I don’t make it back that quickly, though. Instead, I’m waylaid by one of the framed photographs on the bureau. Tears prick my eyes as I pick it up, a silver-framed picture of me and a dark-haired girl, six years older, with mischievous eyes and a quick smile. My sister, Ashley Anne Fairchild Price.
“I miss you,” I whisper to the girl who’d also been my best friend. I’d thought she was so lucky when my mother had given her a pass on the pageant circuit because she simply didn’t win. I’d been so envious—hating every crown I earned and wanting nothing more than to have time and food and my mother’s love that didn’t come with strings. Especially since those strings were the threads of pageant gowns.
I’d thought that Ashley had escaped my mother and her belief that everything—and everyone—had to be perfect. Ashley had been my rock, sneaking me food when my mother kept me on an eight-hundred calorie, no-carb diet. And talking to me so I wouldn’t be scared or stir-crazy when Mother locked me in a completely black room so that I’d be forced to get my beauty sleep.
I’d thought she was together, and I’d drawn part of my strength from her. But when her husband left her and she killed herself because she’d believed she wasn’t the person she should be, I knew that Mother had gotten in her head, too.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her now. “I’m so sorry she screwed you up—hell, I’m sorry she screwed both of us up.” I draw in a breath. “But I’m doing better. I think you’d be proud of me. I love you,” I say. “And I miss you.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes as I return the picture to the bureau. I meant what I said. I am doing better. I’ve been doing better ever since I moved out of my mother’s house. But it wasn’t until I met Damien that I truly felt like I was wriggling free of the quicksand in which my mother had buried me.
But now—with the laughter of my daughter echoing just outside the window—I know that I can be better still. And, I think, I finally know what I need to do.
It takes a few minutes for me to get all my ducks in order, but once I’ve thought it all through and made a couple of phone calls, I know that I’m on the right path. The knot in my stomach has disappeared, along with the band around my chest. I feel light and giddy, and as I hurry down the steps, I feel Damien’s eyes on me and wave happily.
Lara is in the sandbox now, building something that I think is supposed to be a castle, but might be a horse, her current favorite animal.
I pause to give her a kiss and come away with my lips a little gritty. “Let me talk with Daddy,” I say. “And I’ll come back in a little bit, okay?”
“Okay, Mama,” she says, then shoves her hands deep into a mountain of sand. I take a quick detour to peek at Anne, napping in the shade in her portable crib, then I head toward Damien.
“Feeling better?” Damien asks, moving over so that I can sit beside him on the edge of the hot tub and dangle my feet in the water.
“Yeah,” I say, taking his hand. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
I laugh. “Well, we could start with everything. But mostly for putting up with me lately.”
He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. “It’s hard. We’ve gone from two to four. Plus, there are diapers in the mix.”
“True, that,” I say, then kick my feet, splashing us both a little. “Ashley killed herself because she felt like she wasn’t perfect.”
My voice is low, barely a whisper, but I know from the way Damien stiffens beside me that he’s heard every word.
“I know.” His eyes move as he examines my face. “Is that how you feel?”
“Yes. No.” I draw a breath. “Not anymore. I—”
I pull my hand free and run it through my hair, trying to organize in words the feelings—and the decision—that are so clear in my heart. “So here’s the thing. I love designing my apps. The small challenges. And the large ones. Working out tricky code. Thinking up clever or funny or useful programs that will grab people’s attention and give them a break or help them with productivity.”
“And you’re good at it.”
“I am,” I agree, because my talent and skill in my job is something I’ve never questioned. “And when I first wanted to go into business for myself, it was so that I could do what I wanted. Not what my boss said, or a client I didn’t sign personally asked for.”
“Control,” he says dryly. “I get that.”
I lean over and bump him with my shoulder. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
I start to sit up straight again, but he hooks an arm around me. “And now you’re overwhelmed because you’ve taken on something that’s even bigger than the work—the business. You’ve got the coding that you love, and all the other bullshit that you don’t.”
“Payroll taxes and accounting and client development and all of it. Yes,” I say, not at all surprised that he understands. Damien knows me well, after all. “But I don’t want to give it up. I just want—”
“The core,” he finishes for me.
I look at him, surprised by his choice of word. “Exactly. And I’m not sure whether I felt like I had to compete with you or if I was trying to prove what a success I was to my mother, or if I just didn’t want to feel like I failed. But the truth is, I know I didn’t. I have a great business, and I don’t have to go at it a million miles an hour. Not when I can slow down and enjoy everything else I have.” I take his hand again and squeeze as I look toward Lara and Anne.
“You’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Mostly in the back of my mind. It’s been churning, I think, without me even really being aware. But it was when you asked me if I’d cut that everything clicked into place.”
Again, he tenses beside me, and I press my hand onto his thigh. “It clicked in a good way,” I explain. “With the cutting…well, I think I needed the blade when I was lost. When I couldn’t see any other way around the pain or the fear and the mess of everything that overwhelmed me.”
“But this time you didn’t want to cut,” he says softly.
“Didn’t even think about it,” I confirm. “Not even a tiny bit.” I smile up at him. “Do you get it? It’s because I already knew what to do. I just hadn’t let myself think about it yet.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Step back,” I say, firmly. “I want my business, but I don’t want or need to be Stark International.” I flash a grin toward my husband. “You have that covered pretty well.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence,” he says, and I laugh.
“And I’m going to sell the office in Studio City,” I say. That one’s harder. Because Damien bought my original unit as a present one magical Christmas, but I know it’s the right thing to do. “I’ll reinvest, but in something closer. Santa Monica, maybe. Or even Malibu. And in the meantime…”
I trail off, looking toward the beach. “Actually, I was thinking I could use the bungalow as a temporary office.”
“It’s your beach house, baby. If that’s what you want, I say go for it.”
“It is. I can have the kids with me, or if they’re in the main house with Bree, I can be home in two minutes.” I draw in a breath. “I think I was hearing my mother’s voice in my head. That I had to be perfect—and somehow I confused perfect with doing it all. And the truth is, I don’t have to be either.”
“No,” he agrees, “you don’t. But never forget that you’re perfect for me.”
“Ditto,” I say, then sigh, feeling relieved and centered and happy.
“What about Abby and Marge?”
“I’ll keep them on. We’ll use the living room as office space, and they can both work from home part time. But about Abby—there’s more I haven’t told you. Because, well, I want time here. With you and the kids. And it’s a lot to shoulder, running even a scaled-back business. Don’t laugh,” I say when he starts to smile. “I’m not you, and you have about a billion people working for you. And entrepreneurism doesn’t flow in my veins. That’s your shtick.”
“It is,” he agrees.
“And you’re exceptional at it. But I want someone helping me shoulder the load. A different kind of help than I get from my husband,” I add with a grin. “So I asked Abby if she wanted to be a partner,” I continue. “Starting at ten percent, but working her way up to fifty.” I hesitate a little as I look at him because usually I run my business decisions by Damien before I float them in the world. But this time, I’d called Abby before even coming down the stairs.
“I think that’s a great idea. And Abby will be an asset. It gives her a stake and takes some of the pressure off you. And,” he adds, with a definite edge of humor, “you still have Stark International as a client. And I hear that company is always growing. So that’s got to be good for your bottom line.”
“It is,” I agree, grateful he understands. “I want to keep my business. I’m proud of it, and I love what I do. But not if it means I miss all of this.” I glance toward Anne’s bassinet, then smile at Lara, who’s now toddling toward us, covered in sand.
“I don’t need to be Stark International. I just want my work. Mostly,” I add, leaning in close, “I just want you.”
“You have me. Don’t ever doubt it.”
“I don’t,” I say. “And I have something for you.”
I stand, then leave wet footprints as I pad across the pool deck to where I’d left a small paper bag on a table at the foot of the stairs. When I come back, I hold it out to Damien, who looks up at me, confused.
“Pick one,” I say, shaking the bag and making the tiny squares of folded paper rustle.
He laughs, but complies and then opens it. “Road trip,” he reads. He glances up at me. “Want to clarify that?”
“Nope.” I grin. “But you’ll find out what it means tomorrow.”