Page 136 of Late Harvest

“Sebastian, Melody, and Slash are working through it as we speak. He wants to handle it and asked me to keep a low profile so we don’t inadvertently make it worse.” She took a deep breath and reminded herself the low profile wasn’t a snub. It was to protect her. To protect them both. “He’s been trying to get in touch with Walter Pennyrose, the producer of Paradise. But Walt hasn’t been available.” Remy’s chin wobbled and she sniffed back her tears. Now was not the time to fall apart. “I will never forgive myself if he’s replaced in this role.”

“Oh, Remy,” Nell sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Honor gave me a summary earlier of the initial coverage. How is it now?” Sebastian had made her promise not to look at the Internet. But she never promised not to ask about it.

Lila winced. “Not great. But there’s some good stuff out there too, if that helps. Which it probably doesn’t. It’s mostly a shit sandwich. Sorry…ugh, why won’t my mouth shut up?” She winced again.

“It’s fine, Lila.” Remy managed a brave smile.

“You know,” Benny added, taking a small sip of her champagne, “it occurs to me that no one should underestimate a GenX woman.”

“Say more,” Gen encouraged, eyes sparkling as much as the fermented grapes in Benny’s glass.

“I read once that women of our generation were born in the seventies and raised in the eighties. That means we’ve been alive in five different decades, two centuries, two millennia…and we’re barely halfway finished living. We’ve seen a lot. Done a lot. Know a lot. It’s not wise to fuck with us.” Benny grinned.

“But if you do, bring wine,” Gen added with a snort-laugh.

Lila pouted. “Elder millennial here. I didn’t get the seventies. But I am in the ‘holy-fuck-how-am-I-forty’ crowd.”

Gen pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “That’s ok, lovie. You still spanned four decades, two millennia, et cetera. Red Wine Supper Club welcomes all badass women, no matter when you were born. Besides, you’re one of the founding members.”

Lila gave a slow nod, smiling. “I am one of the founders. Yay! It’s not wise to fuck with us—but if you do, bring wine!” Lila cheered, tapping her glass to Nell’s and Gen’s. “That should be the Red Wine Supper Club motto!”

“You know,” Nell offered quietly, “I saw this cool term on Instagram. It referred to women in their forties, fifties, and beyond as ‘Queenagers.’ Basically, we are in our prime. We’ve learned the lessons and earned our stripes. We have no more fucks left to give, we know what we want and don’t want, and we get this next half of our lives to reign like queens.”

“I love that!” Gen gasped. “And you kept that from me?”

Nell shrugged, winking. “I tell you so many things, I can’t always remember what I’ve told you and what I haven’t. Oops?” She grinned, her dimples popping.

“I’m a Queenager. That’s just the most fabulous thing I’ve heard in ages.” Lila beamed, lifting her hand and doing a ‘royal wave.’

Eyeing the grinning women, Remy straightened her shoulders, the power of friendship steadying her and reminding her of her own strength.

She was a badass. She wasn’t a victim. She was a fucking survivor. She was rising, blazing and proud, from the ashes of tragedy…and assholery…stronger than ever.

Arabella Remington wasn’t a meek woman easily cowed.

She was a phoenix. A fierce warrior. A fucking awesome surgeon. A damn Queenager. And she was going to fix this shit.

She held up her wine glass, her friends following suit. “Salud, ladies. I’m about to do a thing.” Remy laughed, adding, “Red Wine Supper Club…It’s not wise to fuck with us!”

Chapter Seventy-Two

A badass doesn’t quit. She pivots and keeps going.

—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass

Remy

“Dr. Remington, you’re very persistent. One might say tenacious.” Walter Pennyrose studied her from behind his nondescript desk in a nondescript bungalow on the studio lot.

After a tense but tender FaceTime with Sebastian—who confirmed his frustrating and worrying inability to get in touch with Walt—followed by a fitful night’s sleep, Remy awoke, unable to stop seeing the unease etching Sebastian’s face. Within three hours, she was on a private plane headed to LA—organized by Benny and carbon footprint be damned. She’d plant a hundred trees to make up for it. But this was an emergency.

Remy straightened her spine. If she blinked, she could’ve been back in the residency director’s office. Still seeing his smug face as he mansplained to her how she may not have the physical strength to be an orthopedic surgeon. She’d been internally—and physically, for that matter—strong enough to prove that director wrong. And then some.

Only, Walter Pennyrose wasn’t a smug surgeon. Rather, his mien was affable. He may not have been smiling at her, but there was an obvious warmth about him. His bushy eyebrows were endearing. She could practically hear Sebastian insisting that bushy eyebrows were highly correlated to big brains, and threatening to let his go untamed in old age.

Despite the knot in her belly, Remy cracked a smile. “Yes, sir. I’ve been told that before.”