sat in my office alone, giving him space to pack his things and say goodbye to his coworkers. I’d stared out my wall of windows and wished I’d loved him.
He was gracious and caring. Jason hadn’t hated me for turning him down, he just couldn’t work for me any longer. I didn’t fault him for that. He’d loved unselfishly, not complaining that I’d been in the spotlight.
And I’d felt nothing but guilt.
“He just wasn’t the right guy,” Benjamin said. “That doesn’t mean you had to sell your company, your car and your brownstone. You gave up your life.”
“Was it really that good of a life?”
He sighed. “So what now?”
“I’m taking a road trip in this incredible car. Then . . . I don’t know.” Most of my belongings had either been donated to charity or put into storage. My house I’d sold furnished. What I had fit into the trunk of this car, and for today, it was enough.
I’d deal with tomorrow, well . . . tomorrow.
“What can I do?”
I smiled. Maybe Benjamin didn’t understand what I was doing, but he’d support me, nonetheless. “Exactly what you are doing.”
He was managing my assets, paying my bills and dealing with any questions that came up with my other business ventures. It was all work I’d done myself before the sale. It had been the second job I hadn’t needed but something to fill the lonely nights. Work had always been my forte.
Now I’d handed it over to Benjamin.
Since he no longer had to manage my hectic calendar and activities at Gemma Lane, he’d watch over my numerous real estate holdings, acting as the liaison to the property management company I’d hired years ago. Benjamin would step in and be the go-between with my financial managers.
The restaurants that had needed my influx of cash to get up and running were now some of Boston’s finest. They ran on autopilot. I owned an interest in a car dealership, one that peddled foreign luxury as opposed to the classic Americana I was currently driving. And I was also a partner in a fashion design company, the one that had designed the black sweater I was currently wearing along with a handful of others packed in my suitcase.
Benjamin would ensure we received regular profit and loss reports from my investments along with my annual dividends, then alert me to any red flags.
“Okay,” he said. “It will be in good hands until you get back.”
I bit my tongue, because as the open road stretched before me, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be back. I was on a new path now. Where it was going, I wasn’t sure. But the excitement, the freedom, was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Call if you need anything. And, Benjamin?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Drive safely.”
I tossed my phone aside and put both hands on the white steering wheel.
Londyn’s cherry-red, 1964 Cadillac DeVille convertible was a dream to drive. The car sailed down the interstate, the wheels skimming over the asphalt as the body sliced through the air.
She’d paid a small fortune to restore this car from the rusted heap it had once been. Gone were the torn, flat seats. They’d been replaced with thick cushions covered with buttery, white leather that matched the wheel. The air-conditioning kept the cab from getting too hot, and when I felt like blasting music, the sound system was deafening.
This car’s look was different but the inside would always feel like Londyn’s home. As an old, abandoned wreck destined for the scrap pile, Londyn had chosen this Cadillac as her shelter in a junkyard we’d called home.
The junkyard in Temecula, California, where Londyn, four other kids and I had lived after running away from our respective homes.
The six of us had made our own family in that junkyard. I hadn’t lived in a car, instead choosing to build myself a makeshift tent. I’d tried to talk Londyn into a tent or structure too so she’d have more space, but she’d fallen in love with the car.
And with Karson.
He’d lived in this car with her while they’d been together. Londyn hadn’t seen him since we’d moved away from California, but he was the reason she’d set out to take this car to California in the first place.
Karson would always hold a special place in her heart. He’d been her first love. He’d been our friend. He’d always hold a special place in mine too. Londyn had wanted him to have this car and see it restored to its former glory. That, and I think she wanted to know that he was all right.
If delivering the Cadillac to him would make her happy, I’d gladly drive the miles.
And I could use the time to figure out my next move.
Figure out who I wanted to be.
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. My chocolate-brown hair was piled in a messy knot on top of my head. I hadn’t bothered with makeup in my hotel room this morning. I looked a far cry from the corporate tycoon I’d been last month.
Gone were the posh and polish. They were somewhere in the miles behind me, strewn across the interstate.
I’d left West Virginia two days ago, heeding Londyn’s advice not to rush the trip. The first day, I’d driven for six hours before stopping in Louisville, Kentucky, for the night. I’d eaten dinner alone, not unusual for me, then went to bed. The next day, I’d crossed into Missouri for a stop in Kansas City. Then this morning, I’d awoken refreshed and ready to hit the road.
So here I was, hours later, in the middle of Kansas on a warm September day.
Flat fields spread like a golden ocean in every direction, only disturbed by the occasional barn or building. The road stretched in an endless line in front of me and rarely did I have to turn the steering wheel. Traffic on the interstate was crowded with semitrucks hauling loads across the country.
As the day wore on, I found myself relaxing to the whir of the tires on the pavement. I studied the landscape and its subtle changes as I approached the border to Colorado. And I breathed.
Truly breathed.
There were no emails to return. No calls to answer. No decisions to make. Benjamin would deal with any emergency that came up. As of now, I was the blissfully silent partner.
Walking away from my life had been relatively easy.
What did that mean? What did it mean that the only person who’d called me since leaving Boston was my paid employee?
Lost in my head, it took me a moment to notice the flash of red and blue lights racing up behind me. When their flicker caught my eye, my heart jumped to my throat and my foot instantly came off the gas. My hands gripped the wheel at ten and two as I glanced at the speedometer.
“Shit. Don’t pull me over. Please, please, please.” The last thing I needed was another speeding ticket.
The police car zoomed into the passing lane and streaked by. The air rushed from my lungs and I watched him disappear down the road ahead.
Thank God. I set the cruise control to exactly the speed limit.
Why did I always speed? When the limit was seventy-five, why did I push it to eighty-nine? When was I going to learn to slow down?
I’d never excelled at going slow or taking my time. I’d always put in twenty times the effort as others because I hadn’t had an Ivy League education or family pedigree to rely on. But give me a dollar and I’d turn it into ten through sheer will and determination. I worked hard and fast, something I’d been doing since running away from home at sixteen.