Before I could answer, she was on her way downstairs. Seconds later, I heard the clanking of pans from the kitchen.
I got up to brush my teeth, padding across the hardwood floor to my bathroom. As I brushed, I thought about Mia and her adamant and hopeful belief that there was a man out therefor me. One who wouldn’t break my heart. She shouldn’t even be thinking about that kind of thing. She should be a kid. But children of a divorcée grew up too quickly.
A failed marriage was not what I’d imagined when her father and I had decided to have a child together. I’d not thought it possible that I, Lila Morgan, would have a cheating husband. But those were the cards I was dealt, as my mother used to say. No amount of wishing would change a thing.
I'd done everything right. Picked furnishings that made us feel at home. Chosen color palettes that soothed the soul. Hung photos of cherished memories on every wall. I'd even posted it all on social media to show everyone how happy we were. My photogenic husband sitting on the patio, drinking wine. Our precious nine-year-old daughter eating s'mores at the beach, all sticky faces and hands, grinning ear to ear. I'd spent every evening preparing delectable dinners. One could be a great wife and mother, and still, your husband can have an affair with his intern, and everything you thought you knew vanished in the moment it took for the screen door to slam shut.
The sound of goodbye.
Five years had passed since then. I’d rebuilt my life. My interior design business was thriving, as was Mia. She’d start her freshman year of high school in a few weeks. I’d relied on my girlfriends more than I should. But they were always there for me. And for Mia.
We’d been friends since the kids started in the same kindergarten class. They were my family. Other than Mia, my biological family had all passed. My grandparents when I was a girl. My own parents just after Mia was born. But those women? They were my sisters now, their children my adopted nieces and nephews.
Yet, we’d all felt a shift in our little world. Gillian had gotten married and then found out she was having a baby. We wouldno longer be single moms raising our children together. Would our weekly dinners at The Pelican still happen, once Gillian was caring for an infant? And what about our Sunday dinners? Did Alex and his kids expect to join us?
I didn’t love change, even though I was happy for my friend, but, I had to admit, I was jealous. Seeing Gillian and Alex all happy and glowing had lit a need within me too.
It was time for me to take charge of my life. One humiliating first date at a time.
2
VANCE
The apartment above Dorian’s bookstore was never meant to be permanent. Six months ago, when I’d arrived in Willet Cove with nothing but two suitcases and a fractured heart that still somehow carried hope, Dorian had met me at the door with a key.
“It’s small,” he’d warned. “But it’s yours for as long as you need it.”
The entire place couldn’t have been more than 600 square feet—a studio with a kitchenette where I could barely turn around, a shower stall that required strategic maneuvering, and one large room serving as bedroom, living room, and office combined. On busy weekends, noise from the sidewalk below floated through the windows, making privacy an illusion.
But it had a roof. It was clean. And most importantly, it was in Willet Cove.
Home. Or what used to be home, back when I was eighteen and desperate to leave.
My mother had offered me the family house the day I’d called to tell her I was moving back. The sprawling cedar-shingled beauty perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean had been in our family for three generations. I’d grown up running throughthose rooms, learning to cook in that kitchen, sitting on that wide front porch watching storms roll in.
The bones were good. The rest? Not so much.
The kitchen was straight out of 1975—avocado green appliances and all. The bathrooms weren’t much better. The whole place desperately needed updating, and I’d been in the process of choosing an interior designer when I got an unexpected call.
A reality television show wanted my house for their first episode.
At first, I’d laughed and said no. Me? On TV? Absolutely not. But after talking it through with Dorian, he’d convinced me to reconsider. What could it hurt? And I’d probably end up with an incredible renovation in the process.
The wine app I’d built almost as a joke during a slow winter in Bordeaux had sold for eighteen million dollars two years ago. After taxes and setting aside enough to live comfortably, I had more than enough to take care of my mother, including buying her a condo in a swanky retirement community outside of town.
Money couldn’t buy back the years I’d lost with Margot. Couldn’t undo the damage her mother had done. But it could give my mom security. It could build a home for my daughter if I ever got her back. That was the most important thing. I wanted the house ready for Margot. Just in case a miracle happened and Nicole, my ex, let her back into my life.
Margot.
My baby girl with pigtails and big blue eyes who used to perch on the closed toilet seat in our Paris apartment, watching me shave every morning. Who rode on my shoulders as we strolled to the boulangerie on Rue des Rosiers, charming the baker into giving her extra croissants with her broken French and irresistible grin.
My daughter.
She was ten now. I hadn’t seen her in six years.
Not because I didn’t want to. Never that. It had nearly killed me to lose her.
Nicole had taken Margot to California for what was supposed to be a two-month visit with family. Then she simply didn’t come back. By the time I realized what she’d done, Margot had been there six months. Enrolled in school. Settled, as the lawyers later said.
