Chapter 1 #2
My mom and dad separated when I was ten; they divorced when I was eleven.
For years, my mom hated men in general and my father specifically.
She always told me that the only way to succeed as a woman was to remain single and not have children.
I was self-aware enough to realize that her constant lectures against marriage and kids probably drove me to make my Pinterest vision board at fifteen, planning my wedding and picking out names for my five adorable children.
While my mom had mellowed on the whole man-hating stuff, I still had my rebel Pinterest board labeled “Happy Family” with only a few alterations.
“Listen, I’m aware that you’re still hurting,” she said. “You remind me daily. But, Caroline, it’s time you moved on. Maybe this Wyatt guy wants to ask you out?”
“By email?! That makes no sense. And I’d never date him.”
“I realize he’s not as successful as Greg,” my mom mused.
“But he’s better looking.” She wasn’t wrong.
Wyatt and Greg looked alike. Sheesh, I once kissed Wyatt because I mistook him for his cousin.
But they weren’t identical. Sometimes, when they both sat opposite me during a card game, I would study their similar faces and try to figure out how they differed from each other.
When I was still dating Greg, I could never admit that Wyatt was the better-looking one.
But now that we’d broken up, I could. Greg was nice looking.
Wyatt was can’t-help-but-blush handsome. But that didn’t mean I liked him.
“Not only do I despise him, but he’s a Scott. I want nothing to do with his family.”
“But I thought you were desperate enough to date anyone?” my mom asked.
She wasn’t being cruel, calling me desperate.
It was the absolute truth. I was desperate to be married and to have kids.
That had been my dream long before my Pinterest board.
At two years old, I started dragging my dolly with me everywhere I went.
Of course, I knew better than to tell most people that my life’s goal was to be a mom.
I knew I was supposed to have other ambitions.
And I was perfectly aware of the downside of having my dream dependent on another person.
And yes, I knew about sperm donors. But being a single mom was not my dream.
About the same time I lost interest in my baby dolls, I started reading Anne of Green Gables .
And as much as I wanted to be a mother, I also wanted my own Gilbert Blythe.
I wanted to be loved and adored. Which shouldn’t have been too hard, because I was always falling in love.
I had a very soft, but not very discerning heart.
(Case in point: I dated Greg for six years.) I never imagined I would be thirty and single.
No one who knew me growing up would have expected this for me.
Because I was beautiful and I knew it—I couldn’t help but know it.
That was practically all that anyone ever said about me.
Everyone from my parents, to school teachers, to kids at school, and random strangers on the street told me how pretty I was.
Also, I had a great figure, even if at 5’3”, fine, 5’2”, I was a bit short.
At seventeen, when I wore a new bikini, my mom shook her head in amazement.
“I never had boobs like that,” she said with a whiff of jealousy.
“Mark my words, you’ll marry money.” A strange comment from my mom, who opposed marriage.
I don’t think she meant much by it. But that idle remark took root in my psyche.
That was the day my dream crystallized: I would marry money and have lots of beautiful children.
The perfect plan until Wyatt came along.
“I might be desperate. But not desperate enough to date Wyatt Knox,” I told my mom.
“Aren’t you a little bit curious why he’d email you?” She touched up her makeup in the living room mirror. Watching her get ready for a date was a glimpse into my future. It was a comfort that she had aged so well. At nearly sixty, she could pass for forty-five.
“Nope, not one bit curious,” I lied. “Where is Jeff taking you tonight?”
“We’re going to a steakhouse. I can’t believe he spends so much on me.
” My mom was unapologetically middle class.
She was always commenting on how much stuff cost. She struggled to understand my love of fashion.
Or to think why she, with her school teacher salary, would need more money for anything.
After making his fortune, my brother offered to buy her another house.
But she refused, telling him to save for future grandchildren.
I don’t think she had any idea how rich Charlie was.
“I’m happy for you,” I answered automatically but not really feeling it.
For nearly two decades, I had to hear my mother whine and complain about men.
So you would think I’d be thrilled that she was finally happily dating.
And I was happy for her. I was. I just expected to be married by now and with a baby on the way.
Instead, I was single and still living with my mom.
While she and Jeff dined at the fancy steak house, I planned to feast on my “Girl Dinner” of carrot sticks, popcorn, cheese, and cookies.
***
The next day, I received a call from an unknown number. I usually took calls from unknown numbers; I never knew when it might be a prospective client.
“Hello, Caroline Bingham speaking.”
“Hi! Yes! Is this Caroline, the stylish... um... shopper?” It was an older man on the phone; I didn’t recognize his voice.
“Yes, this is Caroline.”
“Good, good. This is Mo.” He paused as if I should know who Mo was. I racked my brain, but I came up with nothing. “Hi! Mo. What can I do for you?”
“I sent you an email. I don’t know if you saw it. I need to hire uh... um... a personal stylist shopper.” With every word, I tried to solve the mystery. I didn’t know anyone named Mo, did I? And what email? I never missed emails.
“Great,” I continued on. “Is this for a specific event or more of a whole wardrobe overhaul?”
“Um... it’s not for me. It’s for my son. Wyatt. You remember Wyatt?”
And then it clicked, the email was from [email protected]. I suddenly remembered that Wyatt—my nemesis, Wyatt—had his mother’s maiden name for a middle name: Wyatt Scott Knox. Not sure why I knew that, but I did.
Suddenly, I regretted deleting that email.
Because whatever Mo Knox had in mind, I had to say no.
And it would have been so much easier to reject the sweet, balding widower via email than over the phone.
I liked Mo Knox, I couldn’t help it. Like me, Mo never quite belonged at the Scott family reunions.
He was the only blue-collar worker in a gaggle of white-collar men.
Most of the Scotts were lawyers. He stood out, even though his wife tried to dress him up.
He always appeared nearly as uncomfortable as I felt at the annual summer retreat.
Since his wife died, Mo had been even more adrift.
If it were his son calling me, I would hang up without a second thought.
But with the father, I needed to tread carefully.
“Wyatt doesn’t need a stylist—he always looks great,” I said in a firm but gentle voice. And I meant it. As much as I disliked Greg’s no-good cousin, the guy was always presentable. He looked like a total snack when I went full-banshee on him outside of Grateful Threads last year.
“That’s because Katie shopped for him. But it’s been six years since...” He didn’t finish his sentence. And he didn’t need to. I understood. “My point is my son’s wardrobe is not quite what it once was, and I have a specific reason I want him to look presentable.”
“And what is that?”
“How about I take you to lunch and tell you all about it?”
“I... ” I hesitated. “Is Wyatt on board with this?”
“Hell no!” he practically shouted in my ear. “He’s going to hate it.” Okay then, if Wyatt hated the idea, maybe I liked it. “Caroline, how would you like to get revenge on Gregory Scott?”
“Mo, I can’t possibly wait for lunch. Are you free for coffee...” I looked at my watch. “In, say,... fifteen minutes?”