“Montana, this is your senior year. You shouldn’t be spending it painting buildings or yelling at teachers or, dare I say, getting expelled. I know that I haven’t been there for you. I also know that we didn’t have to move again. But this quiet place with the ocean only ten minutes from us might inspire new ideas for future books, give us some quality time together, and keep you out of trouble.”
“So we didn’t move solely because of me?”
“In part, no. I’ve been researching coastal towns for my next novel, and I thought someplace hot, sunny, and relaxing would help both of us.”
I scrunched up my nose. “Then why did you want me to take all the heat for us moving? That’s not nice, Mom.” As soon as I’d gotten expelled, she started mumbling about moving.
“Honey, I never blamed this move on you. I said a quieter town would be best so you wouldn’t be tempted to get into trouble. You were running with a bad crowd in New York. I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning too. But need I remind you that graffiti is illegal here just as it is in New York.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. Otherwise, she would start yelling, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight. I was hot, frustrated, and I kind of dug the plantation-style living. When I’d done some research on Charleston and the surrounding area, I found that plantations were developments that not only had houses, but schools, grocery stores, parks, a community pool, and other amenities. The best part was the quiet nights when I could hear the crickets that lulled me to sleep rather than sirens and the loud noises of a big city, which surprised me. I’d gotten used to the horns, people screaming for a taxi, and the energy.
“We’ve had this discussion, Mom.”
“I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you find a local art class that will tame that wild side of yours? Better yet, with all the local shops in the city, I would bet you could get a job at an art studio. I’m sure they would have classes too.”
All I ever wanted was to show off my artwork, although I loved the large empty murals that buildings provided. Graffiti was freedom for me. Drawing in a sketchbook was confining and claustrophobic. Still, Mom was right. With all the local art galleries and shops within a ten-minute drive over the bridge, I could find a legal venue for my talent. “I would need a car.”
Again, she gave me one of her brilliant smiles as sweat dripped down her neck. “You can use mine. I’m home, writing, anyway.”
Now it was my turn to hug her. “Thank you.”
She tightened her arms around me. “I want to turn over a new leaf together. I want to settle down for more than six months or a year.”
I did too. I wanted to call someplace home. I wanted to call someone my best friend for once and maybe have a boyfriend.Nah.I scratched that idea. I wasn’t ready to go that far.Baby steps. A friend first.
The doorbell rang.
“I look like hell,” Mom said.
“It’s okay. Elvira is cool.”
When I answered the door, I found Elvira decked out in short shorts and a red bikini top peeking through a sheer pullover. She was holding up a white bikini in one hand and a baby-blue one in the other.
“The blue one,” Mom said behind me. “It brings out your eyes.”
I moved out of the way. Elvira came in and handed me the swimsuits then waved at Mom. “Mrs. Smith, I’m Elvira.”
“Please, call me Georgia. And I apologize for the smell. We’re having plumbing issues.”
The smell didn’t seem to bother Elvira. Instead, she broke out in a fit of giggles. “Are you for real? Did your daddy name you after a state too?”
“Nah, my daddy was a farmer, and Georgia means to till the soil,” my mom said. “And my mom loved the name.”
“I’ll go change.” I darted up to my room.
“It does kind of stink in here,” Elvira said to Mom. “Anyway, you look very familiar.”
I froze on the landing. My mom was aNew York Timesbest-selling author, but she wrote under a pen name. Although she attended book events and did the occasional interview under her pen name, readers and authors in the publishing world knew my mom by her real name as well. She hardly liked flaunting her status to people, especially my friends, since she wrote erotica books. She wrote the kind that would make any shy girl blush and any parent either sneer or cheer. Mom didn’t like the bad attention when it came to me. I really didn’t care. I could handle myself, but I understood where she was coming from.
We’d encountered a parent or two in the last three years who had thought my mom was horrible for writing romance books with sex. I mean, come on. I hated when people judged without getting all the facts. All they had to do was read her books, which were the bomb. She’d given me permission to read them when we started talking about sex two years ago. My mom always said that an informed person was a better person to make the right decisions. Not that her books had instructions in them when it came to sex. But she knew how to take a story and characters and shape them in a way that by the end of her books, a reader would be cheering, crying, or yelling for the next book. And the sex scenes were done very graphically, but tastefully.
Elvira’s voice hitched. “You’re not from Hollywood, are you?”
“I get that a lot,” Mom said. “Let’s get something cold to drink while Montana gets ready.”
If Elvira were going to be my friend, then I would eventually have to tell her about my mom. But it was too soon. We needed to build trust. But my mom’s career wasn’t important at the moment. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn a bathing suit, and that scared me to hell. Train would be at the beach. Train would see me in a bikini. I hit the side of my temple.Get a grip, girl. You’re Montana Smith.You don’t care what people think.
But I might care what Train thinks.
