Page 1 of Make You Stay

Prologue

Chloe

The phone slips from my grip, smacking against the floorboards with a thud, but I make no move to retrieve it. Instead, I shift my gaze to the suitcase yawning on my bed, empty save for a box of photos and trinkets. Items I planned to share during my visit now serve as a mocking reminder that my upcoming vacation to Asheville is no longer a vacation.

Some part of me isn’t even surprised at this macabre turn of events. It ismylife, after all, and the gods seem fit to use it as fodder for their twisted senses of humor.

Slinking into the living area, I glare at the lights twinkling around my window, right next to the four-foot artificial tree I insist on putting up every year in my shoebox-sized Manhattan apartment. I’m fully aware it’s only November, but I’m one ofthosepeople who set up for Christmas before Thanksgiving arrives. Despite the latent commercialism, I adore the holiday season—the festivities and chaotic excitement flowing through the city warms my soul even as the northeast winds threaten to freeze me whole.

At least Ididenjoy the season until the phone call a few moments earlier, which upended my equilibrium.

For the first time in twenty-four years, I planned to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my mother.

Instead, I’ll be attending her funeral.

She never mentioned any upcoming surgery, but I’m hardly surprised. Betsey and I rarely said much to each other. That was the point of this trip—reconnecting and rekindling our relationship, which died out years ago.

No chance of that, now.

The tears threaten to overpower me, clogging any other emotion from reaching the surface as my mind tries to reconcile the unfairness of this situation.

Granted, fairness was never a cornerstone of my life, thanks in part to Betsey. My mother, according to those who knew her when, was an unforgettable spirit. I’ll tell you one thing, she was good at forgetting me, but that’s a conversation for another time.

A one-sided conversation now.

With a sigh, I drag myself back to the bedroom. No point in wasting time wondering about what might have been.

Might have been is a terrible term, reminding people of all their lost chances and wrong choices.

Better to focus on the present and the task at hand. Namely, rethinking my wardrobe for this trip.

Originally, I planned on staying a few weeks, but now, it’s anyone’s guess. Her lawyer informed me that Betsey left me everything, not that I know whateverythingentails. I have the task of sorting her estate and putting up for sale the home I now own in the mountains of North Carolina.

The only saving grace in this situation? Betsey pre-planned her funeral, down to the last detail. She also paid for everything in advance, not that money is a problem. I make plenty of green as a freelance writer and can more than afford her burial costs.

The bigger issue? I don’t know Betsey, except on a superficial level. Things that a daughter should know—her favorite color, food, and song—are all mysteries to me. To be fair, she doesn’t know mine either.

Didn’tknow mine.

This whole past tense, when referring to Betsey, is going to take some getting used to, although she never was a constant in my life. Now that chance has flown away like autumn leaves in a November breeze.

Per her lawyer, who claims to have known Betsey for decades, she was a spitfire, and her memorial service will reflect that vibrant energy. At least I don’t have to bumble my way through a generic service, which is the best I can offer with my limited knowledge. How do you plan a memorial for a woman who’s noticeably absent from your memories?

Thankfully for me, I don’t.

Now all I have to do is fly to Asheville a few days earlier than originally planned.

How hard can it be? I live in Manhattan. Our airports carry thousands of passengers all around the world, every day.

Two hours and a martini later, I have my answer. I also have a flight to Asheville, with a three-hour layover in Virginia. Simple enough, especially for someone who has traveled around the globe.

The caveat? Mother nature is behaving like an uncooperative bitch. The meteorologists are calling for an unseasonably early snowstorm in the Appalachians on the same day I’m scheduled to fly out.

Per the airline reservation attendant, they’re hoping to beat the storm, but, and I’m quoting here, it’s anyone’s guess how it will turn out.

Not instilling great confidence with that statement, and judging by my recent run of luck, I don’t stand a chance for things to go smoothly.

Chapter 1

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