Sweet Forgiveness (19 page)

“Y
ou set me up,” I say, pacing the floor in Stuart's office. I am clearly out of control, but I can't stop myself. “I told you to stay out of my business! How dare you invade my personal life!”

“Calm down, Farr. It's the best thing that's ever happened to your career, mark my words. We've already gotten over a thousand comments on our website. People are tweeting about Hannah Farr's sweet forgiveness as we speak.”

But is it sweet forgiveness? Or is it rotten fabrication? And what will Michael say? And what will James Peters do if he catches wind of this? I cringe. Neither man is going to like this. Not at all.

“We'll give you a week off. Go track down your mom, tell her she's forgiven, kiss, and make up. The show will pay your expenses. Ben will accompany you.”

“Absolutely not!
If
I see my mother, which I haven't committed to, I'll do it alone. No cameras. Not even a still photo. This is my life, Stuart, not a reality show. Do you understand?”

He raises his eyebrows. “So you agree to go?”

My thoughts drift to my mom. It's time. I owe it to her and to Bob. Even though I'm furious that Stuart manipulated me, I finally have a reason to return to Harbour Cove. Not even Michael could argue. The story is out now. Hannah Farr is willing to forgive.

And to honor Michael's privacy, my mother's dignity, and my own reputation, nobody will know the details. I will be the only one who knows that it's not a trip granting forgiveness, it's a trip seeking it.

I let out a breath. “Yes. I'll go.”

Stuart smiles. “Excellent. And when you return, we'll have your mother on the show. The two of you can tell your story on—”

“No way. Didn't you learn anything from Dorothy's appearance? I'll have a show about mother-daughter relationships. I'll talk about the reunion with my mother and share the good parts. But I won't have my mother sitting onstage being judged by the entire city of New Orleans. End of story.”

“Fair enough.”

I walk away, wondering who it is I am protecting—my mother or myself.

I'm storming back to my dressing room when I meet Jade in the hallway, leaving for lunch. She shakes her head. “So you finally believe me?” she asks. “I warned you Claudia's nothing but a conniving little bitch. She's been after your job from day one.”

“That was Stuart's stunt, not Claudia's.” I pause a minute before revealing my secret. “You have to promise not to tell anybody, Jade.” I pull her close and lower my voice. “Claudia's fiancé is being traded to Miami. She doesn't want my job. She never did.”

Jade stares at me, her face incredulous. “Brian Jordan is going to the Dolphins?” She scowls. “Okay. So, she's simply a bitch. Not a
conniving
bitch.”

“More like insecure. It's a job hazard in broadcast journalism. I should know.”

I throw open my office door and nearly collide with Claudia.

“Oh, excuse me,” she says. “I was just leaving you a note.” She takes me by the arms. “You doing okay, sweetie?”

“No. You saw it. Stuart set me up.”

She rubs my arms. “It'll be okay. You really do need to go see your mom, Hannah. You know that, right?”

I feel myself bristle. Who is she to tell me what I need to do? I stare into her oval face, her pure blue eyes and perfectly arched brows. But once again, I'm drawn to her tiny scar. The sight of it, expertly camouflaged with makeup, softens me. “Yeah, well, I had hoped to do it on my terms, not WNO's.”

“When are you leaving?” she asks.

“I don't know. In a week or two. I need to make a plan first.” I turn to her. “Hey, how are you feeling about the show? I couldn't believe Fiona outed you like that. Good thing you were able to think on your feet, right? But you realize, if Lacey happens to see the episode, it'll all be exposed.”

She looks on with the slightest smirk on her face, as if she's amused by me. “Hannah, you don't actually believe there is a Lacey, do you?”

She winks at me, then strides from the office.

I stare at the open door, my mouth agape. What. The. Hell?

I stagger over to my desk and plop down on my chair. Jesus, did she make up that entire story, knowing I'd pour my heart out in return? But how would she have known I had a secret?

I stare blankly at my laptop . . . my laptop. Yes. Of course . . . it was open the morning she came in to test her mosquito repellants! I was showing Jade the proposal. Claudia must have seen it after she blinded me. I drop my head into my hands. How could I have been so careless?

From atop my desk I spy a note. I pick it up.

Hannah,

Just wanted you to know I'm happy to sub for you while you're in Michigan. No worries, sweetie, the show will be in good hands!

Hugs and smiles,

Claudia

Sometimes no amount of makeup can cover our ugly flaws. I drop the note into the shredder and watch it turn to confetti.

I
'
m still reeling from the show when I slam the door of my condo. I toss the mail on my kitchen island. One letter slides across the granite and lands on the tile floor. I squat down to pick it up and spy the vineyard's logo. I close my eyes and hold it to my heart, savoring this day's only token of joy for as long as I can before tearing open the envelope.

Dear Hannah,

At the risk of sounding like a schoolboy, I reluctantly admit that I run to the mailbox each day, in hopes of finding a letter—or perhaps a loaf of bread—from you. The sight of your handwriting on that pink stationery makes my heart soar.

Have you heard anything more about the position in Chicago? It sounds like a terrific opportunity, but I must say, my enthusiasm is partially selfish. You realize, don't you, that you and I would be but a mere five hours from one another?

I look forward to your next visit, whenever that may be. It's getting warmer every day now, and aside from the mountains created by snowplows, you'll be glad to know the white stuff has melted. Chances of slipping on a sheet of ice and tearing the seam of your dress are considerably lower now.

I laugh, and hoist myself onto a barstool.

At dawn, when the sun is crowning and a sleepy haze covers the vines, I have a ritual of walking the property. It's during these early hours, when I'm alone with my land, that I think of you most often. I imagine you giving me shit for something, like the Duck Dynasty ball cap from Zach and Izzy I sometimes wear, or the too-small flannel jacket that once belonged to my father that I grab on cold days. Or maybe you'd bust my chops for working so hard on a business that, in a good year, barely breaks even. Call me a fool, but I love it. I get to live life on my terms. No boss. No commute. No deadlines. Well, yes, maybe deadlines, but all in all, I'm living my dream. How many people can say that?

My only complaint, and it's a major one, is that I don't have a companion. Yes, I date occasionally. But with the exception of you, I've not met anyone who keeps me awake nights, trying to picture her smile, or imagining what she's doing at that very moment. Besides you, there's nobody whose laughter I try to re-create, or whose eyes I care to get lost in.

In case you think I work too hard, rest assured, I have complete flexibility four months of the year. Last year I spent a month in Italy; next winter I'm going to Spain—though Chicago could also be a contender. Just sayin'.

Please let me know when you're returning to this neck of the woods. There's a winemaker you could make very happy.

Yours,

RJ

PS Should you ever decide to give up journalism, that baker's position is still available.

It's dusk, and Jade and I stroll down Jefferson Street, on our way to meet Dorothy and some of the other residents at Octavia Books to hear Fiona Knowles. I feel like a fraud, pretending to be an advocate of Fiona and her stones, but what choice do I have now? I've been tagged and outed.

“I got a letter from RJ today,” I tell Jade.

She turns to me. “Yeah? The vineyard guy? What'd he say?”

“Nothing . . . everything. He's really great. Someone I'd like to know better, if I were a single woman living in Michigan.”

“Michigan's just a pole vault across the lake from Chicago, right? Keep your options open in case the mayor doesn't step up.”

“Nah. It's just a fun pen pal friendship. I won't even give him my e-mail address. Somehow that seems like it's crossing a line.”

“Maybe it's a line worth crossing.”

“Stop,” I say. “You know how I feel about Michael.”

We turn onto Laurel Street. “Will Marilyn be here tonight?” Jade asks.

“No. I called her this afternoon to remind her, but she wasn't interested. Not that I blame her. I apologized yet again for yesterday's fiasco, but she cut me off. She never even mentioned Dorothy.”

“Poor Dorothy. At least you're finally making peace with your mom. Dorothy's happy about that, right?”

“Yes.” I smile. “She'll finally be off my case.”

“She just wants to make sure you hear your mom's side of things,” Jade says, “before it's too late.”

“Okay, Jade, are you talking to me now, or to yourself?”

She stuffs her hands into her pockets. “You're right. I need to tell my dad the truth about my birthday party. I know I do.”

But does she? Even though I've been encouraging her to tell him, a pit forms in my stomach. A clean conscience just might be overrated, especially for something as trivial as her white-carpet lie.

“Maybe you should just leave it alone, Jade. What's so bad about letting him think his daughter is perfect?”

The bookstore is packed with mostly women. Is it my imagination, or are people pointing at me, smiling? One woman from across the room gives me a thumbs-up. And then it dawns on me. They watched the show. They think I'm the selfless, big-hearted daughter, willing to forgive her horrific mother.

Jade and I take a seat behind Dorothy and Patrick Sullivan. Patrick chats while Dorothy sits quietly with her hands in her lap. I touch her shoulder and lean in.

“It's sweet of you to come,” I say to her. “I wouldn't blame you if you wanted nothing to do with Fiona and her Forgiveness Stones after what happened yesterday.”

She turns her head so that she's in profile, and I see dark circles beneath her eyes. “Forgiveness is a lovely trend. I still believe that. And I'm pleased to hear that you're finally taking action and going to see your mother.” She lowers her voice. “Does this compromise your proposal with WCHI?”

A net of dread falls over me. “I got an e-mail reply from Mr. Peters this afternoon.”

“Was he upset that you'd used their Forgiveness Stones proposal?”

“He wasn't pleased, but he understood. The guy's a prince. He asked me to write another proposal, and I'm working on it, this one on the amount of freshwater that's being used for oil fracking. It could affect the Great Lakes.”

“Oh, goodness. That sounds dreadful.”

“It does,” I say, unsure whether Dorothy's referring to the fracking business or the proposal itself. The fact is, they both sound dreadful. I worry that I've blown my chance at the Chicago job. Thank goodness things at WNO seem to be on an upswing. “Any word from Marilyn?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“Please, let's go see her this weekend or next week, sometime before I leave for Michigan. We'll explain again that you—” Dorothy's lips are set and she shakes her head. We've been over this a dozen times. She wants to give Marilyn time. But I'm frustrated that she's not trying harder. After all, you don't give up on those you love.

I hang my head. I'm a fine one to talk. If I hadn't been forced into it, it's possible I would have given up my mother altogether.

“Perhaps when you return from Michigan, I'll have heard from Mari.”

“I hope so.”

“Hope so?” She swivels in her chair and scowls. “I have no use for hope. Hope is wishing that Mari will return. Faith is knowing that she will.”

I turn my attention to Fiona when she walks onto the floor. She bypasses the podium and stands exposed. For the next forty minutes, she delights us with her clever stories and keen insight.

“When we're ashamed of something, we can either remain mired in self-loathing, or we can atone. The choice is actually pretty simple—do we want to lead a clandestine life or an authentic one?”

I reach out to squeeze Dorothy's shoulder. She reaches back and pats my hand.

While Jade and I wait in line to have our books signed, at least a dozen women approach me, congratulating me and wishing me luck on my journey to Michigan.

“What an inspiration you are,” a striking brunette says, clutching my hand. “I'm so proud of you, Hannah, forgiving your mother after so many years.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn.

Fiona says we keep secrets for two reasons: to protect ourselves or to protect others. It's clear I'm protecting myself.

It's almost midnight, and I sit at my desk, trying to compose a letter that sounds friendly but not flirtatious.

Dear RJ,

It was great to hear from you, my friend. Just wanted to let you know I'll be in Michigan for a few days, beginning Monday, May 11. I'm planning to stop by the vineyard, hoping to cash in on that tour you promised me.

Just in case you've forgotten me, I'll be the one bearing breadsticks.

Best,

I toss my fountain pen onto the desk and read what I've written.
My friend
?
No, scratch that. But what tone, exactly, am I trying to convey? I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. God, what's wrong with me? Why am I playing with fire here? I've got Michael. I have no business returning to the vineyard. It's so wrong.

I sit up in my chair and revise the letter once more. When I read it this time, it's not so bad. Actually, it's quite innocent. It could just as easily be written to a woman friend I'd just met.