Page 123 of The Oscar Escape
Oscar flinched, allowing the pain he’d known his whole life to fill the hole in his heart.
The judge rested his hand on the box. “When Del called me in the middle of the night and said you were on your way to Havenmatch Island, I reread that letter. I’d been keeping tabs on you over the years. I knew you weren’t married. When you showed up and introduced Aria as your wife, I knew you had something worth fighting for, and you both could use a dose of the one-zero-two-three community service treatment.”
“Did you know who Aria was—that she’s famous?”
“I didn’t know who she was, but Georgia did. She’d seen Aria play the piano at a fundraiser twelve years ago. Barbara Presley had invited her. They knew each other from Georgia’s days conducting in Denver.”
“Babs? Aria’s aunt Harper’s grandmother knew Georgia?”
“Yes.”
“Aria found Georgia’s recordings in Bab’s attic.” Oscar sat back, hardly able to believe he and Aria had lived their lives unaware of their connection to the judge and Georgia. Still, he had more questions. “Why didn’t you and Georgia call us out?”
“It wasn’t our secret to disclose.”
“Thanks to my stupid mistake, the secret’s out now,” he said, wallowing in agony.
“What will you do, Oscar?”
Oscar stared at the spot where his mother had taken her last breath.
“Here’s a tip from someone who’s seen plenty of kids live their best lives and plenty allow themselves to drift into self-loathing. It’s a fine line,” the judge began. “Don’t let your most tragic and heartbreaking memory of your mother guide your trajectory. It’s easy to fall prey to guilt. It’s consistent and predictable. But it’s not what Holly would want for you.”
Oscar kept his gaze locked on the spot. “I don’t know how to change.”
“That’s the easy part. You choose what your mother chose.”
He turned to the judge. “And what’s that?”
“Love, Oscar. She loved you and wanted the best for you. She made a choice to love you and start a catering business. You and cooking. Those were her passions. Follow your heart, kid. That’s how you change your story. You choose different words, and you allow goodness to guide you. It’s like making a documentary, but now, it’s your story, and only you can decide if it ends in tragedy or with a happily ever after. As your mother wrote, it’s what we do with the knowledge of our missteps that matter. So, I ask again, knowing what your mother would want for you, what will you do?”
Oscar gritted his teeth. The judge made it sound so easy. Like all he had to do was flip a switch. But it wasn’t easy. He turned the letter over in his hands. His damned oatmeal for brains couldn’t see a way forward. He blew out a frustrated breath, then caught a few scribbled words written on the back of the page. He stared at them—a list of ingredients—and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Cotija cheese, mole, brioche.
These were the same components he’d told Aria he’d use to make an Aria Paige-Grant signature grilled cheese. It appeared his mother had contemplated the same sandwich nearly twenty years ago.
What were the chances?
This had to be a sign—a sign from his mom.
Like a stick of dynamite had gone off in his head and annihilated that clumpy bowl of oatmeal-for-brains, he peered at the spot on the driveway. This time, he didn’t see his mother’s lifeless form. He saw himself taking pictures of her with his Polaroid camera. He saw the tree they used to climb and could feel her arm around him as they took in the bird’s-eye view of the mountains. He saw a snowman with a cucumber for a nose. A substitution he’d made out of necessity because they were out of carrots. His mother had laughed so hard tears had rolled down her cheeks. He flicked his gaze to the porch post near the front door and recalled his mother carving four tiny numbers into the wood. They were faded, but he could still make them out.
1 0 2 3
The number was everywhere. It had always been with him. He pictured his mom. She’d always be with him.
And then he thought of Aria and the day they’d driven here on his sixteenth birthday.
His hand went to his neck, and he touched the ring. His mother would have wanted Aria to wear it as his wife. He knew it with all his heart.
Speechless, he concentrated on the sheet of paper.
“You don’t need to pay attention to that, Oscar. Your mom would often send me letters with ingredients scribbled on the back. I would venture to say half of the letters had notes like that written on them. She was always coming up with different kinds of sandwiches. I don’t think it means anything.”
Didn’t mean anything?
The breath caught in Oscar’s throat as a fizzy lightness took over.
