The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (best free e reader .TXT) 📗

“You will not blow this for me!” she hissed as we reached the room where Gran had baked every Saturday.

Dishes lay scattered on the counter, and the odor of spoiled food lingered in the air.

“What happened to Lydia?” I asked, motioning to the mess.

“I fired her. She was nosy.” Mom shrugged.

“How long have you been living here?”

“Since the funeral. I was waiting for you—”

“Let it go. You fired Lydia because you knew she’d tell me you were hunting for the book.” Pure anger raced through my veins, tightening my jaw. “How could you?”

Her shoulders slackened. “Gigi—”

“I’ve hated that nickname since I was eight years old. Again: stop using it,” I snapped. “Did you really think you’d get away with pretending to be me? They have lawyers, Mom! Eventually you would have had to hand over identification.”

“Well, it was working until you walked in.”

“What about Helen?” I scoffed. “Tell me you didn’t offer up the manuscript without Gran’s agent.”

“I was going to bring her in as soon as they made an official offer. I promise. They’re just here to get the book for a read-through.”

I shook my head at her sheer… I didn’t even have a word for it.

She sighed like I’d been the one to break her heart, and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Georgia. I was desperate. Please do this for me. The advance would help me get on my feet—”

“Really?” My eyes flashed toward hers. “This is about money?”

“Really!” She slammed her hands on the granite. “My own grandmother cut me out of her will for you. You got everything, and I was left with nothing!”

Guilt pricked unprotected slivers of my heart, the tiny shards that lived in denial, never quite getting the message that not all mothers wanted to be moms, and mine was among them. Gran had cut her out—but it wasn’t because of me. “There is nothing to give here, Mom. She never finished the book and you know why. She said she only wrote it for family.”

“She wrote it for my father! And I’m family! Please, Georgia.“ She gestured around us. “You have all this. Give me just one thing, and I swear I’ll even split it with you.”

“It’s not about the money.” Even I hadn’t read the book, and she wanted to hand it off?

“Says the girl who has millions.”

I gripped the edge of the island’s counter and took deep breaths, trying to steady my heart, to bring logic into a situation that had none. Was I financially stable? Yes. But Gran’s millions were earmarked for charity—just as she’d wished, and Mom wasn’t a charity case.

But she was my last living family.

“Please, honey. Just listen to the terms they’re offering. That’s all I ask. Can’t you at least give me that?” Her voice wavered. “Tim left me. I’m…broke.”

Her confession hit me straight in my freshly divorced soul. Our eyes met, identical shades of what Gran had called Stanton blue. She was all I had, and it didn’t matter how many years or therapists had come and gone, I’d never managed to wipe out the urge to please her. To prove my worth.

Money hadn’t been the catalyst I’d envisioned.

But that was a statement of her character—not mine.

“I’ll listen, but that’s all.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mom nodded with a grateful smile. “I really did stay for you,” she whispered. “I just happened to find the book.”

“Let’s go.” Before I start to believe you.

The men had a slight tinge of desperation in their tone as they explained the terms they’d offered my mother. I could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that the gold mine that was the very last Scarlett Stanton book was slipping through their fingers, because they’d never really had it.

“I’ll have to give Helen a call. I’m sure you remember Gran’s agent,” I said after they finished. “And the performance rights are off the table. You know how she felt about that.” Gran hated movie adaptations.

Christopher’s face tightened.

“And where is Ann Lowell?” She’d been Gran’s editor for more than twenty years.

“She retired last year,” Christopher answered. “Adam here is the best editor we have on staff, and he’s brought in his best writer to finish up what we’re told is going to be about a third of the book?” He glanced at Mom.

She nodded.

She’d read it? The bitter taste of jealousy coated my tongue.

“He’s the best,” Adam gushed, glancing at his watch. “Millions of sales, phenomenal writing, critically acclaimed, and even better—a die-hard Scarlett Stanton fan. He’s read everything she’s written at least twice, and he’s cleared the next six months for this project so we can push it out fast.” He tried to give me a reassuring smile.

He failed.

My eyes narrowed. “You hired a man to finish Gran’s book?”

Adam swallowed. “He really is the best, I swear. And your mom wanted to interview him to make sure he was the correct choice, so he’s actually here.”

I blinked, surprised that Mom had been that thorough, and shocked that the writer— No.

“I can’t even remember the last time he had to pitch himself.” Christopher chuckled.

My thoughts tripped, falling down a rabbit hole like a line of dominos. Impossible.

“He’s here right now?” Mom asked, glancing toward the door and smoothing her skirt.

“He just pulled up.” Adam motioned to his Apple Watch.

“Georgia, you sit. I’ll show our guest in.” Mom sprung out of her chair and rushed for the door, leaving the three of us in an awkward silence broken only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock.

“So I met your husband at a gala last year,” Christopher said with a tight smile.

“My ex-husband,” I corrected him.

“Right.” He winced. “I thought his last movie was overrated.”

Just about every movie—besides Gran’s—Damian had directed was overrated, but I wasn’t going there.

A deep, rumbling laugh sounded from the foyer, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“He’s here!” Mom announced joyfully, swinging open the glass doors.

I stood as he walked in with my mother, and I somehow managed to keep