I didn’t submit The Diplomat’s Daughter for publication. Beatrice did the year the war ended. The year we finished the gazebo at the bend in the creek where Jameson asked Scarlett to wait for him. That was the year Beatrice accepted what I’d already known. Jameson wasn’t coming home. I helped build a gazebo for a future that only existed in my imagination, a future where love and tragedy didn’t walk hand in hand.
The problem with signing that first book deal was the request for the second, the third, the fourth. I went through the hatbox, used her partial chapters, her plot notes, and when my own heart failed, I simply imagined she was beside me, hiding in our parents’ house, walking the long roads, sitting at that kitchen table, telling me what happened next. In that way, she lived in every book I typed, then the ones I wrote as the hatbox emptied.
I had the house built big enough for Jameson’s family, and we moved.
Then Brian came along. Oh, Georgia, I fell for his warm eyes and soft smile that very first year he rented the cottage. It wasn’t the same as I’d felt for Edward—that had been a once-in-a-lifetime love—but it was steady, warm, and as gentle as the spring thaw. After Henry…well, I needed gentle.
Beatrice saw. She knew.
William saw it, too. He never voiced his disapproval. Never made me feel guilty. But the year he turned sixteen, he found Brian and me dancing in the gazebo. The phonograph disappeared the next day. He had his father’s smile and his passion for life and his mother’s eyes and steel will. He was the best thing I’d ever done with my life, and the day he married Hannah—the love of his life—he told me it was time to marry mine.
I told him the love of my life had been taken by the war—that was the truth.
He told me Jameson would want me to be happy—that was true, too.
Every year Brian asked. Every year I said no.
Georgia, there exists within me a gray, shadowy place where I am both the girl I was…and the woman I became that day, both Constance and Scarlett. And in that gray place, I was still married to Henry Wadsworth—though he had remarried and moved his new family onto the land I’d ruined myself to protect. The land where he’d buried my sister in his one and only romantic gesture. And perhaps the girl who had been so egregiously abused took a perverse pleasure that she could bring his life toppling down by simply admitting that she was alive.
The woman I was refused to allow the shadow to dim Brian’s light—refused to bring him into a marriage that would ultimately be as fraudulent as I was—but I could never tell him the truth—that would have made him complicit in my crimes. He stopped asking in 1968.
The day I read that Henry Wadsworth had died of a massive stroke, I raced to the veterinary clinic where Brian worked and begged him to ask me again. Only after William had given his blessing did I tell the lawyers to start the paperwork for Jameson.
I married Brian seventeen years after we met, and the decade we were married was the happiest of my life. I found my happily-ever-after. Never doubt that. William and Hannah had tried so long for a child, and Ava was the apple of their eye—and mine. I wish you had known her before the accident, Georgia. Tragedy has a way of breaking gentle things and soldering the shattered pieces together in ways we can’t control. Some, it remakes into stronger, more resilient creatures. In others, the pieces fuse before they heal, leaving only razor-sharp edges. I can offer you no other explanation or excuse for the way she’s cut you over the years.
You, my sweet girl, were the light of my very long life.
You were my reason to slow down, to live with more intention, less fear.
You, Georgia, who remind me so very much of my sister.
You have her indomitable will, her strong heart, her fierce spirit, and her eyes—my eyes.
I pray that this package finds you happy and madly in love with the man you’ve deemed worthy of your heart. I also hope you’ve realized by now that man isn’t Damian—not unless he’s had an epiphany between what is now your sixth year of marriage, and when you open this on your seventh anniversary. And yes, I get to say that because I’m dead. When I was alive, you were determined, and heaven help the soul who tries to change your stubborn little mind. Some lessons we simply have to learn for ourselves.
So why tell you, now that I’m gone? Why lay this truth at your feet when I trusted no one else? Because you, more than any other Stanton, need to know that it is love that brought you here. I’ve never seen another love like Scarlett and Jameson’s. It was one of those fated lightning strikes, miraculous to see up close, to feel the energy between the two when they were in the same room. That is the love that lives in your veins.
I’ve never seen another love like I had for Edward—we were twin flames.
But I’ve also never seen another love like I had for Brian—deep and calm and true.
Or another love like William’s for Hannah—achingly sweet.
But I have seen the same love that I had for William the day I stepped onto that plane. It lives in you. You are the culmination of every lightning strike and twist of fate.
Do not settle for the love that hones your edges and turns you brittle and cold, Georgia. Not when there are so many other kinds of love waiting for you. And don’t wait like I did, wasting seventeen years because I’d left one bitter foot in my past.
We’re all entitled to our mistakes. When you recognize them for what they are, don’t live there. Life is too short to miss the lightning strike and too long to live it alone. This is where my story ends. I’ll be watching over you to see where yours leads.
All my love,
Gran
Tears dripped down my face as I finished the last page, and they weren’t the pretty, silent ones. Oh no, I was a snotty mess.
She’d lived seventy-eight years of her life as Scarlett, never being called by her own name. Never letting someone else help carry the burden of what she’d done. She’d borne the deaths of Edward, Jameson, Scarlett, Brian…then William and Hannah, yet hadn’t hardened under the grief.
I left the letter on the steps, then clutched my phone and stumbled to the office. Snatching the framed picture of Scarlett and Jameson from the desk, I hit my knees in front of the bookshelf cabinets and dug through the contents to find the same albums I’d shown to Noah months ago.
William. William. William. The first picture of Gran had been taken in 1950, long enough after the Ipswich bombing that no one would question any physical differences. She hadn’t just shied away from the camera lens, she’d studiously avoided it.
I studied both pictures, needing to see it for myself.
Scarlett’s chin was slightly sharper, Constance’s lower lip a bit fuller. Same nose. Same eyes. Same beauty mark. But they were not the same woman.
People see what they want to see. How many times had she said that to me over the years? Everyone had simply accepted that Constance was Scarlett because they’d never had reason to question it. Why would they when she had William?
The gardening. The tiny style differences Noah had spotted. The baking…it all made sense.
I flipped through the album until I found her wedding picture to Grandpa Brian. There was real, true love shining in her eyes. Noah’s ending had been truer to life than he could have known…but it wasn’t Scarlett’s ending, it was Constance’s.
Scarlett had died on a ruined street nearly eighty years ago. Jameson couldn’t have been far off. They hadn’t been apart for long. They’d been together all this time.
I sucked in a shaky breath and wiped my tears on my sleeve as I fumbled with my cell phone.
If Gran had lived a lie to give me this life, then I owed it to her to live it.
The message I’d sent to Noah still hadn’t been read, but I called him anyway. Four rings. Voicemail. The guy didn’t even have a personalized message, and I wasn’t about to pour my heart out on a voicemail anyway. Besides, with the re
views out, it was no wonder he wasn’t answering.
I gasped. Reviews were out. Stumbling to my feet, I slid into the chair at my desk, then clicked through my emails until I found Adam’s number.
“Adam Feinhold,” he answered.
“Adam, it’s Georgia,” I blurted. “Stanton, I mean.”
“I figured it wasn’t the state calling,” he drawled dryly. “What can I do for you, Ms. Stanton? It’s a bit…heavy around here today.”
“Yeah, I deserve that,” I admitted, cringing like he could see me. “Look, I tried Noah first—”
“I have no clue where he is. He left me a message that he was off on some research trip and he’d be back in time for any release promo we need.”
I blinked. “Noah’s…gone?”
“Not gone. Researching. Don’t stress, he does it every book but yours, since you know, the research had already been done.”
“Oh.” My heart sank. So much for seizing the lightning bolt.
“You know the guy is pretty much dying over you, right?” Adam said softly. “And I say that as his best friend, not his editor. He’s miserable. Or at least he was miserable. This morning he just sounded pissed, but that was after the reviews came out. Christopher is even more pissed, which as editorial director is absolutely possible, trust me.”
I was twenty-four hours too late to tell him I’d been wrong. Really wrong. But maybe I could show him. At least I could try. “Did Noah really edit both versions?”
“Yep. Copy edits and all. Told you, he’s a mess over you.”
“Good.” I smiled, too happy to clarify that statement.
“Good?”
“Yep. Good. Now go get Christopher.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Noah
The only institution slower than publishing was the United States government. Especially when it had to work in conjunction with another country, and neither could agree on who was responsible for what. But six weeks and a couple hundred thousand dollars later, I had the answer to one of my questions.
I was starting to think the other one was better left unanswered.
I cursed as I scalded my tongue on freshly brewed coffee and squinted at the sunlight streaming in the apartment windows. Jet lag was a pain in the ass, and I hadn’t exactly been keeping regular hours over there as it was.
I carried my cup-of-lava to the couch, then fired up the laptop and scanned through about a billion emails. Ignoring the real world for six weeks came with some serious inbox complications that I really wasn’t feeling up for dealing with yet.
Cell phone, it was. As usual, I went through my texts to find the last message from Georgia.
GEORGIA: I’m sorry about the reviews.
That was one I’d gotten when I landed the day after everyone in publishing simultaneously agreed that I was an asshole, which, in their defense, was true. Just not for the reasons they shouted on every platform. I read through the rest of the conversation, which had become just as routine as coffee.
NOAH: I kept my word.
GEORGIA: I know. I’m taking some time, but call me when you get back.
NOAH: Will do.
That was it. That’s where we left it. She was taking some time, which roughly translated into leave-me-the-hell-alone, so I did. For six fucking weeks.
How much more time did the woman need?
Also, did that time include today? Was I supposed to call now that I was home? Or give her more time?
It had been three months since she’d raised that stubborn, stoic chin and thrown me out on my ass for the lie I’d been ridiculous enough to tell. Three months since those eyes had welled with tears I’d put there. Three months, and I still loved her so much I ached with it. I couldn’t have written a more lovesick character, and I had the circles under my eyes to prove it.
Mom called, and I answered.
“Hey, Mom. I just got back last night. Did you get your copy messengered over?” Usually I took my latest copy myself, but I wasn’t sure I could live through seeing her face once she realized what I’d done to Scarlett Stanton’s last work.
“It came by courier last night! I’m so proud of you!” Shit, she sounded so happy—because she hadn’t read the ending yet.
“Thanks, Mom.” My laptop started pinging next to me as the Google alerts filed in with more reviews. I really had to turn that crap off.
“I love it, Noah. You really outdid yourself. I can’t even tell where Scarlett’s words end and yours begin!”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out once you get to the end. It’s pretty obvious,” I groaned, sliding lower into the couch. There was a special hell for people who disappointed their mothers. “And I need you to know that I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“Just wait. You’ll see.” I should have stayed overseas, but even that distance wasn’t far enough to save me from the wrath of my mother.
“Noah Antonio Morelli, will you stop talking in circles?” she snapped. “I stayed up all night and read the whole thing.”
My stomach hit the floor. “Am I still invited for Memorial Day?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Her tone grew suspicious.
“Because I slaughtered the ending?” I rubbed my temples, waiting for the ax to fall.
“Oh, stop being humble. Noah, it was beautiful! The moment in the aspen grove when Jameson sees—”
“What?” I sat straight up, my laptop crashing to the floor. “Jameson…” That wasn’t what happened. At least, not in the version they’d published. Adam. “Mom, do you have the book there with you?”
“Yes. Noah, what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, honestly. Do me a favor and flip to the front, where the copyright is.” Adam had to have printed a special edition for her. Holy shit, I owed him big time.
“I’m there.”
“Is it a special edition?”
“Well, not if first editions are special.”
What the actual hell? I grabbed my laptop off the floor and opened the first Google alert. It was the Times and the first line knocked me on my ass.
HARRISON SEAMLESSLY BLENDS STANTON’S VISION—
“Mom, I love you, but I have to go.” I clicked down the row of alerts. They all said variations of the same thing.
“Okay. I love you, Noah. You should get more sleep,” she said in that kindly authoritarian way she’d always had.
“I will. Love you, too.” I hung up and dialed Adam.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Welcome home! How was the trip? You fired up to start next year’s release?” Why was everyone so damned chipper this morning?
“Harrison seamlessly blends Stanton’s vision with his own take on classic romance. This one shouldn’t be missed. The Times,” I read.
“Nice!”
“Are you serious? How about this one?” I snapped. “We’ve been had. How the bait and switch of the decade led to a surprised—and relieved—fandom. The Tribune.” My hands curled into fists.
“Not bad. Almost looks like we meant to do it, huh?”
“Adam,” I growled.
“Noah.”
“What the hell did you do to my book?” I roared. It was all ruined. Everything I’d put on the line for her had been ripped away. She’d never forgive me for this—never trust me, no matter how much time I gave her.
“Exactly what I was told to do by the only person who had the contractual right to tell me to do it,” he said slowly.
There was only one person who could approve changes without me, and her time was officially up.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Georgia
“Talk about swoon,” Hazel sighed.
“Yeah, that was a good part.” I switched the phone to my other ear and finished washing
the dirt off my hands. The seedlings were coming along, and in just a few weeks, they’d be strong enough to be transplanted into the garden. Right in time for the weather to be kind enough to allow it.
“And holy wedding-night scene, Batman. I have to know, was that your gran? Or is there a little Noah in there, because it was so hot that I took myself down to Owen’s office—”
“Stop right there, because I do not need that mental picture the next time I go to the dentist.” I dried off my hands and tried not to think of exactly how much of that was Noah. Guess he’d set out to prove me wrong about the unsatisfying comment I’d made that day in the bookstore.
“Fine, but seriously. Hot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said as the doorbell rang.
“You sure you don’t want to come over for dinner?” she asked as I walked through the hallway and into the foyer. “I hate the thought of you eating pizza on a night like tonight. You should be celebrating. Gran would have loved this book.”
“I’m fine, and yeah, she sure would have. Hold up, my pizza is here.” I swung open the door. My heart slammed to a standstill, then took off at a gallop.
“Georgia.” Noah stood in my doorway, glaring down at me with a smolder that instantly turned my mouth to ash.
“Hazel, I have to go.”
“Really? You won’t reconsider? Because we’d love to have you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Noah’s here,” I said as casually as I could manage given the fact that I couldn’t breathe. Three months of longing slammed into me with the force of a wrecking ball.
“Oh, good. Ask him about the sex scene, would you?” she quipped.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 41
