Because the idea that I was holding on to the only piece of Chase I’d ever be able to call my own… well, that was just too sad to even think about.
Chapter Twenty
Color
The screen door swings open on screechy hinges and a woman in her late fifties steps onto the porch, her dress clay-streaked and rumpled under the dim patio light.
“Gemma! It’s so late. What are you doing here?”
“Happy to see you too, Mom.” I snort.
A soft hand bats my shoulder playfully. “Oh, hush, you know I’m happy to see you. It just would’ve been nice to have a little more warning before Hurricane Gemma made landfall. A little time to tidy up, board up the windows, batten down the hatches…”
I roll my eyes — she’s called me Hurricane Gemma for as long as I can remember. Not my favorite nickname, even if it is well deserved. I spent most of my teen years stirring up a storm of drama in the quiet, coastal community where I grew up. The tiny, harbor-side art colony of Rocky Neck an hour north of Boston didn’t have much room for trouble, but what little I could find, I whipped into a tempest.
“Very funny, mother.”
She smiles joyously and it transforms her face — still stunning, despite its many laugh lines — from merely beautiful to truly gorgeous. All my life, I’ve wanted to look like my mother, envying her fall of thick blonde hair — now more ash than honey, with streaks of gray running through it here and there — and her tall, willowy frame. I got my father’s genes, instead — which was pretty much his only contribution to my life.
“It’s been too long, baby girl.” Wrapping her arms around me, Mom squeezes tight for nearly a minute. I breathe her in — lemon and lavender and fresh-drying clay — and I’m five years old again, all skinned knees and crocodile tears, and there isn’t a problem that can't be fixed with a hug and a kiss.
When she finally pulls away, she keeps her hands at my shoulders and examines my face with a mother’s shrewd eye. “Man trouble?”
“What?” I exclaim, my heart racing. Mom doesn’t own a TV or a computer — there’s no way she could’ve seen the news footage about Chase and me. “Why would you think that?”
God, is my pain so apparent, even my mother can read it on my face?
“You look pale. You’re much too thin. And there are bags under your eyes.” Her gaze sweeps my features. “In my experience, thatcan’t-eat-can’t-sleepfeeling is usually caused by a man.”
My mouth nearly drops open.
In her younger years, Petra Annabella Summers had a face that launched a thousand proposals — none of which she accepted, even after I was born. When I was a kid, her sculptures sold well enough to support us, so there was no need for a man around, and even after I moved to the city at eighteen, she never expressed any desire to marry. As far as I know, she hasn’t been on so much as a date in at least twenty-six years.
And here she is, trying to fixmyman troubles.
“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” I say defensively, unhappy at being so transparent.
“Maybe,” she agrees softly. “But I don’t think so.”
I fall silent.
“Gemma, love, what’s wrong?” she asks. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need to work something out.”
I sigh. “It’s a long story, Mom.”
She wraps one arm around my shoulder, opens the screen door, and leads me inside. “How about I make you a cup of tea and you tell me all about it?”
I drop the duffle to the floor, unzip it, and pull out a bottle of pinot noir. “If by tea you mean wine, I’m totally in.”
She laughs. “Even better.”
I smile.
It’s good to be home.
***
By the time I finish telling her the whole story, it’s hours past midnight, the candles have burned low, and the wine bottle is nearly empty on the table between us. My mother is staring at me with wisdom in her eyes, but I have a feeling I might not like what she’s about to say.