Page 1 of Afternoon Delight
Chapter 1
Meg
I hadn’t suffered this much gut-crunching anxiety and loin-tingling thrill since I’d been Meg Crutcher, lying to Mom about staying at Georgia’s house on graduation night when I was actually meeting Joel at the Island Value Inn on Gorge Road.
I slowed my rented SUV, and the steering wheel grew slippery in my sweaty palms. My skin tightened with the pressure of holding in my lewd secret. My ears filled with a rushing noise. I kind of had to pee.
Screw parallel parking—I found a spot where I could nose in.
My conscience writhed with snakes that hissed, You’re being bad, but I was a grown-ass woman. I could do what I wanted.
Which was exactly what I’d told myself twenty-one years ago, when I’d left my virginity in room twelve of the I.V. Inn.
That act of rebellion was supposed to turn me into an adult. It had. Except, I’d thought growing up meant making choices for myself, when in reality, cells had met and combined and divided without my permission. From there, one responsibility after another had appeared in front of me like stepping stones leading into a cave where a neon sign above the opening flashed, Where did my life go?
Now I was a few kilometers east of my youthful misconception. I had lied to my mother again, this time texting her that I was running an errand for Georgia.
It was kind of true. I had agreed to run Georgia’s store. Actually, I’d agreed to open the doors and figure out if there was a way to keep it running—even if she couldn’t come back right away. Or at all.
I cut the engine and sat there, listening to the February rain patter on the roof. Winter never really arrived in Victoria, BC. Not the way it did in the rest of Canada. Snow rarely stuck to these streets, but spring wasn’t here yet, either. It was a messy, unpredictable shoulder season, and very much a metaphor for the state of my life.
This wasn’t even Victoria. Not the downtown waterfront that looked so pretty on the postcards. No, this was Milestone—one of the oldest suburbs of the city. It was the name of the most popular streetcar stop back when those were a thing here. Locals called it ‘Mild Stone.’ I’ll give you three guesses why.
It had had its rough years, but it was still where the broke creatives came together. Its commercial area was a colorful hodgepodge of brick storefronts and people running businesses out of their Victorian-style homes.
Georgia had picked this location because it was busy but affordable. And because they had said ‘yes’ to an adult toy store. Sometimes people were picky about that sort of thing.
I studied the two-story building through the drips that gathered and ran down the windshield. There were four windows on the second floor. Georgia had told me there were two apartments up there. She’d been cagey when I asked about the tenants, making me think she knew someone up there. A man? I hadn’t pressed her. She was either in pain or drowsy from painkillers these days. All I’d really needed to know was that she had asked me for help.
She’d shocked me by asking. Georgia was the poster girl for independent women—meaning she would kick the ass of anyone who dismissed her as a girl or tried to put her face on a poster without her permission.
She had called me out when I began moaning about how envious I was of my daughter. Shelby was living the university life I had never experienced because I’d had her straight out of high school.
“You just got divorced. It’s the perfect time to reinvent,” Georgia had said an hour ago.
“I know, but I have to get Mom moved closer to me in Toronto first. Then get Roddie through high school and off to uni. Then I can start making changes to my life.”
“Seriously, Meg? Do you hear these excuses you’re making? Just jump.”
I have responsibilities, I wanted to say, but this was Georgia. She’d always been able to throw herself off cliffs and then yell, Just jump. She’d always known how to keep her head above water.
Three weeks after grad, she’d been the one to say, I’ll go with you if you want an abortion. She also had a healthy respect for leaps that were truly too big, but I had been convinced I was getting everything I wanted—independence, a husband, and a life off this damned island. I moved to Montreal with Joel, and Georgia went to California. She didn’t get into the movies like she wanted, but she danced on cruise ships, sang backup in a studio, and had thousands of colorful stories that spoke of a life well lived.
I had two kids I loved beyond measure, a steady job as an accountant, and a Final Divorce Order.
“I’m scared,” I had admitted to Georgia with a laugh that didn’t disguise any of the painful truth in that statement. “What if I make a wrong choice? It’s easier to blame Mom and Joel and work than accept that I’ve wound up with exactly what I settled for. Which is what will happen again unless I get it right this time.”
“You never change. You know why? Because you never change.” Georgia had shaken her scarf-covered head.
Her spinal tumors weren’t cancerous, but she was in so much pain her hair had become more work than she wanted to fuss with. She’d shaved her head, and because it was still winter—and winter in southern BC was a damp cold that settled into your bones—she had to keep her head covered. Her light brown complexion was wan, her mouth strained with tension and worry, but she still managed to make me feel like the pitiful one.
“There’s no ‘getting it right,’” she had scolded. “Shake things up. You know what you should do? Quit your job and run my store for me.”
“Can you imagine? Mom would shit a brick.”
“I’m serious.”
“Right,” I scoffed. That store was her baby—still spanking new and something she’d worked hard to make happen.
