by Mary Carter
Austin really wanted to know why she was so worked up about the ornament. Not only had he not cheered her up, she seemed even more upset than before. “Have a little faith,” he said. This time in addition to letting out another bloodcurdling scream, Yvette Garland lifted a rolling pin and charged him.
CHAPTER 3
Hope Garland paced her tiny apartment, clutching her iPad and practicing her pitch. “It’s been five years since the three of us spent Christmas together.” She stopped. Could it be longer? Definitely longer since the three of them spent Christmas with their mother.
“Can you do that somewhere else?” Michael called from the sofa. She glanced at the top of his head, dark hair sticking up in the middle. He’d been glued to the television for the past hour, captivated by some kind of extreme fishing show. Bigger boats, more waves, hairier fish. Gawd. He hadn’t even taken her suggestion of watching It’s a Wonderful Life seriously. Another piece of evidence that he wasn’t the right guy for her, bagged and sealed and placed in the evidence locker. Truthfully, she’d known it after their first month together, when it became obvious that he wasn’t a dog lover, but she’d spent the next five months trying to talk herself into him. Every time she wanted to break up with him, she could hear her older sister, Faith, in her ear. “Not everyone is a dog fanatic, Hope. Must Love Dogs is one thing. Must Think Life Revolves Around Dogs is you being psychotic. Give people a break!”
Faith was never one to tiptoe in on little cat feet. So Hope tried. She’d given him multiple breaks. Maybe she was the one who was broken. Or maybe, she knew it all along. He just wasn’t the guy for her. Why did she think she had to turn him into a villain to admit it wasn’t working out? She hadn’t fostered a dog since they’d started dating, and she couldn’t wait to get to work every day just to be around those big eyes and wagging tails. She missed having a dog lying at the foot of the bed, snoring away. She missed the click of their nails on the wood floor, and the exuberant joy when it was time for a walk. Dogs taught people how to live in the moment. She felt bad that Faith couldn’t see that. But that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to end things with Michael. And maybe all her reasons were all little things, things other women would consider trifling—but the little things added up.
“Look at the size of that bass!” he said. “That’s a whopper.”
“Wow,” Hope said. “Size does matter.” She could see him nod. He didn’t register sarcasm. She felt mean. But seriously. Did he expect her to get excited over a fish? She didn’t understand the male brain. Slippery, and elusive. Like a fish? Just because one lived in the Pacific Northwest did not mean they loved freaking fish. Maybe, if he had ever tried to get excited about dogs, she would have tried to get excited about fish. At least dogs were incredible companions. And smart. So, so smart. Could you say the same about fish? Could you cuddle up on the sofa with a bass? Was it all about stringing it up and posing for the picture? Sometimes she thought men weren’t just from different planets, they were off in their own solar system.
Be nice, Hope. As soon as the holidays were over, she was going to end this relationship as neatly as possible. She would let him down gently. She would put it in a language he understood. As you know, Michael. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Holidays should not be about heartbreak. Would Michael be heartbroken? She doubted it. Hope tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and went back to silently begging her sisters to spend Christmas with her this year.
“As long as you’re pacing, would you get me a pilsner?” Michael called out. Hope rolled her eyes, knowing he’d never turn around to see it. She headed for the fridge. He was on his third beer within the hour. She shouldn’t be counting, it was Sunday, they weren’t going anywhere, but she knew by the end of the day the six-pack would be gone, and he might even rummage through her cupboards for some hard liquor, and he would fall asleep on the sofa and snore. She was twenty-eight. Not married, no kids. Was this really the life she wanted? He wasn’t a drunk now, but if he kept this up, what would he be like in ten years? It was too reminiscent of her parents. But she didn’t say a word. She didn’t want to fight. She handed him another beer and headed for the hall between the living room and her bedroom where she could pace in relative peace. She wished he’d just go home, but in order to get her wish, she’d actually have to have a conversation with him. One she didn’t want to face right now. Right now she had to focus on her sisters.
Christmas with their mother, or Carla as they’d been ordered to call her, hadn’t happened for at least six years. Maybe seven? And Carla was definitely out this year—she’d already announced she was going to Cuba with her latest boyfriend, but her sisters hadn’t made any such proclamations. Yet. Hope had a small window; if she wanted to nail down plans for Christmas, she was going to have to pounce.
Last year they told her she’d waited too late. “Sorry, Hope,” Faith said. “We’re going to visit Stephen’s mother. If only you had said something earlier.”
“Same here,” Joy said. “It’s too late to change my plans as well.”
“What plans?” Hope asked.
“Friends on the east coast,” Joy said, leaving it at that. Hope was convinced Joy had no such plans, but accusing your little sister of being a liar usually didn’t go over so well.
The year before, they said she’d asked too early. “I can’t even think about Christmas this early,” Faith said. “Let us get through the start of the school year, would you?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow let alone Christmas,” Joy said. Hope didn’t know when her sisters had morphed into Goldilocks—too hot, too cold, too porridge-y!—but if they didn’t start celebrating with her, they were going to turn her into the Grinch. This time she was asking at exactly the right time. Just a few days after Thanksgiving. Not too early, but still plenty of time to arrange travel and plan exactly where they would spend Christmas.
She took a deep breath and imagined they were in the room. Faith, tall and leggy, would no doubt be looking sexy in designer jeans and some kind of trendy top with lace, or shimmery material, something practical but uber-feminine. Long brown hair flowing past her breasts. A slightly superior look on her face. At thirty-two Faith was the oldest, but she still sported a flawless complexion, no doubt the result of what Carla called “her hippy-dippy California ways.”
Joy, on the other hand, twenty-four but still the baby of the family, would be splayed out on the La-Z-Boy, her athletic figure practically hidden underneath her tattoos, and colored sweatpants with JUICY on her derriere, and her pretty face slathered with dark makeup. Maybe a neon-pink streak running through her choppy platinum hair. Joy thought of herself as the forgotten child and maybe to some extent she had been. Her mission in life seemed to be to make Hope feel that everything she said was a complete waste of breath, or at least worthy of an eye roll.
She felt bad for judging her sisters, but she couldn’t help it. How did they see her? Did they look at her as the dutiful middle child? Did they think her boring with her girl-next-door look, her honey-colored hair that she’d never touched with highlights despite the two of them begging her to “mix it up,” and her natural brows they’d salivated over tweezing? Did they long to take a lint roller to her T-shirts covered in dog hair? Most likely. No matter.
She began her plea again, making eye contact with the apparitions of her sisters. “You two can come to Portland, or Joy and I could go to San Francisco, or we could all meet in Seattle.”
Joy probably wouldn’t go for meeting in Seattle; she’d told Hope she was in between apartments, whatever that meant. Regardless, Joy would have a fit if Hope didn’t at least include the possibility of spending the holidays in her home turf. It was so ridiculous, all three of them lived on the west coast, but given the protestations of Faith and Joy every year, you’d think they lived on opposite ends of the earth. Every year Hope tried everything she could think of to convince them to spend it together, and every year they deflected her request with a so
rry excuse. Faith’s usually revolved around family:
We’re going to spend it with Stephen’s mother this year, sorry.
The kids just want to spend it at home.
I’d rather wait until we could all afford to go somewhere nice, somewhere away from here.
Joy’s excuses ran the gamut and were often filled with a Shakespearean-esque passion:
I’m not celebrating that Hallmark holiday this year!
Bob (Mark, Jeff, Greg) and I are:
a) Hiking the Appalachian Trail
b) Buying a yurt
c) Going to Vegas
Hope was always defeated. Not this year, sisters.
But short of kidnapping them, Hope wasn’t quite sure how to get her way this year. She thought about involving Stephen, but she never really felt comfortable around Faith’s husband. There was nothing wrong with him per se, but he was a bit stiff. And he always seemed to want Faith to go to his mother’s house for Christmas. No matter what, it was probably going to take several attempts, so she might just as well make the first call. But to whom? If she called Faith first, Joy might complain that she’d been an afterthought. But Faith always had to call the shots, so she wouldn’t be receptive if Hope and Joy had it all worked out in advance.
“I can’t believe you’re this worked up about Christmas,” Michael called from the sofa.
“That’s because your family is normal,” she said. “They just get together. My family talks about getting together like scientists talk about taking trips to outer space. Maybe. Someday. You never know.”
“Hurry up and call because if you three aren’t getting together, I had a few thoughts of my own.”
“What thoughts?”
“Let’s just say—we’re going to have a merry Christmas whether you get together with your sisters or not.”
“I have to get together with my sisters. If we don’t start doing it, we’ll forget how.”
“Then call already.”
She hoped he wasn’t planning anything big. Couldn’t he see that they weren’t right for each other? What was wrong with this picture? The guy she didn’t want to be with was sticking to her like glue, and the two women she did want to be with were dodging and evading. Regardless, he was right. She needed to get over herself and call. She clicked on the video icon and clicked on the picture of Faith’s smiling face.
Hope smiled when they connected and took a deep breath to start her pitch.
“I can’t this year,” Faith said before Hope had uttered a single word. “I just can’t.” Hope realized a second too late that her lips had begun to flap, ironically like a fish caught in a bait. “And don’t bother with Joy. She and her latest boyfriend are opening a coffee shop. In Seattle,” Faith added when Hope didn’t respond. “Across from a Starbucks.” Hope continued to stare. “Maybe next year,” Faith said. A noise erupted in the background, a thud. It could have been something falling, it could have been thunder, it could have been the sound of Hope’s heart free-falling. “I gotta go,” Faith said. “Maybe next Christmas.” She clicked off. Hope hadn’t said a single word.
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Bailey Jordan has loved her husband, Brad, since they were ten years old. She's followed him on every adventure--opening a sweater store in Seattle, a café in Colorado, a surf shop in Santa Monica. Each time, she's picked up the pieces when things fell apart. But now, it's her turn. Bailey has a successful real estate career in Manhattan, and she's eager to start a family--until a car crash leaves Brad in a coma and changes their lives forever.
Awakening after his near-death experience, Brad has a new mission. He buys a lighthouse on the Hudson River, planning to turn it into a B&B. Grateful to have Brad alive, Bailey tries to make his dream her own. The lighthouse is beautiful, but the challenges--renovating, bringing in supplies by boat, navigating the locals and guests--are enormous. And then Bailey discovers a secret in Brad's past that compels her to question her husband, her marriage, and how far she'll go to keep them both. . .
Thoughtful and moving, The Things I Do for You exhibits a rare understanding of the joys, compromises, and small rebellions that lie at the heart of every marriage, and of the resilience and surprising power of love.
Keep reading for an exciting sneak peek of
Mary Carter's
THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU
available now wherever print and e-books are sold
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Chapter 1
Bailey Jordan couldn’t believe she was going to get away with it. Were they insane? Was she wrong to take advantage of their crippled mental states? If they all survived a plane crash but were stranded on a snow-covered mountaintop without so much as a bag of chips, would she eat them? Could she eat them? She kept waiting for them to tell her it was all a big joke. But they didn’t. They kept walking. This was how people got ahead in the world, they bulldozed over friends and family the second they let down their guard. So she would do it. She would not only cross the finish line, she would sprint past it. She would show them. She could not blow this. Because the real reason they were letting her do this, the only reason they were letting her do this, was because they didn’t believe she could actually do it.
I could eat you, she repeated to herself. Wouldn’t want to—but could. I could eat you, I could eat you, I could eat you.
She was on her way to show an exclusive penthouse overlooking Central Park. It didn’t seem real. Yet here she was, strolling down Fifth Avenue. She should be taking deep breaths, visualizing the sale, and soaking up the faint scent of tulips swaying in the warm May breeze. Instead, she was obsessing on eating her mentors. That couldn’t be good. She should focus on something else, anything else. How about shadows? There were the shadows of the trees looming over the sidewalk, her long shadow striking out ahead of her, and of course, the two elongated shadows tailing her.
Shadow one, her aunt Faye, owner of Penthouses on Parade. Shadow two, Jason Biggs, an ironically small man and the second in command at the high-paced, high-profile agency. Jason was being a good sport. If Bailey were him, she would hate her. Faye was only letting Bailey do this because she was family. Jason was the one who should be showing the penthouse. He had the experience, and the seniority. Bailey had only had her real estate license less than a year. She didn’t deserve this opportunity; she knew it, and everyone else knew it. Losing herself in shadows was the only thing keeping Bailey from shrinking into a ball of nerves and rolling down Fifth Avenue with the rest of the midday traffic. Faye’s high heels clicking on the sidewalk and Jason’s cell phone constantly beeping were driving her crazy. If only she could figure out how to remain classy, yet firmly kick both of them to the curb.
Instead, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She crossed Fifth Avenue, snapped pictures of The Frick Collection (a gorgeous small art museum where her prospective clients had recently married) with her cell phone, and peeked in her purse to make sure the chocolate-chip-scented candle was still in one piece. Then, because Faye and Jason were lagging behind, she stopped and fussed with her hair in the window of an off-duty taxi parked at the curb. Was it her imagination, or had the lovely May breeze just turned into a kite-flying wind? When they finally caught up, Jason’s look said it all. It took hours for her stylist to straighten her frizz-prone chestnut hair, still hanging slightly below her breasts despite her stylist’s desire to hack it to chin level, but only seconds for the great outdoors to whip it into a frenzy. This afternoon Mother Nature was acting more like Mommie Dearest.
Bailey pulled her hair back, secured it with a rubber band, and practiced the spiel she hoped would cinch the sale of the Fifth Avenue penthouse.
“Imagine, if you lived here, you’d pass the Frick museum every day on your way to work—”
“Don’t mention work,” Faye interrupted. “You never want them to associate work with home.”
“Oh,” Bailey said. “Of course.” How c
ould she make such a rookie mistake? Because that’s what she was, an amateur. She was hardly a cannibal, a disappointment to the tribe. Sweat pooled underneath her armpits, and her new high heels carved blisters into her feet. Why didn’t she bring deodorant, or perfume, or Band-Aids, or tequila? “Imagine. If you lived here you’d pass the Frick museum every Saturday on your way to the park for a leisurely afternoon stroll—”
“Rich people don’t stroll,” Faye said.
“Or go to the park,” Jason said.
“They’re too busy,” Faye said.
“Too busy to stroll or go to the park?” Bailey asked.
“Both,” Faye said. “They walk briskly—”
“And gaze at the park from their balconies, marveling at all the tiny people below them,” Jason said. He touched his Bluetooth and turned his head. “Penthouses on Parade, Jason Biggs speaking.” Two ticks for poverty, Bailey thought. She couldn’t imagine a life without strolls through the park. She took a deep breath and started her spiel all over again.
“Imagine, you’ll pass the Frick museum every day in your limo and remember where you first made your love legal,” Bailey said. She could already see Faye shaking her head.
“That makes it sound like their affair was something illicit,” Faye said.
“It kind of was,” Bailey said. “But you’re right. I won’t say it.” She took a second deep breath and gestured in the direction of the Frick. “Remember where you first took your holy vows.”
“They got married in a museum next to a floor full of koi,” Jason said. “How holy could it have been?” Bailey wanted to rip the Bluetooth out of his ear. How could he navigate two conversations at once? Bailey felt her stomach cramp, and she prayed they didn’t notice her grimace.
