AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What am I supposed to do? Ignore that she needs assistance?” My tone is winter-lake cold. “I’m Nova’s godfather, for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to abandon them. I owe it to Colt. To Olivia.”All for one and one for all.
Zara’s expression volleys between exasperated, unruffled, and sympathetic. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. But I don’t want her to get hurt any more than you do, and that could happen if she feels something for you, and you don’t feel that way about her. Are you sure she isn’t in love with you?”
For the love of Christ.“Of course I am. She’s still in love with Colt.”
“But he’s dead. Look, all I’m saying is I’m worried you’ve inadvertently taken over his role in Olivia’s and Nova’s life. And Olivia is expecting more from you than you’re willing to give.”
“What Olivia and I have is friendship. Plain and simple. She was my best friend’s wife. She’s still one of my closest friends. And I owe it to him—to Olivia and to Nova—to keep an eye on them since he can’t.” The last words come out harsh, weighed down with the guilt of failing my best friend.
Zara puts the magazine on the coffee table. “You don’t owe him anything. You’re doing it because you’re a good friend. But you need to be sure Olivia is on the same friends-only page as you.”
I nod and push to my feet. “She is.”
“Okay.” Zara doesn’t seem convinced, but that’s not my problem. My problem is deciding if I want to take on the responsibility of the PTSD fundraiser now that I can’t buy Iris’s house.
That, and I hope Jessica got home safely and flashback free.
Especially since her home isn’t within walking distance.
10
JESSICA
March, Present Day
Maple Ridge
The world isdark outside the living room window, the sun having set thirty minutes ago. Bing Crosby’s voice sings through the speaker as I decide how to spend my evening. My hand is sore from the bike ride home, but it’s better than it was when I cut it.
I still don’t remember what happened, other than I was looking at the roses outside the florist and thinking about the moments after I was shanked. And then Troy was telling me I was safe and no one was going to hurt me.
I’ve only lived in Maple Ridge for three days, and that’s the second time I’ve seen him. That’s more than I’ve seen of my neighbors. But that’s my fault. It’s a lot harder to meet them when I’m hiding out in the house like a fugitive.
That isolation was what led to my downfall in San Diego.
I’d made things so easy for my husband. All those times I wanted to escape, I couldn’t because I had nowhere to go. I had no car. No credit card. No neighbor I could reach out to.
I have no intention of getting lost down that path again. No intention of making the mistake of giving my heart to another man. This time I want to have a life with friends. Real friends. Not the people who were acquainted with my husband and were supposed to be my friends by default.
I turn off the record player and head upstairs to the spare bedroom. I haven’t been in there since Anne first showed me around the house. Curiosity and the need for a change of view has me opening the door.
I step into a world of faded-pink walls and bedding. A girl’s bedroom. Amelia also loved pink when she was a toddler.
Is it still her favorite color?
A breath-stealing pain furies inside me because I don’t know the answer. I’m her mother. I should know her favorite color.
I close my eyes against the pain and the tears…because…because I’m not her mother. I did what I thought was best for her. And I still believe it was the best decision—even if it doesn’t feel like it at times.
I did it because I love her. Will always love her.
For a second, I let myself slip into the fantasy where Craig and Grace let Amelia visit. This could be her bedroom. The walls need repainting, and I would decorate the room so it’s magical regardless of her age and interests.
The bay window area is empty, but the faded pink carpet hints that maybe a chair once sat here. How hard would it be to create a window seat with storage underneath? The perfect spot for watching the clouds and to get lost in a book.
I open my eyes and weave my way through the hip-height piles of magazines. Like in my bedroom, there’s an assortment of magazines in English, German, and French. The languages make sense now that I know Iris’s father was a British diplomat in Paris and Vienna.
Until my move to Maple Ridge, I’d never been out of California, never mind out of the country. I’m in awe of the woman whose house will soon be mine.
