We discussed everything from the high school years she missed, to my time at NYU, to the firm. She got a kick out of hearing one of my favorite crazed author stories—a writer who was so passionate that he slept in our lobby for days until I grew annoyed enough to take a look at his manuscript. It ended up being a best-seller.
Admittedly, I might’ve been trying to procrastinate regaling her with the tale of my epic downfall. She hardly blinked as I described writing about Bluebell Cove, being rejected, and self-destructing so completely that I practically forced them to fire me. A long silence stretched before she took my hands in her own and whispered, “It’s okay to fail, darlin’.”
On the surface, I cracked a smile and told her to take her own advice. Underneath, though, it felt like a pulsing wound was finally beginning to close.
She tried her best to wave me away when it was her turn, but I persisted. I would always win the battle of wills. After all, I inherited the genes of two exceptionally stubborn people.
The Cove didn’t change much over the years I was gone.
Janice had a health scare but came out the other side stronger. Some of the Main Street shops struggled in between tourist seasons, a concern that might be in the past thanks to the recent uptick. The years she didn’t stay late at the diner on a holiday, she spent it with Georgie and her grandmother, Marigold.
When Marigold’s health declined, it was rapid and sudden and threw the entire town for a loop.
My chest tightened as my mother described how Georgie struggled afterward. She smiled and told everyone she was fine—true to form—but my mother could tell when she hadn’t been eating or sleeping well. Even as I tried to think about anything else, that persistent guilt flared deep in my gut, rising with lapping acid at the back of my throat.
I was so consumed with doing everything right; never stepping out of line, surging ahead at every opportunity, forging my elusive dream with blood and sweat. Yet, there I was, a veritable failure. Despite it all—the friendships forsaken, vacations ignored, and life I forgot to live, it all amounted to nothing.
Later that day, I found myself outside Georgie’s Pottery Shop.
She smiled—the kind that reached her eyes and made them sparkle—and animatedly discussed something as she wrapped a pumpkin mug for a girl at the register. The hideous, bee pollen yellow sign that Rhett made creaked in the wind aboveme. It would probably stay there until it fell and cracked on the cobblestones. But knowing Rhett, the sign could most likely survive a hurricane.
I waited for the last customer to leave before pushing the door open.
“I brought caffeine and sustenance,” I called, lifting up the carrier laden with drinks and a small paper bag.
Georgie clapped and nearly skipped over to me. “It’s beensobusy,” she replied gratefully. “Have you talked to Serena?”
I followed her to the register and watched as she hopped onto the counter and dug into the bag like a hungry racoon. “No—did something happen?”
She shrugged. “They’re getting married in a few days, and we’re her bridesmaids. It’s just a little strange.”
The unspoken truth hung between us. Exactly as I tried to tell her the day before, it didn’t make anysensefor us to be in the bridal party. Serena should have made more than enough friends in New York. She had always been a social butterfly—or, more accurately, the light that attracted all sorts to her presence.
Something about it all didn’t sit right with me.
“I take it you haven’t talked to her about everything,” I muttered, sipping my cappuccino.
Georgie pursed her lips and picked her croissant apart over a napkin. “No, I guess you were right. Itdoesfeel… weird.”
“Too bad there’s no way out of it.”
“The dresses are paid for and everything,” she mumbled with a mouth full of pastry.
I sighed and pressed my eyelids, which were particularly swollen, and leaned my hip against the counter. My pulse hammered against my neck as the words I came to say simmered on my tongue. She was completely clueless, devouring the remains of her croissant and humming to herself, while I nearlyhad heart failure over the idea of apremeditatedconversation about feelings.
“Hey,” I started, voice thin and wobbling. I cleared my throat and began again. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
Georgie paused and arched a comically high eyebrow at me over her shoulder. “For what?”
I gathered a breath. “For all those years. For the distance. You didn’t deserve that.”
Her legs ceased swinging, and she turned fully until she sat with crossed legs on the counter.
“It’s okay, Margot. We already had this conversation,” she said.
So, she was going to make me explain it indetail.
I groaned internally. “No, I mean—when Marigold got sick. I wasn’t there for you. And at the funeral, I was too consumed by my own stuff. I think I’ve been… selfish.”
