3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Stella
" W e can find another way, hon," Rose remarked as she looked around my home, the one I had painstakingly made mine because I'd never had anything that was mine my whole life.
"I can't afford it. I need to pay back a loan."
I had no choice but to sell my beautiful, cozy home. My haven. My heaven .
I couldn't recover my father's full investment in Savannah Lace because when I pulled out of the partnership, there would be penalties. The house sale, plus my savings, would cover those penalties. Paying my father back would wipe out my bank account, my sweat equity in the house, everything.
My income would make sure I wouldn't end up on the streets, but after all was said and done, I'd be living from paycheck to paycheck, something I thought was in my past.
I kicked myself for believing my father when he said he was making it up to me and gifting me the money to invest in Savannah Lace. That was five years ago, right after Nina's divorce. We pooled our resources and started the company together. Just the two of us. Now we had more partners and I wouldn't be one of them.
I let the pain seize me.
In a week or so, I'd be merely an employee at Savannah Lace— if Nina didn't fire me when I told her I needed to sell my part of the business. I hoped she'd understand. I didn't want to screw the company over, but my father, I knew, wasn't going to budge.
Nina didn't have the money to fill the hole my leaving would create. But she'd find others to invest, I soothed myself.
Maybe Gabe Rhodes? His wife, Aurora, worked at Savannah Lace, and he had a whole hell of a lot of money. We could ask him. He'd help, and Aurora could become a partner.
My friend Luna Steele had a trust fund worth millions. She could afford it as well. Maybe she'd help Nina out.
There were plenty of options.
"Hon, why don't you let someone help you? Hell, I will…you know I will," Rose Dixon, real estate agent extraordinaire, suggested.
We were friends. Not close. But then I wasn't close to anyone. I didn't know how to be the person who told her friends everything about her life. Like Luna and Aurora did.
I'd, at least, told Rose about having to pay my father back, so she'd understand my urgency in getting rid of the place.
Rose knew all about not letting the family fund her life. Rose had abdicated family money, and built a real-estate business that was all her own.
"When you start using your trust fund, I will borrow money from someone," I quipped. "For the first time in my life, I took something from someone, and look at what happened."
"Your father is a grade-A jerk, bless his heart . Why is he doing this to you?"
Because the man I fell in love with decided to use me to get revenge.
"You'll have to ask him," I said noncommittally.
I had told no one I was dating Noah Carter. It hadn't been a secret, but when we met in bars and restaurants, it had been with others, hanging out in a group. No one knew we also spent time together in each other's homes, alone.
Noah had only recently moved to Savannah. He had a few acquaintances, but nothing beyond that. He was building his network as he moved the headquarters of his construction company to Savannah. His business was mostly on the East Coast, but now he wanted to expand in the South. The Savannah River Bridge project would get him there. The project that had been more important than my trust.
Rose shook her head. "You built this house into a home, Stella, and it breaks my heart to see you move out of it."
I patted her arm. "It's just a pile of bricks. When I get my finances in order, I'll buy another place. For now, I'm going to rent a condo."
My friend and colleague, Aurora, had moved in with her husband. She'd decided to wait to put her condo on sale because it wasn't a seller's market right now. I was renting her old place. I'd already talked to a consignment shop to unload the furniture that I had bought with such devotion, going to antique shops and estate sales. But I couldn't afford to keep what I had in a sprawling three-bedroom home, when I was moving into a condo a quarter of its size.
But it wasn't the space or the furniture that I'd miss. What I'd miss the most was my garden. God! It would be soul crushing to not be able to walk out into its comfort every morning, and rest there in the evenings after work.
But that was fine, I told myself.
There were public parks close to Aurora's condo, and I'd just walk there. I'd pretend my client's gardens were mine until I could afford to buy a place again.
Four weeks ago, I thought I was the luckiest belle in all of Georgia. I was in love. My career was thriving.
Then the world turned on me. Now, I was short of money, nearly homeless, and losing my seat at the executive table at Savannah Lace.
"How long do you think before we'll sell?" I asked.
"Quickly, if we drop the price by fifty grand. But, darlin', I don't recommend that. It may take a few months for the asking price, but it's worth waiting and—"
"Drop the price," I cut in. "Just get it sold, Rose. My father gave me two months, and…I've already lost a month."
Rose grumbled a little but told me she'd move heaven and earth to sell my place. After she left, I went into the garden and smiled at my rhododendrons. I hoped the new owners would take care of my garden. I looked around and saw all the things I'd planted that were native to Savannah.
I fell in love with my home near Forsyth Park the minute I saw it. It had just three bedrooms and bathrooms, but a large garden and a gorgeous swimming pool. Most people wanted a bigger house and a smaller garden to maintain, but it was perfect for me.
It was generously called a fixer-upper, and I'd lived in the house while I worked on it. I did the floors myself. I had help with the electric and plumbing upgrade, but everything else was done with my hands. I had restored the kitchen, upgrading the cabinets, but keeping the smooth, marble counters. I had sanded and polished the original hardwood floors. I had lacquered the floors, painted the walls, and fixed the light sockets. It had taken me five long years, and now, when it was just the way I wanted it, I had to sell it.
I brushed the tears away. This was my fault. I knew not to get attached to things.
But this was mine. I was allowed to have something that was mine, wasn't I? Well, apparently not. The universe was not going to give me that chance.
Growing up was a dance of hiding my likes from my stepmother, Whitney, who would make sure I couldn't have them. That’s why German chocolate cake was banned in our household. Luckily, the cook made it for me on the sly, especially on my birthdays. When I finally left my father's house, I was so relieved, so happy to escape. Buying my own home felt like a victory—finally, a place that couldn’t be taken away.
I was so very wrong about that.
As I strolled through the garden, I couldn't help but admire the bursts of color and life all around me. The air was sweet with the fragrance of Southern magnolias, their large, creamy-white flowers offering a stark contrast against the glossy, dark green leaves. Live oaks draped in Spanish moss added a quintessentially Georgian mystique to the landscape, their sprawling branches casting dappled shadows over the azaleas blooming fervently beneath.
I had planted and landscaped the entire garden myself. I looked at my hands; they weren't soft and dainty, but calloused. Despite spending so much time in front of a computer, I worked with my hands as much as I could. I never wore nail polish—what was the point?
"You must have a crew of people to keep this garden looking like this," Noah said when I showed off my garden to him the first time he came over for dinner.
I laughed. "No crew. Just me."
"What? This is huge."
I shrugged. "I know. But this is my meditation. I wake up early and work here. On weekends, I'm here all day. If I get home early in the evenings—"
"Let me guess, you're here in your garden?"
I laughed. "Yes."
He stroked my cheek. "What do you do for fun, darlin'?"
I gestured toward my garden. "It gives me peace. It's mine, and that sense of ownership brings me comfort I've never known. I haven't had much—in fact, anything—that was truly mine before. This is, and it means everything to me."
How had he hidden his hatred for me? How had he managed such subterfuge? Because I had no doubt that he hated me because he saw me as my father's spawn; saw me as expendable.
I knew my father could be as underhanded as the next politician, but making a sex tape of a sixteen-year-old girl? That was crossing so many lines.
At least, I was a grown up. Not that it would protect me from the world, if the video got out. I'd be hard-pressed to keep clients. Nina wouldn't have to fire me; I'd leave because I'd be hurting her business by staying. Celebrities had sex tapes, not people like me who needed a job to pay the bills and put food on the table.
I felt physical pain when I thought about Noah. My chest hurt. My stomach cramped. For the first time in my life, I fell in love, and the universe smacked me hard for it.
I walked along a small cobblestone path lined with Savannah holly. In the undergrowth, native wildflowers like Georgia aster and swamp sunflower thrived, attracting butterflies and hummingbirds.
I had installed a bench here and sat here in the mornings with my coffee. I would miss my garden; there would be a hole in my heart.
But I deserved that, didn't I? I'd trusted the wrong man, and this was justified punishment. Not quite as mild as Whitney slapping me across my face and locking me up in my room—but just as potent in making me feel humiliated and helpless.
I caressed the Cherokee roses entwined along the fence, their delicate petals unfurling in the warm spring sun that would soon set.
I smiled at my swimming pool. I loved it so much. The previous owners hadn’t used it, and it needed tiles replaced, the pump fixed, and everything cleaned. I'd done that because I loved swimming. And since my garden was private, I could jump in naked, which I often did. Nothing beat skinny dipping on a humid summer night.
On impulse, I took my dress off, and threw it on a lounge chair. I removed my bra and panties.
I neatly dove into the pool.
I swam a few laps, and then leaned against the edge.
Near the pool, a small grove of dogwood trees was coming into bloom, their white and pink blossoms looking ethereal against the bright blue sky. The garden beds were filled with lady ferns and trillium, thriving in the shaded nooks of the yard.
It pained me to sell such a paradise, a place imbued with so much of my spirit and hard work. As I lingered by the pool, watching the light play on the water's surface, I hoped fervently that whoever bought this house would cherish my garden as much as I had.
I sobbed softly, sitting in the water, watching the sunset.
Oh God, this hurt so much. Oh God, this was such torture.
I was losing everything that ever mattered to me. My heart, my dignity, my home.
What had I done to deserve this?
After an hour of swimming and self-pity, I pulled myself out of the pool. I picked up a towel from the small bar area where I stocked them, and I stood naked in my garden, drying myself.
When I was dry, I put my clothes back on. I had to start packing, I thought. I was hoping to sell most of my furniture. What I couldn't sell would either go into storage, or I'd just leave whatever was left in the house for the new owner.
There were a few things I couldn't part with, though.
One was a small, Victorian roll-top desk that I had found years ago at an estate sale in a nearby town. It was made of cherry wood, with intricate carvings along the edges that spoke of a craftsman's meticulous hand. The roll-top itself was a smooth, flowing piece that slid with a satisfying click. Inside, tiny cubbies and drawers were perfect for hiding away letters and treasures. I loved sitting there to sketch new garden designs. It felt like a portal to a more genteel time, and the warmth of the wood under my fingers always brought a sense of calm.
"How old is this?" Noah asked, his hand running over the surface.
"Victorian," I grinned. "Isn't it gorgeous?" I opened the cubbies and drawers to show him.
"Lovely," he remarked. "Who restored it for you?"
"I did."
He raised an eyebrow. "You restored it?"
I nodded. "Yes. I love taking old furniture and working with it so it's not new but is also not falling apart."
He took my hands in his and kissed them. "Anything you can't do, darlin'?"
"I can't ski."
He laughed. "I'll take you to Aspen this winter and teach you."
"I'd like that."
I sighed at the memory. Our affair lasted only three months. There hadn't been time for playing like snow bunnies in Aspen, nor for the getaway to Martha's Vineyard he had suggested for the Fourth of July weekend.
How could he have so blithely lied about all the things he said we could do in the next few months, when he had no intention of that ever happening? And why did it still wound me? I wondered how long the memories would assail me. How long would this wound take to heal, when none of the others had ever healed? Would this be yet another open, bleeding, throbbing gash in my heart?
I shook myself, not wanting to slide into the deep, dark hole of depression that was threatening to claim me, one I wanted to drop into so I could stop feeling quite so much pain.
I went into my bedroom and saw another piece of furniture I'd take with me. I had restored an Edwardian armchair with painstaking effort. Its frame was solid mahogany, but when I found it, the upholstery was in tatters. I chose a rich, floral brocade that complemented its elegant, curved lines, and detailed the legs with fading gold leaf. It was my reading chair, positioned perfectly by my bedroom window, with a view of my pool and the dogwood.
I had to keep moving, or I'd fall apart. So, I took a shower and changed into night clothes.
I wasn't hungry, but I knew I had to eat. I'd make myself a sandwich, I decided.
I ate at the Georgian tea table in the kitchen breakfast nook. It was petite, with a round top and a single, fluted leg, branching into three delicate feet. The surface was a marquetry masterpiece, with an inlaid design of vines and leaves in walnut and maple. It was more a work of art than a piece of furniture. I'd spent many mornings and afternoons at this table. I'd keep it, I decided.
These pieces were not expensive. I got them for a pittance. But I'd lovingly restored each with my hands. My sentimental heart knew that they were foolishly more than just furniture to me. They were silent, steadfast companions, brimming with memories and utterly irreplaceable.
So, after all these years, this is what I was left with. Furniture for friends!
I had people who I was a few steps beyond acquaintance with, like Luna, Nova, and Aurora. But we weren't close. Or rather, I had not let them in. I told no one about Noah or what he'd done. No one had known we were even dating.
What would I say?
I was ashamed of myself for trusting Noah. I was embarrassed that the only thing he'd found interesting about me was his need for revenge against my father. I was heartbroken that he’d recorded the sex that I thought had been life-changing; he’d made it dirty, and somewhere in that process, I had become tainted as well, unclean.
No matter how many times I washed myself, Noah's smell remained on me. He'd orgasmed inside me, on my stomach, my breasts. We'd made love…no we had fucked all night long. It had been intense.
The next morning, we had taken a shower together, and he'd fucked me against the wall. He had made breakfast. Silver dollar pancakes that he served with orange honey, which he told me he'd bought specifically for me, because I'd once mentioned how much I liked it.
"When did you buy it?" I asked as I drizzled honey on my pancakes.
"A week after we met."
"You were that confident that you'd feed me breakfast one day?"
"Hopeful, darlin'. I was hoping and wishing and praying."
"Yeah?"
He kissed my mouth, licked a drop of honey from my lips. "Yeah. And you, Sweet, were absolutely worth it."
The tears fell and I couldn't stop their flow when I was so exhausted, but I couldn't sleep, because grief was a living thing inside me.
How could he make me breakfast, serve my favorite honey, and do what he did? What kind of man was Noah Carter? And what kind of woman was I that I still loved him, I thought with self-loathing.
My family had kept telling me how I wasn't worth loving, but I refused to believe them and, instead, held on to the fantasy that they were wrong, that someday, Prince Charming would arrive on a white horse and sweep me away. Now, I knew better. Bitterness coated my heart, blackening its pulse.
I wasn't important to anyone. Hell, I wasn't even important to me . Sweet Stupid Stella was a doormat, a pushover, someone who got used. Sweet Spineless Stella was an imbecile without any dignity. Sweet Shameless Stella who was on her knees for a man who recorded her sucking him off. Sweet Slutty Stella who had whored herself.
The voices inside my head grew louder and louder until all I could hear was how repulsive I was. As dawn splintered the dark skies, I embraced the person I had always suspected I was but never believed I could be— Silent Soulless Stella . I resolved to live my life untouched by others, in a way that required me to feel the least amount of any emotion. Happiness was not worth it when sadness was so painful. I would survive, as I always had, by shutting down. That day, I gave myself over to the darkness of depression, as I had once given myself to the joy and vivacity of life, so I could live another day without feeling the physical debilitation of heartbreak.