About Tomorrow... Read online

  “Thank you, I will,” I told her.

  I watched her leave while holding the pie in one hand and my candy apple in the other, trying not to feel anything where Creed was concerned. Why was he doing this? Was this his attempt at trying to mend our past and be friends.

  If only it were possible to just be friends with Creed Sullivan.

  nine

  November 3, 2019

  Last night had felt several hours longer than just the extra hour that Daylight Savings Time added. The weekend itself had been tedious and lonely. I’d started out by going out to find trees still full of color and take photos, but they were all looking more bare than beautiful. I had given up and moved back indoors.

  I worked on getting Gran’s clothing boxed up, well most of it. I kept a few warm sweaters to use. They reminded me of Gran and this weekend, I had needed the comfort. My clothing was now all put away in its new home. I had also managed to unpack some of my picture frames and set them about. I put the photos of myself that Gran had sitting all over the place away and replaced them with pictures I had framed. Those of me and Griff, some of just Griff, two I had of me and Gran, one of me and Dad last summer, and the only picture I had with Mom in the past ten years.

  It was starting to look a little more like I lived here. Putting all of Gran’s things away didn’t feel right. I wanted her things around me. It was as if a piece of her was still here. I put several of my boxes in the attic, not needing those things right now. There were less boxes sitting about and I felt accomplished.

  Determined to enjoy my day, I made some homemade hot cocoa that I found in Gran’s rolodex and sat down in front of my impressive fire to watch a Christmas movie. The Hallmark Channel was already full force Christmas and Halloween was barely over. I wasn’t complaining, though I needed some cheer.

  Griff hadn’t called me all weekend. He’d sent one text yesterday asking how I was and after I responded in a three-paragraph text, he only said “Good” and that was it. I found it insulting, but I had to remind myself he was busy with his studies. I ate more Marlborough pie to soothe my feelings.

  Today would be a good day. I was going to make it one. I was also going to look for a job online after I stopped being holly and jolly on the sofa. Sipping my hot cocoa, I decided if I didn’t love meat so much, I could be a Vegan. The soy milk half and half I used to make the cocoa was surprisingly delicious. I could easily make Gran’s recipes non-vegan, but something about making it exactly the way she made it felt nice. It helped the ache I felt when I saw something that brought back a memory of my time with her. Which was daily since I was living in her house now.

  Just as the girl who was forced home to the blueberry farm to save the family business…had to leave her big city life in New York…bumps into the local restaurant owner who lost his wife to cancer several years ago…and is raising his daughter all alone, there was a knock on my door. I hoped no one else was bringing me a pie because I was going to have to run three extra miles a day after eating so much of the Marlborough pie Margie gave me.

  I threw back the cozy red afghan that was keeping my legs warm and stood with my cocoa to go to the door. I tried peeking out the window, but it was hard to see who was in front of it from that angle. It wasn’t as if someone in Portsmouth was going to be dangerous. Especially on this street. I opened the door, preparing to force a smile and do pleasantries with some friend of Gran’s who was glad I was here, when a forced smile wasn’t required after all. My jaw slightly dropped in surprise before I regained my composure and asked, “What are you doing here, Creed?”

  The corner of his too perfect mouth lifted at the corner and he shrugged. “Had to come handle some business and thought I’d check on you.”

  I stood there staring at him, not sure if I was supposed to say thank you or I was fine or invite him in for cocoa.

  He glanced up toward the chimney. “Looks like you got the fire figured out.”

  I nodded. “Thanks to Jack, which I should thank you for.”

  “I didn’t want you to freeze.”

  “Thanks,” I said again because I was still processing that Creed was here. Seeing him in Boston was one thing but seeing him at Gran’s was different. Memories came back strong and emotions that I thought were gone rose to the surface and I had to adjust. Quickly before he noticed.

  I shivered then from the freezing temps outside and stepped back into the warmth. “Come in and have some cocoa. It’s cold out there.”

  He looked as if he wasn’t sure that was a good idea and I concurred, but I owed him for helping me out with so many things I hadn’t thought about. When he finally stepped forward and into the house, I closed the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Thompson brought me Marlborough pie if you’re hungry,” I told him.

  He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the coatrack. “Sounds good. Thanks,” he replied, and I hurried to the kitchen to get him the pie and cocoa so that I had a moment to get myself together and act normal. The way he made me feel felt like I was cheating on Griff, even though I had done nothing wrong. Facing my former emotions and overcoming them would be the smart thing to do. This was normal. It had to be. We had no real closure and I had battled depression that took me through too many dark days after Cora died and Creed exited my life.

  “Christmas movies already?” he asked, walking into the kitchen from the living room.

  I felt myself blush at being caught watching them but decided that was the least of my problems. “Yep,” I replied. “How are things in Boston?” I then asked, feeling as if that was safe conversation territory.

  “Same.” His voice was close now. I turned to see he’d stopped only a few feet behind me. “Chet and Griff are either at school or studying. The food has dwindled in the apartment and when I checked for something to eat this morning, all we had was strawberry jelly, one egg, a quarter of a gallon of milk, and some leftover pizza.”

  “Yum. Nothing like jelly and pizza for breakfast,” I replied, putting a slice of pie on one of Gran’s everyday gold butterfly dishes.

  “I wouldn’t know. I stopped at Dunkin’ on my way here.”

  Once I had his cup of cocoa ready, I picked up the plate and cup to turn and hand it to him. “This will be better than Dunkin’,” I assured him.

  He took both from me and I waved a hand toward the living room. “It’s warmer in there. I haven’t started the stove in here yet today,” I explained.

  I followed him back into the living room and picked my cocoa back up then went to the overstuffed tan chair, leaving him the sofa where he would have the side table to put his food and drink on. This was all very nice and friendly. I had nothing to worry about. It seemed we could do this. Besides, Creed lived in Boston. Not Portsmouth. I doubted we would have another visit in Gran’s living room.

  “What business did you have to take care of here?” I asked him, just to make conversation and a little out of curiosity.

  He shrugged then swallowed his bite of pie. “Getting the wood stacked at the house, having the furnace serviced, that kind of thing.”

  Confused at his response, I waited until he took a drink and another bite then asked, “Your mom’s house?” I would have thought her husband could do those things. What kind of man had she married? I remembered Creed’s dad being handy around the house and making Creed help.

  “No not mom’s, my house.”

  His house? I let that sink in then sipped more of my cocoa. Why did Creed have a house here? Was he not moving to Boston? He was in a band there.

  “The house I grew up in was given to my dad from his parents. The will states it can’t be sold; it has to be passed down to the next in line. When my parents divorced, and moved out, Dad had the deed changed to my name. I’ve been leasing it to a nice older couple for the past five years, but they moved to Florida to be near their daughter who just had her first kid. I decided
not to lease it again.”

  So…Creed was my neighbor? What?

  “What about Boston and the band?” I asked him, not sure I was understanding correctly and hoping I was completely confused. For reasons, I didn’t want to think too deeply about.

  He finished his pie and set the plate down. “That was temporary. I was going to make it work with the distance if I enjoyed it, but it wasn’t for me. I have only one more gig with them next weekend and then I move back here and finish what I started in college.”

  “College?” I blurted out without thinking. My head was spinning and I was struggling to make sense of all this new information.

  He smirked. “What? Did you think I skipped out on college to play in a band?”

  I had no idea that he went to college or where he went or if he had a degree. He had shut me out six years ago. He’d lost his sister, his twin, and I understood that he was hurting but so was I. There had been no reason for him to act as if I no longer existed. He had told me he loved me and after that I lost my virginity to Creed Sullivan. Four days later, we found Cora, dead. It had all changed. He didn’t love me enough.

  I wasn’t that girl now. I was stronger. I had to be. Creed Sullivan had destroyed me once. That was something he would never have the power to do again. Griff loved me and he’d never hurt me like that. No matter what happened.

  Remembering he had asked me a question, I got out of my head and replied, “I wasn’t sure.”

  He didn’t offer to tell me either. Instead he stood up, leaving his cup beside the plate on the table. “Thanks for the pie and cocoa. I’m glad you’re settling in okay,” he said. “I need to get some things accomplished before it gets dark, which will be fucking early today.”

  I jumped up as he went to the door and opened it. “Bye,” I blurted out because there were so many things I wanted to ask and so many reasons I needed to just let him leave.

  He gave me a single nod then left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  I still didn’t know what he had gone to college for or what he was doing back in Portsmouth.

  ten

  November 5, 2019

  I straightened my skirt, buttoned my navy wool coat, and wrapped a scarf around my neck before walking toward the entrance of The Islet at Portsmouth. I’d managed to get an interview on my first attempt to contact them. The Islet at Portsmouth was an art museum that was well-known in New England. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. Other than my degree and a short internship at the art museum in Nashville, I had little experience. However, the lady I had spoken to on the phone yesterday didn’t seem to mind any of that. It was very likely they were going to hire me to run errands for them. I would take what I could get. Even if it was being a coffee girl.

  The heavy door wasn’t made of glass but oak and I would guess it was two hundred years old. Just the weight of it made the place feel intimidating. This was what I loved. It was what I had put all my time and effort into during my four years at Vanderbilt. I could remember my dad taking me to Musee Picasso in Paris when I was nine years old. He was on a world tour, and my mother had stuck me on a plane to stay with him for two weeks of his tour. Anyway, that day had been the beginning for me. I loved every piece of art there and I wanted to study it and soak it in. I wanted more than anything to be able to create art like that but I wasn’t talented with a brush or pen. I was good with a camera, but it wasn’t the same.

  I had left the Musee Picasso knowing, one day, when I had a job, I wanted to be surrounded by art. Now, here I was and my heart was pounding in my chest at the idea of getting to do just that. Stepping inside the museum, I let myself relax in the beauty surrounding me. I felt at home here. I always did with art.

  “You must be Sailor Copeland,” a voice said rather loudly from behind me. I spun around to see a woman, no taller than five feet, walking my way. “I’m Ambre Dupont Smith and although most of my name is perfectly French, I am not. My mother was born in Nice, France, but she came to the states as an exchange student, married my father who is a rancher in Wyoming and here I am. Now, you will need to assist Albert. That will be your title Assistant Archivist. Sign this paper and I will do a background check to make sure you aren’t a criminal and then you can start. Albert will decide after one week if you are right for the job. He is not easy to work with but he is the best. Keep that in mind when you want to jump out of the top window to get a break from him.”

  I didn’t notice the tiny woman take a breath while she said all of that. It was as if she’d said this speech a lot. It seemed memorized and her tone was as if it was tedious to repeat it all. I wondered how many times she had said it. Was Albert so hard to work under that this job was one that remained available? I was positive I could put up with anyone if I was Assistant Archivist. I hadn’t expected a position that amazing. I could deal with a moody or difficult Albert, if it meant I was able to work with the art so closely. I’d tolerated my mother most of my life. She’d prepared me to cohabitate with insanity.

  I signed the paper and she snatched it back up. “Very good. Come with me,” she said and spun on her bright yellow pumps. Even though the heels on her shoes were short, they still provided height. It was possible Ambre Dupont was only 4 feet 10 inches. “Albert won’t talk to you much. He rarely speaks. Pay attention to when he does say something because he won’t repeat it. If you ask him to,” she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at me and gave me a pointed stare over her oval turquoise framed glasses, “you’ll regret it.” She finished then stopped and opened another antique wooden door and walked inside.

  “Albert, I have your new assistant. Please try and not run this one off. She’s attractive and will do well for our events. We need an appealing face other than your own for the guests. Play nice,” she said to the back of a dark bald head.

  Albert remained with his back to us as he worked on a piece in front of him. His shoulders were wide and he was extremely tall. Albert looked more like a lineman in the NFL than an Archivist. He cleared his throat then turned around slowly. His gaze went from my face to my feet and back up again quickly before he frowned. I understood why Ambre had mentioned his attractive appearance. He was tall, dark and handsome. Clichéd but true. His eyes were the color of caramel and his lashes were so thick it was as if they were false.

  “She’s young,” he said, shifting his intimidating stare to Ambre.

  “Yes and maybe that’s what we need. The older experienced ones leave because you’re an ass,” Ambre told him, giving him her own glare. He towered over the small woman in size, but she didn’t seem to care. How scary could he be if this tiny woman wasn’t afraid to talk back to him.

  He looked annoyed. “They weren’t meant to work with art. Had nothing to do with me.”

  Ambre placed a hand on her hip. “Yes, it has everything to do with you. Please try and work with Sailor. Don’t send her running away until we see what she can do.”

  He looked unimpressed with her words and with me when he turned back around to continue cleaning the sculpture behind him. I only caught a glimpse of it, but I recognized it immediately. I’d seen it in photos but never in person. Once, it was supposed to come with an exhibit to Nashville, but it hadn’t happened. I was so disappointed.

  “La Sconfitta,” I breathed in reverence at the beauty. “May I come closer?” I asked, my eyes locked on the sculpture.

  Albert shifted his body so that the sculpture was in my view. “You know the La Sconfitta,” he said not really asking.

  “Crafted from marble by Andino after the defeat of his land,” I said softly, as if my voice could harm the beauty in front of me.

  “She knows her art. That’s a positive. Don’t send her away or I’m calling Katrina. She’s tired of your late nights working due to not having help. If I must call your wife to come straighten you out I will,” Ambre said firmly then spun on her heel and headed out the d
oor.

  Albert said nothing while I studied the sculpture. If seeing pieces like this one meant putting up with a moody man, then I would. He could do his worst. I wasn’t leaving. I’d just scored my dream job.

  “Why do you want this job?” he asked me brusquely.

  I turned to look up at him and held my shoulders back and my head high. “There is nothing I love more than art.”

  He said nothing but made a sound close to a grunt then went to a large wooden crate that was unopened. “Loving art isn’t enough. There must be a respect that is greater than even the love.”

  He handed me a screw driver. “Get the box opened.”

  That was my first order of the day and I was giddy.

  eleven

  Albert was demanding, rude at times, and not the best conversationalist; however, the man was a breeze compared to living in a house with my mother. I was made for this job. Walking to my car after nine hours in a room of priceless art, crates, and the aroma of coffee, I wanted nothing more than to call Griff and tell him about everything.

  I stopped on the sidewalk and sent a text. “I got a job at an art museum! Can you talk?” Then I continued heading for my car. I was anxious for him to respond, but by the time I reached my car, he still hadn’t. I slipped my phone into my purse. He was probably studying and had his phone silenced. Glancing down the street, I considered going to eat somewhere. I could order a cocktail and celebrate my new job.

  “Sailor,” a deep familiar voice called my name. I gripped the door handle on my car tightly, before turning to see Creed walking in my direction. He wasn’t alone. A blonde woman was with him. She was gorgeous and tall. Typical Creed, it would seem. I waited until they reached me forcing a smile.

  “Hello,” I said, looking from Creed to the woman.

  If my smile was forced, hers was completely fake. I wanted to tell her to cool herself. I was no reason to be jealous. He had several other females and she was not his one and only. Getting in my car and speeding toward home was now my goal. Forget celebrating. I’d break open some wine at the house.