Page 80 of Own the Eights
“I’m not doing emails right now.”
“Isn’t that all your generation does? Eyes glued to a smartphone,” her mother replied.
“I’m taking a break.”
“To take up power walking?”
“I’m running, Mom.”
“Pumpkin, that’s not running.”
She glanced at the car. “I could sprint. There’s a bakery not far from here, and we both know my legs can really move when they’re headed toward a doughnut shop.”
A chorus of honks broke out behind the town car and her mother shook her head.
“Mrs. Vanderdinkle, would you like me to pull over? We’re holding up traffic,” came the measured voice of her driver.
“Georgiana! Will you please stop power walking so we can have a civilized conversation? I don’t appreciate having to holler out of a car window.”
A stream of angry Denverites edged up the road behind her mother’s car, and Georgie gestured to a cluster of benches on the periphery of the park. “Okay. Take the next right. We can sit over there and talk.”
Why couldn’t her mother just spend the summer in the Mediterranean or the Maldives or anywhere with a Chanel within a ten-mile radius?
“Well, isn’t this nice,” Lorraine said, spreading a Hermes scarf on the bench before taking a seat.
Georgie hooked Mr. Tuesday’s leash to the arm of the bench, then glanced at her mother.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
The socialite folded her hands in her lap. “You haven’t posted in days. I was starting to get worried.”
Georgie stared at the least computer literate human on the planet. “Are you talking about my blog? The blog you can’t even remember the name of?”
Her mother sat back and dusted imaginary crumbs off her linen pants. “You know he’d be proud of you.”
Jesus! She wasn’t ready for that. Her parents had divorced when she was young, and she’d grown up knowing two very different lives. One of opulence and wealth with her mother after she’d remarried Howard and one of cozy simplicity when she’d spend the non-pageant weekends with her literature-loving mechanic father. The father, who, on one beautiful summer day, much like today, had pulled over to help a family having car trouble, only to be killed instantly by a distracted driver.
Georgie stared at a point beyond her mother’s shoulder. “Why would you say that?”
Her mother’s features softened. “The bookstore, pumpkin. You were always your father’s daughter. I knew our pageant days were close to being over when I’d find you in the event center bathrooms, hiding in a stall with your nose in one of the books your father left you.”
Georgie frowned. “What are you talking about? All his books were donated to the public library.”
Her mother shook her head. “Not all of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pumpkin, after your father died, I brought you that box of books he’d left you. After that, I could barely get you to practice your runway walk, let alone try and improve your poise. Even now, good gracious! Shoulders back, Georgiana. A lady doesn’t have to sit like a troll.”
Georgie sat back, completely stunned. “Hold on. That wrapped box of books, the one withJane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice,and theHarry Potter Series. Those were from Dad?”
“I thought I told you,” her mother replied, looking genuinely confused.
Georgie thought back to that awful day. “No, I figured…I don’t know what I figured. I just thought that you’d got them from somewhere to try and cheer me up.”
“You thought I’d try and cheer you up with books?” her mother asked with a coy smile. “Your father passed away a week before your birthday. Those books were his gift to you.”
“Those books have become really important to me over the years,” she said, envisioning her trifecta, her confidants. Sure, they weren’t real, but they’d become a guiding force in her life. The voice of reason, always cheering her on.
