“What what?”
“Your entire demeanor just changed.”
I hop off the counter and sigh. It’s so much easier keeping things from her when she’s in Tennessee and I’m in New York. “Just thinking. That’s all.”
She places the spatula on the spoon rest we picked up in Philadelphia last year on a quick mother-daughter getaway. Mini vacations are how we see each other unless she comes to see me in New York. I tell myself she needs to get away from here, that it does her good.
Facing me, the confused look melts into one of concern. “Do you want to talk about it yet?”
“Talk about what?”
“Why you’re here. I don’t want to pressure you, honey, but I would like to be there for you because I know good and well something spurred this.”
Grabbing my glass, I head to the refrigerator and add some water. “I can’t just miss my mom?”
“I hope you do,” she says. “But you haven’t just hopped on a plane and come home. Ever.”
I lug in a deep breath. “Maybe I was wrong for not coming home before now. I just . . .”
“I know it’s hard to face things here. We all have things we don’t talk about in life. It took years before I even wanted to hear your father’s name.”
“I still don’t want to hear that.”
“Me either.”
I take in my mother in her kitchen, wearing her apron with a relaxed air about her I never see in New York or while on vacation in a random city. A person looks like that only in their home. As I watch her move easily around the room, I realize I’m more relaxed here than I recall being in a long time.
“If it helps,” I say, “I did miss home. Even if don’t say it a lot.”
“It does help to hear that. I’m thrilled to have you in my kitchen and eating my food, even if I don’t know what’s on your mind.”
“Yeah . . .” I blow out a breath. Leaning against the counter, I watch her as I sip the drink.
Once I open up to my mom, it’s all over. I keep everything in a neat little box mentally when talking to Grace. I’m “New York” Neely with her—composed, professional, aggressive. But with Mom, I’m basically a fourteen-year-old girl standing in front of the woman who can read me like an open book. My stomach twists into a tight knot as I prepare to recount everything that happened.
“It’s not fair for me to come back here and not even tell you why.” I place my cup on the counter. “Thanks for giving me a little while to deal with it on my own.”
“This house is your home whether you actually live here or not. You don’t need a reason to be here, and you don’t owe me an explanation. I just want you to know that whatever it is, I’m on your side.”
“I know. I appreciate that.”
She bites her lip as if to keep herself from saying more.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest. Her support was never a question. She’d stand up for me even if I were wrong. What I don’t want to happen is for her to worry I’m going to starve to death or cast me a look of pity because of the decision I made.
I throw my shoulders back. “I quit my job.”
“Oh, Neely.” Mom’s eyes grow wide. “Are you okay?”
My sigh betrays the confidence I usually go out of my way to depict. The sound is filled with the pressure and stress I’ve been carrying around for a few days, and my mother picks up on it right away.
“Want some tea?” she asks.
“Tea isn’t going to fix this. Turn off your burner, though. The pan is starting to smoke.”
“Darn it.” She flips off the switch and gives the pan a final stir before scooting it to an unlit burner. It’s a few moments before she’s sitting at the table with two mugs of hot tea.
I don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment that sinks me into the chair across from her or the exhaustion I’m just starting to acknowledge deep in my bones. Regardless, there’s a mug in my hands before I know it.
“So . . .” Blowing out a breath, I watch the steam billow from the tea. “Remember a few months ago, I called and told you I thought I’d convinced my boss to start a new magazine focused solely on females in sports?”
“Yes,” she says. With a nod, she smiles brightly. “I believe you said you were ‘knocking down walls,’ or something similar. You were really excited.”
My heart burns in the center of my chest. I close my eyes briefly, swallowing the taste of betrayal. The bitterness makes my face sour.
“Neely?”
“So Mark, my boss, called me a couple of weeks ago,” I say past the lump in my throat. “We had lunch. He took my idea, the entire proposal he had me create from my vision of what this new monthly could be, and delivered it to his boss, Frank. It was really fantastic.” My hands fold in front of me. “I worked with one of Grace’s friends who does layout, and we created a visual of the website that would cater to mostly young girls and then one of the actual print version that would be for adults. I didn’t sleep for two weeks, Mom. Just busted my butt to get this together to really sell it, you know?”
“And when you get that fire in your eyes, the one you have right now, you get what you want. I’ve seen you do it too many times.”
Sitting back in my chair, I feel my spirits fade. “Mark said it was a go. Frank loved the idea. Said the market was wide open for something like this. Heck, Frank even sent me an email and told me he saw great things stemming from my proposal.”
“So why are you telling me with no enthusiasm?”
A half laugh, half snort gets her attention. Wisely, she refrains from saying anything more, and instead gives me a few moments to remember I’m in front of my mother and not Grace. Word selection is important.
“I needed to apply for a position there,” I tell her. “Put together a formal résumé as well as a sample six-month schedule of ideas.”
“Even though the entire thing was your idea?”
“Protocol.” I shrug, the anger I’ve been able to keep mostly buried shifting just below the surface. “I was talking to Lynne, another editor at the magazine—”
“We had lunch with her, didn’t we?” Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her gray eyes, like mine, are clear as she absorbs my story. “Isn’t she the one who met us for paninis last year when I visited?”
“Yup.”
“Why do I get the feeling I won’t be having any more paninis with Lynne?”
“Because if justice is served, she’ll choke on the next one,” I say, shoving away from the table. Standing behind my chair, fingers wrapped around the top rung, I look at my mother. “She told me she wasn’t interested in the position and to use her as a sounding board. Then she took my ideas and submitted her own application.”
The words slip through my gritted teeth, coming out twisted and sharp. I bite down hard to avoid adding that I’m 99 percent sure she accessed my computer and found my mock-ups. Her layouts, her design ideas—things I didn’t show her—were too similar to be happenstance.
My blood pressure soars so high my head almost explodes. But at the same time, my heart sinks. This wasn’t just a coworker betrayal. That I could’ve handled. This was a betrayal of the worst kind—from a so-called friend.
Lynne was my friend. If she’d said she wanted the position, I would’ve cheered her on. I might’ve even ensured we went after different jobs. But to backstab me like she did? Over something she knew was so important to me? I can’t.
“Oh, Neely, honey. I’m so sorry.” Mom gets to her feet but doesn’t come toward me.
“I had to quit,” I tell her. “It felt like such a betrayal to have put so much work into this and then be overlooked. It was my idea. My brainchild. I just refuse to work there out of principle.” I turn away so she doesn’t see the wetness washing over my eyes. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“You can stay here as long as you want. Forever, if you feel like it.”
Laughing, I sniffle and turn back to her. “I just need a couple of days to breathe. But thanks for the offer.”
She comes around the table, and I almost fall into her arms. She holds me close, her hands around the small of my back as she sways gently back and forth.
“I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?” she asks, planting a kiss on my cheek as she lets me go. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life, but every time I look at you, I know I got one right.”
“Stop it,” I tell her. “Don’t make me cry. If I cry, I’m going to be mad.”
“Well, it’s true,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “You’ve always been my little crusader. Remember when you sold lemonade that one summer because you saw the animal shelter didn’t have enough funds for food?”
“I raised three hundred dollars,” I remind her.
“You did.” She laughs. “I think I spent a hundred on supplies.”
“I’m sure the animals appreciated it.” I lean against the counter again, my load a little lighter. After a quick sweep of my mother’s face, I shake my head. “I’m going to be fine. I promise.”
“I know, sweetheart,” she says, lifting her tea. Her tone is soft. It’s the one she always used when she’d come into my bedroom late at night right after my father left us and whisper to me that everything would be all right. “I worry. You know that.”
“I’m not going to be homeless. There are people looking over my résumé as we speak. Besides, like Grace says, when is the last time I took a few days off? Maybe this is a good thing.”
“I’ll never argue with getting to spend more time with you.”
“Right.” Despite the resoluteness in my voice, my spirit feels less convinced. My pride stings. “I put my life into that company,” I say before I can think twice. “I did everything right. I worked my butt off. I went out of my way to find gems of stories, the ones that resonate with readers. I had little girls sending me letters. Those things are . . .”