“That’s because itisa drag. It’sdepressing.” I swat at her hand. “I’m still grieving, okay?”
“I know,” she says, “and nobody is saying you can’t do that, but one day, in the hopefully very distant future, all Lindsey and Ben and Lucy are going to have left of us are memories. Photo albums and videos up in the cloud or wherever the hell those things live nowadays. And don’t you want them to remember more than their mom crying every holiday, longing for a past she’ll never get back?”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “But those past years were so happy,” I can’t help saying. “Just…filled to the brim with love.”
“I know it's hard,” she says. “But you don’t get the love without the pain. That’s not how it works. And one day, the kids are going to be old and gray, and they’ll be left with the same hurt you’re feeling now. But it'll be worth it for them, just like it’s worth it for us.” She moves my hand and presses it to my chest. “Because the hurt means love lived here.”
I sigh heavily. “Why do you always have to make so much sense?”
“I’m the oldest. Being incredibly wise comes with the territory. Though it’s really unfortunate for you that I got the looks too.”
I punch her in the arm, and we laugh as she collapses on the bed next to me, resting her head on top of mine. Rose might get on my nerves, but she’s also the one person who can help me get out of my own way.
“Now, will you call your children?” she asks. “Please?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
She scoots to the edge of the bed and stands. “And brush your teeth, for crying out loud. Your breath smells like roadkill.”
I snort out a laugh and toss a pillow at her, nailing her right in the head.
I prymyself from my bed of self-pity and arrive at MJ Designs a little after 9 a.m. Monday morning. It still makes my heart skip a beat when I see the sleek sign bearing my name out front because it took me so long to get here.
I’d left my first design job when I was eight months pregnant with Lindsey, ready to immerse myself in stay-at-home momlife. Cloth diapering, making homemade baby food—I wanted to do it all.
That lasted for all of five minutes before I realized I didn’t have time to take a shower, let alonepina diaper on a wriggling infant, with only four hours of sleep and one measly cup of cold coffee that had been microwaved into oblivion.
As much as I loved being home with my children, part of me yearned to get back to work. I scratched the itch by turning our home into something ripped right out ofSouthern Livingmagazine. Then, when Lindsey was a senior in high school, one of her friends’ moms saw the inside of our house for the first time and wanted to know who my decorator was. I helped her redo her living room, and she was so pleased she told all the ladies in her book club about me.
The great thing about small southern towns? People talk.
“Hey, MJ.” One of my favorite young designers, Gabriela, greets me with a blue folder clutched in her hands no sooner than I walk through the front door. Her brow is furrowed, and her face is drawn as though she might burst into tears. “Do you have a second?”
I place my arm around her shoulders. “Is everything all right? Is your mama okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. It’s nothing like that,” she says. “It’s just that I have the Stratford presentation this afternoon. My graphics are ready, but I’m so afraid they won’t like it.”
“What? Why? I saw those slides you sent me last week before the break. They’re some of your best work.”
“Thank you.” She manages a faint smile. “But I don’t know if they’ll agree once they see the hand-renderings I did. They’re kinda…well, trash.”
“They most certainly are not.” I narrow my eyes at her before adjusting my glasses and taking the folder from her hand. “I can tell you that without even looking at them.”
The drawings are filled with vibrant swaths of color, sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling windows, and built-in bookshelves, all dotted with plush furniture and unique accents. I remember how insecure I’d felt when I finally dusted off my old sketchbook all those years ago, only to find I was practically a dinosaur. Designers were all using computer-aided design software that resembled some sort of high-tech video game. People were less impressed by seeing my portfolio and more drawn to 3D models showing how their spaces could be transformed.
At first, I barely charged for my work because I’d been out of the business for so long, I didn’t feel like I was arealprofessional. Then, one night over dinner, Henry asked when I would quit putzing around and start charging what I was worth. The next day, I converted our bonus room into my very first office. Sometimes, all it takes is one person to believe in you.
“They’ll love it,” I say.
Her eyes light up. “You really think so?”
I nod. “You’re going to knock their socks off. I just know it.”
With my stamp of approval, she breathes a sigh of relief.
“You’ve got this, okay? Don’t sweat it.”
“Thanks, MJ.” Her forehead smooths, the stress melting from her deep golden skin. “I really appreciate it.”
