One More for Christmas(23)

“I’ve never really—” No, she wasn’t going to go there. Her daughters, she knew, loved the holidays. It was another point of connection between the two of them, and contention with her. “Where did you spend Thanksgiving?”

“With Ella.”

“Good. That’s good.” This conversation was more painful than her head injury. How much longer until the nurse came back into the room? She’d wanted her daughter to come, but now she was here Gayle didn’t know what to say to her. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

Another awkward silence, as if they were two people who barely knew each other which, now that she thought about it, was an accurate description. Five years was a long time. What had her daughters been doing in that time? What had they achieved? Quite a lot, if the expensive watch on Samantha’s wrist was an indication. She wanted to ask about Samantha’s business, but was afraid her daughter might bite her head off. One injury was enough in a week.

“My assistant tracked you down. You didn’t tell me you’d moved.”

Samantha stirred. “No.” She glanced at her watch, not a slender piece of jewelry, but a bold statement with a face that almost covered the width of her wrist.

Samantha Mitchell was a woman in charge of her time, her life.

Gayle felt a flash of pride. Maybe her decisions hadn’t been all bad, even if her daughter didn’t appreciate her mother’s contribution to the person she’d grown to be.

“It’s good to see you, Samantha. It’s been too long.”

“Yes.”

“Almost five years.”

Samantha brushed nonexistent fluff from her white sweater. “Five years, one month, a few days.”

She knew the exact date?

Gayle had thought it best not to mention that last meeting, but now it was there, blazing like a neon light, and she sensed that it had to be addressed if they were ever going to heal family wounds and move forward. And she was determined to move forward. She’d say, and do, whatever it took.

“The last time we met was a little stressful. I admit I may have said the wrong thing, but it was difficult—”

“It shouldn’t have been difficult.” Samantha looked directly at her. Unafraid. “It was a celebration for Ella’s first teaching job. She so badly wanted your approval and support, and instead you gave her a hearty dollop of judgment and disapproval.”

“I was afraid she wouldn’t stick at it, that’s all.”

“You know the impact you have on her. She was desperate for a word of praise from you, some sign that she’d finally made you proud. But instead of congratulating her, you killed any pleasure she might have had. Any sense of achievement. And it was an achievement.”

“She’d finally finished something she started, and I was glad about that of course, but—”

“You have no idea how much damage you did. There was so much she wanted to talk to you about that day.” Samantha stood up abruptly, knocking her purse onto the floor. Instead of picking it up, she paced to the window.

Ella had wanted to talk to her? “What about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Samantha turned. “She’s coming here. Be kind.”

Kind? What use was kindness when life lifted its hand and slapped you? You needed a barrier. You needed to be tough. You needed a strategy. Why couldn’t people see that?

But she knew better than to say so. She’d do whatever it took to fix her relationship with her daughters. She’d praise Ella, even if she discovered she’d had ten different jobs since they last met. She’d keep her opinions to herself and tell them what they wanted to hear.

“It will be good to see her. Does she live in the city?”

“No. She moved out around the same time I did.”

“You don’t miss Manhattan? I would.”

“But we’re not you. We’re different people. Individuals.” Her phone pinged, and she dug it out of the pocket of her coat and glanced at the screen. “She’s on her way up now. Remember—kind.”

“Kind. Yes.”

Why did Samantha keep saying that? What was “kind” about endorsing someone’s less than ideal choices? There, there, it’s going to be a disaster and I have no idea what you were thinking when you made that stupid decision, but—

She’d fake it.

In her time, she’d faked plenty of emotions she didn’t feel.

What had Ella wanted to talk to her about?

Had she wanted advice?

No. Like Samantha, Ella had always shunned her mother’s advice as if it had to be toxic simply because it came from her lips.

Samantha looked at her, long and hard. “Don’t ask about her job. If she wants to tell you, she’ll tell you.”

“Right. Got it.” She felt like a child being scolded. Was she really that bad a mother? She’d always felt as if she’d done a good job, but maybe it depended on how you measured success. If parental success was measured in hugs and emotional nurturing, then maybe she’d failed.

She felt a strange, unfamiliar feeling behind her eyes. It started as a stinging sensation and then became more of a burn. It was only when her throat thickened that she realized what this was. She was going to cry. She, Gayle Mitchell, who hadn’t cried since she was nineteen years old, was about to cry because her daughter was upset with her.