Chapter 26 #2
I was twenty-four when the mess became mine to clean up, furious with him for dying before I could demand an explanation and too young to recognize that running myself into the ground wasn’t competence.
I slept at the office, missed holidays, took calls through dinner, and spent years convincing myself arriving late still counted as showing up.
Theo was born while I was in London trying to keep one of our divisions alive; I met him eighteen hours later with a Harrods bear tucked under my arm and a watch for Lila so expensive the apology announced itself.
She kept the bear and made me return the watch.
Once Theo and Evie finish eating, Lila excuses them from the table.
Theo immediately recruits his sister to help unpack the launch monitor, which Evie agrees to only after extracting a promise that she gets to press something important.
They disappear toward the den arguing over what qualifies as important, and the volume follows them down the hall.
With the kids gone, conversation drifts through Mom’s new neighbor, Heartland, and Matt’s ongoing campaign for a new grill until Lila takes a sip of wine and says, “Since we’ve covered every subject Nashville currently cares less about, how is Laurel Bellamy?”
I tip my head, giving her a second to reconsider the question; she doesn’t. So much for getting through dinner unscathed. “She’s fine.”
“Excellent. Riveting update.”
Mom nudges a piece of chicken around her plate. “I saw the photographs outside the company. You’ve been helping her.”
“I have.”
Lila studies me over the rim of her glass. “You liked her back then.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
I drag my knife through the chicken and take my time answering. “I like her even more.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up, and she brings her hands together with such immediate delight I regret having a pulse in public. “Well. Look at us getting somewhere.”
“We weren’t trying to get anywhere.”
“Darling, you’ve answered four questions in a row. For this family, it qualifies as emotional nudity.”
Matt buries his mouth behind his napkin.
I point my fork at him. “You were my favorite ten minutes ago.”
“Still am. Your options are limited.”
“I’m just saying,” Mom continues, entirely too pleased with herself, “I’ve loved Laurel Bellamy since her first record came out.
Beautiful girl, writes like nobody has any business writing at her age, and that voice—good Lord.
I used to stop whatever I was doing when one of her songs came on.
” She shakes her head. “I always liked her in interviews too. Smart, funny, never seemed overly impressed with herself. So when I heard what Grant did with that little blonde, I nearly got in my car.”
Matt lowers his napkin. “To do what?”
“Hit him.”
Lila raises her glass. “I offered to drive.”
I survey the pair of them. “Comforting.”
Mom waves me off. “Don’t act shocked. You know I’ve never liked that man. All I’m saying is, if Laurel Bellamy ever ended up as my daughter-in-law, I’d be perfectly normal about it.”
Lila snorts. “You’d broadcast it all over Belle Meade within forty-eight hours.”
Mom clears her throat and murmurs discreetly into the empty space beside her, “Two.”
“Jesus Christ.” I reach for my water. “Minor detail: she’s still married.”
Mom’s amusement dims, though not by much. “Yes. Unfortunately, to an asshole.”
“Mom.”
“I’m sixty-eight, Beckett. You no longer get to police my nouns.”
Lila lifts her glass toward her. “And this is why she remains my favorite parent.”
“Our other parent is dead.”
“She maintains a commanding lead.” Lila’s smile loses some of its mischief. “Mom is getting wildly ahead of herself, but it’s not like you’ve never come close.”
I know exactly where she’s headed. “Lila.”
“You almost married Elise.”
“Almost is carrying a hell of a lot of weight in that sentence.”
Elise was in my life for nearly four years and lived in my house for two.
We looked at wedding venues and came close to choosing one.
Neither of us cheated. We were simply two ambitious people who kept insisting the relationship could survive on whatever time our careers left behind.
For a long time, it did. Eventually, we had to admit we’d become exceptionally efficient roommates with excellent sex and conflicting ideas about what came next, so we parted ways.
Elise married an orthopedic surgeon in Seattle a year later.
I went when she invited me, danced with her mother, drank considerably too much with her father, and watched her marry someone she was very clearly happy to be marrying.
She has a daughter now. I sent a cashmere baby blanket when she was born; Lila intercepted the order and made me buy cotton like a normal human being.
“It’s been two years, you know,” Mom says.
“Since Elise? I’m aware.”
“You’ve spent those years behaving as if this part of your life will still be sitting around whenever you finally decide you have time for it.”
A laugh escapes me. “You make it sound like there’s a deadline.”
“There isn’t. There is, however, a pattern.” She sets her fork down. “And Elise was just as bad, so I’m not laying the whole relationship at your feet. The two of you kept assuming you’d make room for each other once work calmed down. Work never calmed down.”
Hard to argue with the autopsy when she’s got the cause of death right.
“And Laurel?”
I sit back, buying myself a second. “Laurel isn’t a second chance at anything. Whatever happens with her—if anything happens—starts now. I’m not trying to resurrect something from seven years ago.”
Lila watches me for a moment, then gives a small nod. “Okay.”
“I still want to meet her.”
“You’ve met her, Mom.”
“At an awards dinner eleven years ago. She told me she liked my earrings. That hardly counts.”
“You’ve remembered the compliment for eleven years.”
“They were excellent earrings, and I appreciated having my judgment validated by a woman with taste.”
Lila, Matt, and Mom exchange a silent look and immediately dissolve into laughter. I decide not to encourage any of them.
Mercifully, the interrogation dies there.
Cake follows, along with eight candles Theo blows out halfway through the birthday song because patience remains well outside his skill set.
Later, as I help him set up the account for the launch monitor, he settles against my side and announces—with considerably less ceremony than the statement deserves—that it’s his best present, Grandma’s Lego set comes second, and the fact that I actually showed up ranks somewhere near the top too.
I put an arm around him. “I told you I’d be here.”
“Next year too?”
“Yeah, T.”
He holds up his pinky. “Promise.”
I hook mine around his.
Evie spends most of this behind me armed with a pink comb, two satin ribbons, and a jar of cosmetic glitter Lila should never have allowed into a house with children.
I make the mistake of sitting within reach.
Ten minutes later, there’s a pale pink bow clipped above my temple and enough glitter worked through my hair to compromise my credibility at tomorrow morning’s meeting.
She climbs off the couch to inspect me, drags one more sparkling streak across my cheek with her thumb, and beams at her work. “Perfect.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look soooo pretty. Like Princess Rosie. She has bows too.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She has no idea what that means and even less interest in finding out. When I stand to leave, she catches my hand and makes me pinky-promise I won’t remove any of it until I get home. I try negotiating the ribbons down to one. She rejects the amendment without discussion.
At the door, Lila takes one look at me, folds in half laughing, and reaches for her phone. “I need a picture.”
“No.”
“For Mom.”
“She’s standing ten feet away.”
“For history, then.”
Evie is already beside me, both arms wrapped around my waist.
I glance down at her. “You planned this.”
She beams up at me, both tiny dimples sinking deep into her cheeks, looking so sweet I don’t stand a chance.
I groan. Little menace.
Lila gets the picture. In it, Evie is missing one sock, glitter sparkles over both cheeks, and she’s grinning like she pulled off something brilliant. I have a pink ribbon clipped above my temple, silver dusting my hair and one cheek, and the expression of a man who has just lost to a first-grader.
I’m sitting in the car when Lila sends it to me, and for reasons I have no intention of examining too closely, Laurel is the first person I send it to.
Beckett: My niece has made some executive changes.
Her reply arrives as I’m fastening my seat belt.
Laurel: She is so damn cute. Look at those cheeks. I want to squish them.
Laurel: I’m sorry, is that Beckett Vale next to her, or your niece’s extremely overpaid sexy princess doll?
Laurel: And I hate to tell you this, but pink might actually be your color.
I laugh and start the car, ignoring the little acceleration in my pulse when my eyes snag on sexy.
The grin follows me all the way home and, more embarrassingly, into bed, where I read her messages again.
And once more, because my dignity has already had a difficult evening.
They’re still the last thing on my screen when sleep finally takes me.