Page 79 of Anywhere with You
“That’s the one, darlin’. We’ve got people driving in from Katy, Friendswood, Baytown, the whole area. Doug got the idea to ask them to post about the store online, even got a couple of funny signs made up—Don’t get strung along. Shop Strings & Things.He’s as smart as all get out. And don’t get me started on the online orders.”
I was shaking my head. “We’ve never had a single online order.”
“Well, now we do. Doug saved little pictures of you and your friend off the Mesmio, and he writes a note and sends them along with the package. He really is a gem.”
My head was whirling. I leaned into the top of the desk for a moment. I focused on Doug forging my signature on notes to my…fans? That should probably stop. But it was a smart idea.
I sat up straight, meeting Florence’s worried expression. “Thank you for taking care of everything this week. You have no idea how wonderful it was to get away for a while. I didn’t expect to come home to a thriving business, but you know what? We deserve this, you and me and Doug. We’ve worked hard to get this far.”
She smiled, looking relieved. “I better get back out there before they overrun Doug.”
She left, closing the door behind her, and I looked at the corner of my desk, at the envelope with my name and address in too-large letters, right where I’d left it.
I picked it up and held it in my hands, feeling the weight of the pages.
A week ago, I had been too afraid to open it, too afraid to acknowledge that my marriage was over, that the woman I’d loved so completely didn’t love me anymore.
And I made myself a promise, one that I thought would make Cara proud: I was going to open this envelope, right now, and the next phase in my life was going to begin, and I was going to face it. No, I was going to embrace it.
Bridget was gone, and I truly didn’t want her back. My marriage was over, and that felt like a different sort of grief, somehow. But I would grieve while moving forward.
And if Bridget took everything, if she took the store, which she had every right to do, then that would still not stop me. I would make the life I wanted.
And if I failed, I’d know that I did everything I could possibly do to succeed. I would be brave. And I would keep going.
I grabbed a corner and tore open the envelope.
Chapter Thirty-one
Petition for Divorce.
I made myself breathe slowly out and in.
There were a lot of pages, a lot of words, little yellow tabby things to show me where to sign.
I skimmed each page, signing as I went, until…
There it was.
Bridget was taking the house. But she was giving me the store.
I let out a breath that I’d swear I’d been holding for weeks. I had been so sure that she would ask for it all, and what could I have done? My financial contributions had been tiny, compared to hers. She had paid for more than three-quarters of the store.
She could’ve taken it, the building, the inventory, everything, or demanded that we sell it and split the money. She probably should’ve. There would be no return on her investment now.
So why hadn’t she?
I sat staring at the papers for ages, while the question turned in my head. I could only come up with one explanation.
Bridget had loved me.
How strange, to doubt it so completely for so long and to discover the truth buried in a stack of legal papers.
I remembered the first time we’d come inside this empty building, how her eyes had lit up as she talked about what we should do, what colors to paint the walls, how to arrange the shelving, where to put the register. She’d always had a good eye for design, and I loved how the store had turned out with her help.
I remembered, years before, when she would watch me sing in the evenings, my bare fingers on the strings, her eyes adoring.
I remembered her briefly trying to learn how to play, too. It lasted until her first blister. I brought her an ice pack, assuring her that it was just part of the process. She had stared at me and said, “Why would you do this to me? To yourself? Do you love pain, or are your fingers made of rocks? I’m switching to drums.” And I’d laughed. Later, I’d taken her to a friend’s house, and she had spent an hour playing on his drum set, headbanging like an eighties rocker.
