Page 40 of One Southern Summer

“I’ve done some reading about trafficking, nothing compared to what you’ve researched and observed, I’m sure, but I’d love to create more opportunities for women who need a fresh start here in Camellia. Vocational training that sets them up for long-term success in roles other than food service and the hospitality industry.”

“Agreed.”

She stared at him. His skin was smooth and slightly flushed from the heat. She’d looked at Cole hundreds maybe even thousands of times. He was incredibly handsome. She’d never noticed the smattering of freckles on his cheekbones or that tiny divot above his eyebrow. Had he told her the story about that scar?

“Avery?”

Her name on his lips was gentle. Patient. Tugging her back to the conversation.

“Did you have something more you wanted to say?”

“I was doing some research about how women in developing nations try and contribute to their families. Harvesting coffee beans, making handbags and jewelry are all common. Those seem like labor-intensive options. I mean, it takes a long time to make a beaded necklace and not everyone has the patience. Or the skills necessary. And Camellia isn’t a developing nation.”

“Despite the stereotypes that linger about Alabama, no.” Cole’s smile was effortless. Confident. “This isn’t a developing nation.”

Avery’s heart took a Texas-sized leap in response. What waswrongwith her?

“Some of the women we bring to Imari’s Place are originally from a poverty-stricken community in another country,” Cole said. “They once worked in agriculture and only came to the US because someone coerced them. Preyed on their vulnerabilities and convinced them they’d have a better life here. Often all they really want is the freedom to earn a decent living and send some money back home to their children.”

“So, this is way beyond the scope of this project, but what if we opened a factory here and manufactured a product or several products? Wouldn’t we be teaching them a skill set they can use here in Camellia? Or are we focused on equipping them to return home to their families and communities and make positive contributions?”

His jaw drifted open.

“What?” Her fingers fluttered self-consciously to her neck. “That was a dumb question, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was a brilliant question.” Cole’s hand extended and his fingers brushed affectionately up and down her bare arm. It was a gesture so unexpected, so intimate that he pulled back immediately. Avery didn’t know what to say, but she was acutely aware of the trail of heat his fingers left and the way her body wanted to lean into his touch.

Even though it lasted only a millisecond.

Cole leaned back and linked his arms across his chest. “Your suggestion about a manufacturing facility and a product line is fantastic. This is an ongoing conversation in board meetings and among other people who direct similar nonprofits devoted to fighting human trafficking.”

“It is?”

He nodded. “Rescuing someone from trafficking isn’t as simple as you’d hope it might be. Separating the person—most often for us it’s a woman—from the source of her security and the person who has convinced her she is nothing without him is a huge battle.”

His words pricked at a wound. Avery swallowed hard against the unexpected emotion tightening her throat. “I’ve just been thinking about how hard it is to start over. Reinventing yourself feels overwhelming, especially if you have children.” She ducked her head. “Sorry. I made this about me.”

“Avery.”

There it was again, her name on Cole’s lips. So kind. So reverent. Making her feel like she could become or do anything.

“You can always tell me what’s on your mind. And I always want to hear your recommendations.”

Cole’s kindness made her want to weep.

“You don’t need to worry about reinventing yourself, by the way. You’re going to be just fine.”

“That’s sweet of you to say. I feel like Pax and Trey left and took the blueprints for our future with them.”

“Make your own way forward,” Cole said. “You don’t need them.”

“But I feel adrift creatively right now,” she confessed, staring past him. “I know it’s weird to be admitting that when you hired me as your consultant, but it’s true. All I know for sure is that I want women to feel proud of what they’ve accomplished at the end of the day.”

“Me too.” Cole frowned. “It’s getting more and more difficult to convince trafficking victims to choose freedom over bondage.”

His words pierced her. Bondage. She wasn’t trafficked but she’d certainly found herself in bondage to ideas, opinions and even the choices made by her former spouse and business partner. Not to mention her own expectations and people’s judgments about her life circumstances.

Had she really sacrificed her own happiness and the security of her children to please her adoring fans? The same fans who turned on her? Was her whole life a facade? Shame slithered in. How long had she lived this false narrative, convinced it was what she had to display for the world to see? It was all a lie. A perfectly curated, filtered lie of a life. She’d actually thought the social media version of her family was the one worth saving.

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