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“But you’re my daughter.”
“Exactly.”
“But you’re my daughter, Piper. I have the right to worry about you, especially if you’re in trouble. I don’t want you to keep me out of these things. I want you to include me. Even if it hurts.”
“Mom, please, I just . . . you’ve been doing so good, I didn’t want to—”
“Set me off? That’s not up to you. Listen, sweetie, you mean well and you always have, but you can’t protect me forever. You have to give me some breathing space, and you can’t keep hiding things from me. First it was the duke and duchess moving in, then it was you and Harrison, then it’s this. The fact that your very job is at stake. Let me be a part of these things. And if it hurts, let me hurt.”
She’s right. “In that case, you should know that the reason the school board found out about the podcast is because you spilled the beans to that reporter.” Her face falls. “Look, I get that you get excited, but really, I expect my right to privacy as much as you do.”
“I know. You’re right about that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay. Really. And I’m sorry too for being overprotective. I’ll do better.”
“It’s not about doing better, Piper. It’s about seeing me as a mother and a friend and not as my mental illness. I’ll never be able to learn on my own if you’re always there. I appreciate all you do for me, but as someone who is told they have dependent personality disorder, you seem to want to keep me dependent.”
This goes back to what she said the other night at the royals’. That we’ve become too dependent on each other, and for all the wrong reasons.
“And since we’re coming clean about things,” my mother goes on. She immediately has me intrigued. “I have a confession to make.”
“What?”
“Well, for one, I’ve been seeing an online therapist.”
My mouth drops. “You have? How did that happen? For how long?”
“Oh, just a few weeks. I’ve only had three sessions. I figured this was an easy way to try it out without having to commit to anyone or go anywhere. You seem to think therapy was a hot-button issue for me, and you were right, but the more I thought about it on my own terms, the easier it got. I just wasn’t comfortable meeting someone in an office face-to-face. But online? It’s much easier. I almost . . . like it. It’s like I’m a puzzle. Or, better yet, a cake. And I’m reverse baking, trying to figure out the ingredients that make me the way I am.”
I am so ridiculously happy that I burst into tears. I go around the island and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “Mom,” I sob.
“Don’t cry,” she says, patting me awkwardly on the back. “This is all good.”
“I know, I know,” I say, stepping back and wiping the tears from under my eyes. “Ugh, I am such a wreck these days.”
“Your emotions are all over the place,” she chides me. “Who can blame you? You’ve got Harrison now, your photos are everywhere, your job is at stake. I’m guessing they haven’t contacted you yet with their verdict?”
I sniff and shake my head. “No.”
“Well, you know what, if they end up firing you, we can take them to court. I know more than enough people to vouch for your character.”
“You know people?” I ask, half joking.
“Well . . . ,” she says, looking awfully coy. “I know one person. Same person who helped me find the therapist.”
I frown. “Monica?”
“Bert.”
“Bert the bushy-mustached head of the RCMP?” I ask, wide-eyed.
She nods. “He’s really the only one I know here. I thought I would ask about local therapists, and he told me that so many people on the island go to therapy online because it’s more convenient.”
Now normally I wouldn’t think much of it. But the fact that she seems a little coy, her cheeks are a bit flushed, and there’s a certain gleam to her eyes makes me think that Bert might mean more to her than she’s letting on.
“Well, then I’m glad you can count on Bert as a friend,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she says, suppressing a smile. She turns her back to me and potters over to the cupboard just as my phone starts to ring.
I jump a mile and glance at it.
Local number.
With a racing heart, I pick up the phone and answer it, my mother watching curiously.
“Hello, Piper speaking.”
“Piper?” comes Maureen’s stodgy-sounding voice. “It’s Maureen Portier from the school board.”
My breath hitches in my throat, and I can barely say, “Yes?”
A moment of silence passes. It feels like it’s strangling me.
Then I hear Maureen let out a heavy breath. “I want to start by apologizing to you, Piper. We should have investigated the complaint more carefully than we investigated you. You never should have had to stand before the board and defend your hobbies, particularly your interest in romance novels. That’s no one’s business, and you’re correct in that the stigma against it has left many people with the wrong idea. Myself included.”
