Page 40 of Georgia: Britain's Story: Part 1
“That’s right, baby doll, there isn’t.” I nod my head in agreement as the tears fall silently on to her checkered-linoleum cafe floor. I walk over to the shop section, grabbing a coffee mug to replace the one I just shattered and head Sandy’s direction.
“You came here for just a mug? Or you wanna talk about this?”
“Both,” is my response. I hold up the mug and say, “I shattered one of Liam’s mugs while I was reading Georgia’s notebook.” Probably thelastnotebook she wrote. That thought unleashes more tears.
“So, I probably need a coffee, too, please,” I say in a half sob, pulling out my credit card to hand to Sandy.
“Baby, your money’s no good here.”
“Please, Sandy. How can I ever repay you?” I’m ugly crying, in her cafe, and I don’t care one bit. I must look like a walking mental breakdown.Fuck, I am a walking mental breakdown. She grabs the mug from my hand, setting it on the counter behind her. She grabs my hand in both of hers and says with tears in her eyes, too, “You be good to William, baby, take care of him. That’s how you repay me.” I nod in response, as I continue to cry my heart out. She takes the notebook that’s tucked under my arm and my cell phone and keys from my other hand, and pulls me into a deep hug.
She releases me when my breathing becomes more even and the sobs subside, giving me a gentle pat on the back.
“Jim!” she yells to the back. I hear him shuffling, moving towards the front.
“Yeah, babe?” Jim asks. I laugh a bit inwardly. I’ve seen pictures of William Sr., and clearly Sandy opted for something much different in her second marriage. William Sr. looked a lot like my Liam — clean cut, clean shaven, sharp lines. Jim is a cowboy, with a permanent set of whiskers, and a soft middle.
“Me and Britain are going for a drink. You man the counter.”
His response is just a, “Yes, ma’am.” It’s pretty early for a drink and I’m not sure where she means for us to go, but I follow her nonetheless. She grabs her jacket and purse from the back, then grabs the coffee mug and ushers me to the Suburban parked on the side of the shop. She motions me to take the passenger side, and I do.
She hops up, maneuvering the behemoth vehicle like she learned how to drive on heavy machinery. We head further up the mountain, and after five minutes, we turn on to a paved private driveway. We pull up to what I’m beginning to believe is her house and I’m in awe. It’s a massive 3-level log cabin, with windows facing the lake. Her house isn’t lakefront, like Liam’s, but she still has an amazing view.
She hops down, and I just keep following her like a lost puppy, which isn’t all that far off from the truth. We step into her house, and it is the consummate mountain home. It’s large enough you could probably even call it a lodge. She calls out from ahead of me, “make yourself at home, baby.”
I’m too busy drooling at the cabin porn in front of me to respond. The house is tastefully done, exactly like something you’d see if you stayed at a fancy ski resort in Park City or Aspen. The only give away that it’s a residence is the family photos. I smile at a toddler Liam, with blonde hair on a tricycle, biggest smile on his face.Gah, it’s making my ovaries ache.
I walk through the great room that has a roaring fire going, and turn towards the kitchen. It’s massive, with two Sub-Zero fridges, four ovens, and an Ilve range.I should know, I have one, too. Sandy and Jim don’t match this house, yet it makes perfect sense how they go together.
“Did Liam grow up in this house?” I ask, a bit loud. I don’t honestly know where Sandy went. She walks out of the walk-in pantry with two rocks glasses filled with pebble ice and a bottle of tequila under her arm.Did we just become best friends?
“He did, but it didn’t look like this until four years ago. It was always this big, but never thisgrand.” She waves around the glasses to emphasize the beauty of her home.
“Alright, baby,” she says as she pours a generous helping of tequila over the ice. Turning, she opens one of the fridges, pulling out a couple lime wedges. “To Georgia.” She raises her glass and slides me mine, I raise my glass and clink hers, “to Georgia,” I say, and we both take a sip.
She nudges me away from the kitchen bar and into her eat-in, which is a modest word for the size of the space. You could sit 15 in here, comfortably. She plops down in an oversized chair beside the pizza oven and motions for me to sit in the one opposite.
“I didn’t know she was sick for so long before she passed. I only knew the week before she died. You must think I’m an awful daughter, never coming home. Not when she was sick, or in hospice, or even for her funeral. I promise, I feel a thousand times more awful than whatever you think.”
“Well, we’re not gonna be feeling sorry for ourselves right now. You can’t change the past. All we have is right now, today. And sometimes you’ve got tomorrow, but that’s not guaranteed either.” She pauses, swirling the tequila around in her glass. “A little birdy told me you’ve got a new boyfriend.”
“Did they?” I ask. Feeling bashful all of a sudden. “I do,” I say with a slight smile. It feels wrong to find joy after I just found out my mother had cancer for months, suffered alone for months, while I kept living my life. “Iamreally happy about it — I don’t want you to think that I’m not. I’m just processing this…discovery about Georgia. I camehere, home,to get closure, and do the hard work.” I pause, “but it just feels like ripping open old wounds and pouring salt over them.
I’m happy to talk about Liam, but can we talk about her first? What was she like? Really like? I mean I have these notebooks, but I’ve only gotten through an eighth of them. And, well, growing up, Georgia was always there, always present, but not always in it, with me. She never had a lot of personality, or was outgoing around me. But I know she could be that way because anytime I’d meet someone from the office, she would light up and joke and laugh. But then once they left, she was back to just plain Georgia. I mean, I didn’t even know you were friends!” I say, finally relieved to let someone in on the secret of my childhood.
Sandy doesn’t look the least bit surprised, she just says, “You got it, baby.”
She spends the next two hours telling me about Georgia and her antics. Shewasfunny, and full of personality. Sandy met Georiga when she was still William Sr.’s secretary. Sandy originally wanted her fired, citing she was too pretty to work for her husband. But when William refused, Sandy showed up in the office to see what all the fuss was about. After a long lunch, and a couple beers, Georgia and Sandy were “thick as thieves.”
She said there were a lot of years they weren’t always close, especially once Sandy divorced William. It wasn’t due to bad blood, just distance. But they always exchanged birthday cards. That was their thing even in the non-close years.
Once I moved away, they got better acquainted again, spending whole weekends together with bottles of wine and Kevin Costner movies. They’d line dance in this same great room, making Jim move all the furniture.
I knew my mom had Rose, but I’m so fucking glad she had Sandy, too. Sandy sees the tears in my eyes and reaches over to squeeze my hand.
“Thank you, for being with her, and loving her.” I sigh, tears pouring down my face, “And remembering her. Thank you.” I look up to see Sandy has tears flowing down her face now, too.
“It was my joy,” she says, and I know she means it. Our moment is interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and a box being dropped. “Oh, crud muffin!” Sandy and I both look at each other with a little giggle.
