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“Maybe whatever is in Heart’s Cove is worth fighting for.”
Long after we hang up, Christine’s words echo in my mind. Even my dog is quiet as I pack up the few things in my room, check that everything is still locked down in my truck and trailer, then get behind the wheel. I navigate to the parking lot exit and lean against the steering wheel, glancing in both directions. The freeway stretches through hilly desert, disappearing over the horizon. Fifteen hours or so, and I can be in Clare. It’s a straight shot through Arizona, across the top of New Mexico, through Amarillo, and down to the small town that’s been coded into my genes since the day I was born.
Fifteen hours, and I can turn back time, go back to the place I’ve lived for forty-three years.
Left will take me back to Heart’s Cove.
Right will take me home.
Ha—home. That’s funny. Christine won’t be there now that she’s leaving for grad school with her boyfriend. I lost the house and land that had been in my family for generations. I’ve got no job, no workshop, no commissions, and very few friends. No wife. No girlfriend. No Georgia.
Why does Clare get the title of home? Why do I feel like I’m running away with my tail between my legs?
Last night, I watched another man pull out a chair and sit down next to Georgia. I watched her lift that chin in my direction and challenge me. I walked away, because I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving me again, so I did it first.
I told myself I was just listening to her wishes, doing as she asked. I was leaving her the hell alone.
The truth? I’m a fucking coward.
I couldn’t face the reality of what her sister said—that I’d tried to hold Georgia back. I was so wrapped up in my own self-pity that I didn’t see what really happened when we were eighteen. I’ve never had to face my failed proposal from Georgia’s point of view.
I thought she refused me because I wasn’t enough. I thought I was unworthy of her, that she thought I was beneath her. I felt pathetic and rejected and worthless, but I was guilty of a completely separate crime.
I didn’t listen to her when she told me what she wanted. Needed.
I just started a new project. It’s only beginning, but it feels good. I think when I went to see you, I was looking for something in the wrong place. I got mad at you for something that was lacking inside myself.
Her words rang true at the dog park, and I feel like an idiot for not realizing it sooner: Georgia needs more than a husband and a home. Georgia needs ambition, drive, accomplishment.
Ididtry to hold her back, keep her by my side. I did it because she was the love of my life and I knew we belonged together. Yeah, we were eighteen, but I knew. I’ve always known. As sure as the sun rises in the east, I’m sure of this: there’s never been anyone else but Georgia for me. If my ex-wife hadn’t gotten pregnant, I would’ve ended up alone, until fate brought me back to Georgia, or brought Georgia back to me.
And instead of listening to her all those years ago, following her when she leapt into life, of being the man she needed, I tried to shove her in a box that was never meant to hold her. I asked her to marry me because I was shit-scared of leaving Clare and making my own way through life. And now, like that same teenage coward, I’m running back to that same town instead of rising up to meet Georgia on her level.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel and anger starts to burn all the other emotions inside me. Anger at myself for making the same damn mistakes all over again.
Georgia’s wrong too, though. She thinks all she needs is ambitious goals and challenging projects. She thinks she’ll find that missing piece by conquering the next challenge. She’ll conquer it, and it’ll still feel empty afterward.
Twenty-five years ago, I tried to keep her by my side for all the wrong reasons, but I’ve finally learned: Georgia doesn’t need a man to provide for her, but she does need a safe haven where she can return to when she wants to strip off her armor. She needs a man who’s confident enough to build her up instead of trying to hold her back. A man who isn’t afraid to follow when she wants to lead—and who knows when to take the reins.
I wasn’t that man twenty-five years ago, but I’ve changed. And my daughter is right. Some things are worth fighting for.
Revving the engine, I make a decision—and I turn left.
17
GEORGIA
Demolition begins,and my gallery is stripped down to its old, solid bones. It takes three days for the demo crew to tear the place down and clean it up, and I find myself walking in the empty, bare space beside Grant and Piper. I’m wearing a knee-length sheath dress with all-white sneakers, but both Grant and my sister are in jeans and steel-toed boots. I should really get some of those if I’m going to pretend to know what I’m doing.
We stare up at the exposed beams, the solid subfloor, and the stud walls. There’s a stack of drywall sheets by the wall and a bunch of construction supplies neatly piled next to them.
“The office will be over here,” Piper says, pointing to the back corner where the old office is still studded out. “We’ll extend the wall four feet that way so you have more room, since that’s dead space anyway.” She points to a little nook on the back wall. “Bathroom over here. I think one unisex bathroom should suffice. Behind it all, we’ll have storage space that’s secure and temperature-controlled going the full length of the back wall. I’ve been looking up locks and security features to make sure the artwork is safe when it’s in your care. We’ll have to talk to a specialist, but I already have a list of options.”
My sister is a genius. We’ve spent the past few days looking at samples and finalizing the designs. It wasn’t hard; I mostly just had to let go of control and let my sister lead. It took her about four seconds to stop asking me for my approval all the time and to just do her thing.
“It’s a fairly simple project,” she finally says. “Besides the lighting, we really just need to fix up the staircase, new walls, and a new floor.” She checks the time on her phone. “Oh! I’m meeting the flooring guy at his showroom in half an hour. I have to go.” Squinting at me, she nods toward the door. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”
“I trust your choices,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “I want to start sourcing some art, and I have a lot of research to do. I’m still having trouble getting artists to commit.”
