by Grace Palmer
She frantically searches through her memories, each one flashing just behind her eyes and making her even more confused.
Richard holds a sour grape to Georgia’s lips.
“Eat it,” he dares in a thick Texan twang that rolls across her skin like velvet. He smirks playfully. His handsome face is mottled with splashes of the sunlight that filters through the grape vines.
She bites down.
Georgia sits in a hospital bed, holding their firstborn in her arms. “I want to call her Melanie.”
“Melanie,” Richard says. “I like that. Melanie Baldwin sounds like someone who’s going to accomplish something someday.”
“She will.” Georgia smiles at him.
He leans over and kisses his wife and baby daughter on their foreheads.
“The dolls need to go,” Richard comments with a grimace as they walk through their new inn. Every available surface is littered with what Georgia can only describe as tacky kitsch.
He plucks a blonde doll off the bookshelf and holds it up to Georgia’s face, mocking in a high voice, “I’m Sally Sunshine and I looove you.” He drags out the “o” in “love” in a way that rolls endlessly like Texas foothills.
Georgia laughs, a full belly laugh that doubles her over. She has not laughed like that since before her parents died—one right on the heels of the other, like a pair of lovebirds.
She thinks that is how she and Richard will go, too. She cannot imagine living in a world without him.
The rain is lashing at the window now. Georgia gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen in a daze, hoping that this is all a joke and that she will find Richard filling the muffin tins in the kitchen.
“Gotcha,” he’ll say, with a big grin, and she will be so relieved that she will forget to be angry at him for this cruelest of jokes.
But the kitchen is dark and quiet. Utterly empty.
Georgia flicks on the light and walks to the fridge, checking to see if anything has been disturbed. Everything is exactly as she left it the night before. The pan of burned stew sits untouched on the counter behind her. She goes to the window next, peering out into the rain at the patio, but there is nobody there.
Her gaze strays to a spot on the wall next to the window, where there is a gouge from when she and Richard were moving the new tables into the breakfast room. They huffed and puffed as they maneuvered them back and forth, trying to fit them through the door. When Georgia’s corner hit the wall after she misunderstood his directions, Richard was so annoyed that he stormed off to calm down.
He came back ten minutes later with a sheepish grin and an apology. They laughed about it and moved the rest of the tables together without arguing.
Georgia turns from the window and goes into the breakfast room. Maybe he’s just fixing a wobbly chair. The breakfast room is empty as well.
Georgia begins flying through all the public spaces of the inn.
There is nobody in the living room, but Georgia’s eyes land on the crack in one of the hearth tiles where a guest dropped and smashed an entire cup of black coffee. It went everywhere—all over the wood floor, the white rug, even splashes on the couch. Georgia nearly cried when she saw it. Richard told her not to worry, and spent the next few hours scrubbing everything until the only evidence that it had happened was the crack in the tile.
Reception is empty as well, and the computer is cool to the touch. Nobody has been here for hours. Georgia runs out the front door, deciding that if Richard is not in the house, he must be out in the driveway trimming back one of the overhanging trees.
The wind whips Georgia’s hair around her face and she claws it away from her eyes, desperate to see Richard with his trusty hedge trimmers. But Richard isn’t there. His truck isn’t, either.
This can’t be happening. It must be a dream.
That’s it; that’s it exactly. Georgia is having a really bad dream—a nightmare—and when she wakes up, Richard will tell her how silly it was and they’ll go down and prepare breakfast together like they do every morning. And everything will be okay.
Georgia goes back inside and does another sweep of the house, but she turns up no trace of her husband. Climbing back up the stairs to her room, she sees the letter on the floor where she discarded it in her race to get downstairs.
With shaking hands, Georgia sits on the bed and reads it again. After this fifth read, reality finally hits home.
Richard has left her.
Georgia crumples to the floor. The room echoes with her sobs.
10
Georgia
Georgia has not stopped crying for a single second. She cried while she made breakfast, she cried while she cleaned the rooms, she cried last night when she got into bed alone. The crumpled letter still sits on the floor of the bedroom. Georgia is tired of crying and tired of being sad, but she doesn’t know what else to do. What life is left when you’ve spent so long with one person, only for them to disappear in an instant?
Georgia is sitting on the patio, crying and trying to enjoy the warm sunlight cascading over her skin. She is trying to focus on the diving seabirds and the smell of salt and seaweed and the sound of people laughing and talking in the distance, but all she can think about is her family meandering along that same beach, Richard’s arm around her shoulders, the kids laughing and running like wild creatures. She can’t help but wonder—did those moments mean nothing to Richard?
“Excuse me?” a deep male voice asks, pulling Georgia out of her musings.
She turns to see a man approaching from around the side of the house. He looks around her age, with longish blond and gray hair combed back neatly, and a weathered, albeit handsome face. He is standing ramrod straight with a large suitcase in one hand, and his tweed suit is impeccably pressed. He is quite good-looking, and the fact that he has caught Georgia crying is incredibly embarrassing.
“Oh hi.” Georgia sniffs and wipes under her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see anyone at reception so I thought it would be okay to have a poke around.”
“Yes, that’s fine. I apologize; I didn’t know anyone was arriving today.” She chuckles humorlessly. “My husband normally checks the bookings.”
The man lowers the suitcase to the ground and fumbles for a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket, putting them on as he walks toward her. When he sees she is crying, the man stops dead, horrified.
“You are crying,” he observes. “I should not have interrupted you. Please pardon my negligence.”
Georgia stands, waving her hands. “No, no. Don’t be silly. You’re a guest, I should be apologizing to you.”
“Nonsense,” the man says. “I can come back a little later if you would like. I have a car in the drive, so I can go get some food or—”
“No, I won’t hear of it.” Georgia walks forward, extending her hand. “Georgia Baldwin.”
“Oh. Uh, Joel Abbot.” His hand is warm and soft, not like Richard’s tough, calloused palms. Joel is a lot taller than Georgia, and she has to tilt her head back just to see his face. He’s even more handsome up close, with light blue eyes and a long, aquiline nose.
Georgia realizes she has been staring for too long and drops his hand, taking a step back. She runs a hand through her messy hair and cringes internally.
“Listen, Mr. Abbot—”
“Please, Joel is more than fine.” He smiles reassuringly.
“Right. Joel.” Georgia smiles back. “I can’t guarantee the level of service you’re going to get here, and if you want to stay somewhere else, I would be happy to release your reservation without charge.”
Joel’s forehead creases with confusion. “What do you mean?” he asks.
Georgia is normally very private. Being the owner of an inn will do that to a person. She has gotten very good at being able to talk about her life to guests without actually revealing much about her private sphere. But there is something about Joel that is prodding her to open up, and truth be told, Georgia doesn’
t have the energy to keep her walls up just now. She soon finds herself telling him the whole story.
“Well, you see, my husband left me yesterday,” she begins. “All these years we’ve been together and then out of nowhere, just, poof—” she waves her hand into the distance demonstratively. “He left. He and the maid took off together with what turned out to be most of our money, so all I really have left is this inn. I guess that means I shouldn’t be turning away guests, but as I now have to do everything by myself, and I seem unable to stop crying, you are just as likely to wake up to an Egg McMuffin tomorrow as you are a real breakfast.”
Joel’s mouth quirks. “I, uh—” he looks down at his feet, as though embarrassed. “I like Egg McMuffins.”
Georgia lets out a bark of laughter. It surprises both of them.
“If you do not mind me saying, your husband sounds like a knave.”
“He is absolutely a knave,” Georgia says, taking a deep breath. “And you know what the worst part is? He wrote me a letter. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t stick around long enough for me to look him in the eye and ask why. He left a letter on his pillow while I was sleeping, like a total coward.”
“That is unconscionable behavior,” Joel replies. “I am very sorry.”
“Thank you for that, Joel,” she replies, finding the will to smile for the first time since she found the letter. “You know, I actually feel a bit better having spoken to you.”
He smiles. “Then you will let me stay?”
Georgia chuckles. “Of course. I need all the business I can get.” She checks her watch. “It’s nearly five. I know this is unusual, but would you like to have a drink with me? I could use the company. It is absolutely no problem if you don’t want to.”
Joel nods. “I would love to.”
She puts a finger up. “Wait right here.”
Georgia disappears into the house, heading through to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of chardonnay from the wine fridge. She uncorks it and grabs two glasses, wondering if this is a good idea. Joel is such a good listener, though, and it would be nice to hear somebody’s voice other than her own. Plus, he has been here all of two minutes and her mood has already drastically improved.
She emerges back on the patio a couple minutes later, holding the bottle aloft as she walks to a table. “Richard’s parents gave us this for Christmas one year, and he’s never let me open it,” she says. “He said he wanted to wait for a special occasion.”
Joel sits across from her. “And you are sure that you want to open it now?”
“One hundred percent,” she says, pouring him a glass. “After all, this is a special occasion.”
When he looks at her questioningly, Georgia lifts her glass with a small smile. “To new friends.”
“To new friends.”
They clink and drink. It’s a good enough wine, but definitely not worth saving all this time.
“I was in your shoes not too long ago, actually,” Joel reveals.
“Is that so?”
“My wife left me for someone else about a year back.” He swirls the wine around the glass absently, staring off at the water. “Around the same time, I was offered a research position in Antarctica, and I jumped for it. Where better to mend a broken heart than in a research station at the bottom of the world, with only a few living souls for miles?”
“I can see the appeal,” Georgia comments. “When I woke up this morning and realized that I was going to have to interact with people, I wanted to bury myself under the sand and stay there until they all left.”
He chuckles. “Yes, it seems like a great idea until you are cooped up for weeks in a frozen wasteland with only a handful of stuffy Scandinavian scientists for company.”
“Stuffy Scandinavian scientists,” Georgia repeats. “Try saying that five times fast.”
He laughs. “If only I’d had that tongue twister to pass the time in Antarctica.”
“What made you decide to leave?” Georgia asks.
Joel takes a sip of his wine and leans back a little in his chair, relaxing. He takes a deep breath, as though considering his words. “I realized that my reason for being there was all wrong,” he replies.
Georgia cocks a brow. “Because you were running away from your problems?”
“No, actually. Because I was punishing myself.”
“Punishing yourself?”
Joel nods slowly. “Betty left me and I did not understand why. I spent hours and hours wondering what it was about me that was so unforgivable that she had to end our marriage after so many years. Antarctica was my penance.” He shrugs. “Then, one day, I realized that punishing myself for my perceived spousal failings was pointless. I was offered a research position at the University of Southern Maine, and here I am.”
“I’m glad you are,” Georgia says. “That’s quite the story.”
“Yours is too,” Joel says. “And you are right at the beginning. I suspect there will soon be a lot more to tell.” He leans forward a little, and looks Georgia directly in the eye. “Can I give you a little advice, one storyteller to another?”
There is something transfixing about his gaze. His eyes are like the early morning sky in summer—a pale blue that hints of so much more to come.
“Sure,” Georgia says. She finishes the wine in her glass and pours another, topping up Joel’s while he speaks.
“Try not to think that Richard left to get away from you,” he says in a measured tone. “Richard left because he was reaching for something else. It was not your fault.”
Georgia swirls her wine around her glass the way Joel did earlier. She wants to believe him, but she has spent the past twenty-four hours reviewing every little fight they ever had, all the ways they drifted apart over the years and all the opportunities she missed to pull them back together.
“That’s easy advice to give,” she comments.
“But not so easy to take,” he replies, smiling warmly. “I understand. When you are ready to believe it, you will.”
11
Tasha
The front door slams closed and Tasha flinches. She stands still, staring down the hallway, listening to the stillness of the empty apartment, punctuated only by the traffic noises from the street below.
Chuck is gone. Their relationship is over.
Tasha keeps staring at the door, as though giving her mind time to catch up to the rash decision she just made. Any second, she will realize that she has made a mistake, just like Chuck said she would, and she will bound out that door after him.
Only she doesn’t. The longer she stares at the door, at the peeling paint and the scratches around the peephole, the more her resolve solidifies. She has done the right thing. For the first time in a long time, Tasha Baldwin has made a healthy decision. She did something that was good for her and it feels good.
She takes a breath and turns on her heel, facing the living room.
What now?
Tasha sets her hands on her hips. The adrenaline from the fight has left her feeling shaky and a little weak, but she knows if she sits down she won’t get up for a long time, and she has a lot to do. Chuck will come back, and when he does, Tasha needs to not be here.
She springs into action, lugging her old suitcase out of the storage closet and laying it open on the bed. She rips her clothes out of the closet and tosses them in, not bothering to fold anything. She just needs to get out. She empties her toiletries from the bathroom and then moves through the rest of the apartment, gathering up everything she owns to stack on the bed.
Tasha has lived with Chuck for a year, so she is surprised to find that very few of the things in the apartment actually belong to her. There is not much room left in the suitcase, so Tasha sifts through the stack to see if there is anything she can leave behind.
There is the stuffed monkey that Chuck won for her on the Venice Beach boardwalk on one of their first dates. It is missing one button eye, giving it an almost accusatory expression. That can stay. She tosse
s it to the side.
Next is a frying pan, which she is only considering bringing because of how expensive it was. Chuck always complained that she was incapable of cooking food evenly, and Tasha maintained that was only because of Chuck’s old, warped frying pans. To prove her point, she invested in this pan, but Chuck never acknowledged the significant improvement in the quality of Tasha’s cooking. He just stopped complaining. No, that can stay, too.
Tasha definitely doesn’t have room for the camping gear she bought, though maybe if she did it would actually get used. Chuck had a “revelation” last summer about how he wanted to “commune with nature at a deeper level,” so Tasha bought everything they needed to dive into the great outdoors. Chuck quickly realized that camping might mean going somewhere without cell service, so that activity was tabled indefinitely.
The rest of the items in the pile—a picnic blanket, some roller skates, a few knickknacks—Tasha doesn’t even consider. She doesn’t need any of it. In fact, she likes the idea of leaving it behind, of unburdening herself of this apartment, this relationship, this life. She will bring the essentials only and Chuck can burn the rest for all she cares.
Tasha stuffs down the clothes in her suitcase and forces it closed. She has to sit on it to zip it up. But once it’s zipped, that’s it. She’s packed. She’s done. She’s ready to go.
Tasha calls an Uber and waits in the living room, sitting next to her suitcase. Her mind is blissfully blank. She watches the clouds outside the window as they form and reform, the wind endlessly twisting and folding them into new shapes. She does not move from this spot until her phone dings, announcing the driver is nearby. Then Tasha stands, clasps the handle of her suitcase, and wheels it out the door. She does not look back.
Downstairs, Tasha hops into the Uber and continues to stare out the window. She watches as the city that has both nurtured and battered her for the past few years slides past her window. She’s mostly surprised that she feels nothing. For the first time since she got to LA, Tasha isn’t trying to do anything—not trying to make her relationship work, not trying to land a part, not trying to impress everyone she meets. Tasha is doing. And what she’s doing is getting the heck out of here.
