“I haven’t heard from Trey lately,” I’d remarked to my sisters when I got in two days ago. Like, not a word. No call, no text, no e-mail. Not even to ask how work was progressing on the store.
Meg and Jo had exchanged glances, completely unfooled by my casual tone.
“He’s been away,” Meg said kindly.
I gaped. “Where?”
“Florida?” Her tone made it a question.
Jo nodded. “To see his grandmother, he said. I thought you knew. He said it was your idea.”
My heart thunked. Because... Obviously, I was glad he had listened to me. I was happy he was reconnecting with his family. It was a big deal, a big step, news worth sharing. Just... not with me. He hadn’t told me.
His silence throbbed like a splinter, painful and impossible to ignore.
“He said he’d be back for the twins’ birthday,” Meg offered.
So there was that.
And there was Baggage.
For the past three weeks I’d been in New York, working sixteen- and eighteen-hour days to fill orders and build enough inventory to meet demand during my move. I contacted vendors and suppliers, went out to lunch with the Manhattan boutique buyer who gave me my first chance, and took Flo out for a long, martini-filled thank-you dinner at Gusto.
And I walked. In Central Park. Down Fifth Avenue. Along Canal Street with its makeshift stalls selling knickknacks and knockoffs to tourists.
New York would not miss me.
But there was a part of me that would miss New York. That would always be grateful to the city for the chance to prove myself.
“And now that you have, you can come home,” Jo had said.
I didn’t need to run away to find myself anymore. I knew who I was. For better or for worse, I was always and forever one of the March girls. Not the pretty one or the smart one, the talented one or the spoiled one, although a little of all those things was in me. I was myself, Amy Curtis March, and I was home where I belonged.
Jo ripped open a carton. “Where do you want these?”
Right. We were supposed to be unpacking. “The mahogany china cabinet in front.” A gift from Phee, along with a set of cherry bookshelves, an oak farm table, and two large antique cupboards.
Jo began to stack sample bags randomly on a shelf.
“I’ll do that,” Meg said, rescuing my display.
“Where’s the rest of your stuff?” Jo asked.
“This is it.” My precious sewing machine had traveled with me in the car.
“Your furniture? Your clothes?”
“I didn’t have much furniture to start with. I gave away most of my things.” Or threw them away. “I’m living at the farm now.” To save money, until I could find a place in town.
“Everybody’s moving back home,” Beth said contentedly.
“Including Dad,” Jo said.
“Mom can use the help,” Meg said.
Jo grinned. “I can see Amy now, mucking stalls in her Louboutins.”
I stuck out my tongue.
