Her door was open, and I leaned against the doorframe and watched her, her hair damp and in rollers, her nightgown sticking to her legs, her feet pale, toes that no one but me ever saw painted dark red. She glanced at me when she turned to the bed, the laundry half-sorted, her hands digging through the pile and pulling out socks.

“The movie,” I started. “You know… my job with Ben.”

“Yes?” She paired two socks with quick efficiency and rolled them.

“I’ll get a lot of money from it. Enough to—”

“Leave town.” She set down the roll of socks and looked up at me.

“Yes.” Leave her. That was really what the root of this problem was, and I tried to find the words to explain…

“Don’t worry about me.” She stepped around the bed and toward me. “That’s what you’re doing right? Feeling guilty?”

“You could come,” I offered. “There’s not anything here—”

“Summer.” She stopped me, putting a firm hand on my arm. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

We turned off the front porch light in an attempt to ward off mosquitoes, the moon beaming at us across hundreds of neat cotton plants. I will miss our porch. I thought about that as I settled into one of its rockers, the tension leaving my shoulders in the first push of my foot on the railing. It was hot as Hades outside, the battle against mosquitoes a constant fight, but still. There was something about the absolute solitude that I loved. It grounded me, calmed any anxiety in my bones.

“Quincy was a great place for you to grow up, Summer.” The words floated over from her rocker, the creak of her chair moving her shadow back and forth beside me. “The people here are good. I know sometimes, with the way you’ve been treated, that it’s hard to see that, but—”

“I know.” I spoke quietly, and the words came out clogged. I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “They are.” I meant it. I’d never really know anywhere else, but I understood, deep in my bones, the beauty of the town, of the people who lived there. Even with the hatred toward me, the disdain I could feel in their looks, this town still loved me because I was one of its own. A bastard child, yes. A non-native, sure. But there wasn’t a person in our county who wouldn’t stop to help me if I broke down on the side of the road. Not a soul who wouldn’t pray for me in church if I fell sick. If Mama lost her job tomorrow, our fridge would be stocked with casseroles and our mailbox filled with donations. I didn’t think there were a lot of places in this country like that. I thought it took a town of a certain size, of a certain mindset, to be that way.

“It was a great place to grow up,” she repeated. “But you are a woman now. And you need to find your own place. I know that. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I tried to hold you back. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t, financially, put you on this path sooner.”

“I could have left before, Mama. Plenty of times.” And I could have. I could have gotten a job in Tallahassee. Or taken advantage of the Hope Scholarship and gone to Valdosta State or Georgia Southern. Gotten student loans and been on my merry way. I didn’t really know why I didn’t. It just never felt right. And my desire to leave Quincy wasn’t ever strong enough to prompt action. Then Scott and I started dating, and any thoughts of leaving were discarded. Funny how love could spin your life in an entirely new direction before you even realized what had happened. And when you did realize, you didn’t care because the love was bigger than you and your wants.

Our love had been bigger than me. That’s what had made its crash so devastating.

“Where will you go?” Mama’s voice was calm, as if I hadn’t just taken her world and broken it in two.

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I had no idea where I’d go. “Do you want to come?”

I felt her hand find mine, her grip strong and loving. “No sweetie. But you will always have a home here, and with me. Let that give you the confidence to take risks.”

It was a sweet sentiment. I continued to hold her hand, our rockers moving in sync and tried to figure out how much, out of the twenty thousand, I could spare and how long that small amount would last her.

CHAPTER 10

“Assuming a role is like putting on another life and trying it on for size. You spend four months in that life and sometimes pieces of it stick.”

~ Nadia Smith

Cole Masten settled into the seat of his Bentley and picked up his cell. Dialed his wife’s number and pressed a button, sending the call through the bluetooth. He listened to the phone ring through the speakers and pulled out of Santa Monica Airport, heading north on Centinela Avenue toward home. The time spent in New York had been hell. Half promotional, half productive—at least he’d made some headway on The Fortune Bottle. For the first time since he’d started in this business, he felt excited by something. Maybe it was the risk of his money in the pot. Maybe it was the thought of total control—of the cast, the direction, the marketing. Total control was a rarity in Hollywood, a rarity that had cost him financially. But it would all pay off, with interest, when it hit the box office. This movie would be huge, he knew it, had felt it ever since he’d first heard of the sleepy town full of millionaires.

Nadia’s voicemail came on, and he ended the call, weaving in between slower cars as he drew closer to home. If she weren’t home, she would be soon. He’d managed to finish a day early, to give them at least one extra day together before he left for Georgia. Only six weeks until filming started. He turned up the radio, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he downshifted and passed a semi. He’d send the staff away as soon as he got there to give them some privacy.

The sky was dark by the time he wound up their tight, curving street and pressed the button, opening the gate. He saw her Ferrari parked in the garage and smiled. Jerked his car into park and hopped out, his fingers itching to touch her skin, inhale her scent, push her down on the bed. He walked up the side path, the stone uneven beneath his shoes, the landscape lighting illuminating the tall palms in dramatic fashion as he moved to the back door.

When he walked in the house, it was quiet and dark. He stopped in the kitchen, emptying his pockets onto the counter and pulling off his jacket. There was a note to Nadia on the large marble island, one from Betty, the house manager. He glanced at it, then lifted his head, the sound of the shower starting above him.

Skipping the elevator, he jogged up the stairs, a smile on his face when he reached the second floor. It was the strange voice that stopped his smile, the laugh that was distinctly masculine, and he opened the door slowly, the light from the hall spilling into the dim bedroom, the lit bathroom illuminating in clear fashion the end of his marriage.

Nadia’s hands were on the counter. He had always loved her hands. Delicate fingers, she had played piano as a child. They were very dexterous. That night, her polish was a deep brown. The nails had coordinated with the tan granite that they dug into.

Nadia’s head was tilted down, her mouth open in an O of pleasure, the man’s head at her neck, saying something against her hair. Her feet were bare and spread, pushed up on her toes, a position that pushed out her beautiful ass. The man’s hands gripped that ass.

“I love your ass,” Cole whispered, his mouth nipping at the skin.

“Of course you do,” she giggled, rolling onto her back, destroying his view.