“And the thing is,” she continued with a little shake of her head and another mocking smile, “you don’t always recognize that wet sound for what it is—an assassination. You don’t register what’s actually happening as the air disappears. You hear that gurgle, and it somehow convinces you that the next breath is coming—you’re not broken. This is fixable, right? So you fight, holding on to whatever air there is.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears, but she raised her chin and held them back as the pages flew by with every sentence. “You fight and you thrash because this fated, deep-rooted thing you called love refuses to go down with a single shot. That would be far too merciful. Real love has to be choked out, held under the water until it stops kicking. That’s the only way to kill it.”
She flipped again and again, the album a color-streaked kaleidoscope of photos she’d obviously chosen with great care to send Scarlett, constructing the lie of a happy marriage.
“And once you finally get it, finally stop fighting, you’re too far gone to get to the surface to save yourself. And the spectators tell you to keep swimming, that it’s only a broken heart, but that little flicker that’s left of your soul can’t even float, let alone tread water. So you’re left with a choice. You either let yourself die while they accuse you of being weak or you learn to breathe the goddamn water, and then they call you a monster for what you become. Ice Queen, indeed.”
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.”
“Makes sense. She liked to revise, always added word count.” She braced her hands on the edge of the desk. “Personally, I think she liked living there, between the pages with him. Always adding little bits of memory but never closing the door.”
That was something I understood. Closing out a book meant I said goodbye to those characters. But they weren’t just characters to Scarlett. They’d been her sister. Her soul mate. I read a few sentences from the first page, then the second. “Damn, you can actually see her skill evolve.”
“Really?” Georgia adjusted slightly, turning her head to see the pages.
“Yeah. Every writer has a particular flow to their sentence structure. See here,” I pointed to a spot on the first page. “Slightly choppier. By here,” I selected a different passage on the second, “she smoothed out.” I’d bet my life that the first pages most closely resembled the style of her early works. I glanced up to find Georgia’s eyes on me.
She failed at stifling a smile.
“What?” I asked, slipping the pages back into the manuscript where they belonged.
“Now you have chocolate on your face.” She laughed softly.
“Awesome.” I swiped my hand over the stubble closest to my mouth.
“Here.” She slid along the desk, the bare skin of her legs brushing against mine.
I suddenly wished I’d worn shorts as I rolled back slightly, hoping she’d come closer.
She filled the space between my knees, cupped the side of my face, and brushed her thumb over the patch of skin just below the corner of my mouth. My pulse kicked up a notch, and my body went tight.
“There,” she whispered, but didn’t move her hand.
“Thanks.” Her touch was warm, and it took everything I had not to lean in to it. Damn, I wanted her, and not just her body. I wanted inside her mind, past the walls even George R.R. Martin would be proud of. I wanted her trust simply so I could prove I was worthy of it.
She swept the tip of her tongue over her lower lip.
My self-control hung by a thread, and the look in her eyes was slowly pulling at the edges of it, fraying the strands.
Still, she didn’t move.
“Georgia.” Her name came out as both a plea and a warning.
She moved closer. Not close enough.
My hands found the curves of her waist and I tugged, bringing her as close as the chair allowed.
Her breath caught in a tiny gasp that sent all the blood in my body straight to my dick. Calm the hell down. She slid her hand along my jaw and into my hair.
My grip tightened on her waist through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt.
“Noah,” she whispered, lifting her other hand to hold the back of my neck.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Georgia?” My voice was rough, even to my own ears. There could be no mistake here. No mixed signals. There was too much riding on this, and for once, it wasn’t my career I was thinking about.
“Do you want to kiss me?” she challenged.
“More than I want my next breath.” My gaze dropped to that incredible mouth, and her lips parted.
“Good, because—”
Her phone rang.
You have got to be kidding me.
She shifted, leaning closer.
Another ring.
“Don’t—” I started.
With a groan, she ripped her phone from her back pocket, then sucked in a breath as her eyes narrowed at her screen. She swiped violently, answering the call and lifting the device to her ear.
“—answer it,” I finished with a sigh, letting my head fall back against the chair.
“What the hell do you want, Damian?”
Chapter Twenty
July 1941
North Weald, England
“It’s better, right?” Scarlett asked as she forced the buttons of her uniform jacket through the holes. She wasn’t going to be able to hide it much longer. She wasn’t sure she was even effectively hiding it now.
Jameson leaned against the doorframe to their bedroom, his mouth pressed in a firm line.
“I’ve taken out every spare quarter inch,” Constance murmured, tugging the hem lightly. “Perhaps we could request a larger size?”
“Again?” Scarlett’s eyebrows rose as she took in her reflection in the oval mirror that topped their dresser.
Constance winced. “True. The first time, the supply clerk looked at me as though I’d been stealing her rations.”
The uniform was tight, straining at seams not only over her belly but also her hips and chest.
“I have an idea,” Jameson said from the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Let’s hear it,” Scarlett responded, tugging the sides of her jacket together near the bottom, where there weren’t any buttons.
“You could tell them you’re five months pregnant.”
She met his gaze in the mirror with an arched eyebrow.
He didn’t smile.
Constance looked between the two of them. “Right. I’ll just be…somewhere else!”
Jameson moved so she could slide by, and then he shut the bedroom door, leaning against it. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” she said softly, running her hand over the swell of her belly. “But you know what they’ll do.”
He leaned his head back, thunking it against the door. “Scarlett, honey. I know your work is important, but can you honestly tell me that being on your feet for eight hours straight isn’t killing you? The stress? The schedule?”
He was right. She was already exhausted every morning when she opened her eyes. It didn’t matter how tired she was; there was no time to rest.
But if she came clean—resigned her commission—what would she be then?
“What would I do all day?” Scarlett asked, her fingers tracing the raised lines of the rank on her shoulder. “For the last two years I’ve had direction. I’ve had meaning and purpose. I’ve accomplished things and dedicated myself to the war effort. So what am I supposed to do? I’ve never been a housewife.” She swallowed, hoping to dislodge the knot there. “I’ve certainly never been a mother. I don’t know how to be either of those things.”
Jameson crossed the room, then sat on the edge of the bed, gripped his wife’s hips, and pulled her between his spread knees. “We’ll figure it out together.”
“We,” she said softly, her face falling. “But nothing changes for you,” she whispered. “You still go to work, still fly, still fight in this war.”
“I know this isn’t what you wanted—” His face fell.
“It’s not that,” she promised in a rush, lacing her fingers behind her husband’s neck. “I was just hoping I’d be ready. I hoped the war would be over, that we wouldn’t have to bring a child into a world where I worry if you’ll come home every night or fear a bomb may fall on our house while he slept.” She took his hands and covered the swell of her belly. “I want this baby, Jameson. I want our family. I just wanted to be ready, and I’m not.”
Jameson’s hands stroked over her stomach as they did every day when he said goodbye to their child as he headed off to fly. “I don’t think anyone is ever ready. And no, this world isn’t safe for her. Not yet. But she has two parents fighting like hell to change that. To make it safe for her.” The corner of his lips twitched upward as he looked at his wife. “I’m incredibly proud of you, Scarlett. You’ve done everything you can. You can’t change the regulations. All you can do is bring that fight home. I know you’ll be a wonderful mother. I know my schedule is unpredictable, and that I never know when I’ll
actually make it home.” If he makes it home, she thought. “I know the majority of this will fall on you, but I also know you’re up for the challenge.”
She cocked a brow. “There you go again, thinking our baby’s a girl. Your son won’t take kindly to that when he’s born.”
Jameson laughed. “And there you go again, thinking our daughter is a boy.” He leaned forward and placed his mouth just above her belly. “You hear that, sunshine? Mommy thinks you’re a boy.”
“Mommy knows you’re a boy,” Scarlett challenged.
Jameson kissed her belly, then tugged Scarlett closer so he could brush a kiss over her lips. “I love you, Scarlett Stanton. I love every single thing about you. I can’t wait to hold a piece of both of us, to see these gorgeous blue eyes in our child.”
She ran her hands through his hair. “And what if he has your eyes?”
Jameson smiled. “Having seen both you and your sister, I’d say you might have some dominant genetics in the eye department.” He kissed her again, slowly. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. It would be a shame not to see them carried down. We’d call them Wright blue.”
“Stanton blue,” she corrected, something inside her shifting, preparing for the change she could no longer avoid through denial. “I still can’t cook. Even after all these months, you’re still better than I am. All I know how to do is throw an excellent party and plot aircraft for incoming raids. I don’t want to fail.”
“You won’t. We won’t. As much as you and I love each other, can you imagine how much we’re going to love this kid?” His smile was brighter than ever and just as contagious.
“Only a few more months,” she whispered.
“Only a few more months,” he repeated. “Then we’ll have a new adventure.”
“Everything will change.”
“Not the way I love you.”
“You promise?” she asked, her fingers trailing the line of his collar. “You fell in love with a WAAF officer, which, from the fit of this uniform, won’t be true in the next week. Hardly seems like you got the good end of this bargain.” How was he going to love her if she wasn’t even herself?
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 25
