That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (26 page)

The walls were closing in on her.

George paced her apartment, glaring at the walls. Her apartment used to be pretty decent-sized, but tonight she couldn't breathe. The walls were definitely trying to smother her.

She should go out.

She snorted. Where was she going to go? To El V, to the
milonga
, to see her parents and Remy?

Yeah, right.

She kind of wanted to.

She glanced at the red shoes her mother had sent. They were still on the floor in an inglorious heap in the corner where she'd thrown them, but somehow the light trained on them.

Because they were the devil's shoes. She stuck her tongue out at them and turned her back.

Her phone rang with her mother's nuclear alarm ringtone.

"Super," she murmured. Normally she wouldn't have replied, particularly so late in the evening, but it was a testament to her state of mind that she answered the phone. "I'm thinking of joining a support group for people with parents who refuse to grow up," she said.

"Look outside your window," her mother said.

She went to the window and peeked out from the blinds. Her mother stood on the sidewalk, waving up at her. She wore a short fur stole over a dress with a high neckline and an asymmetrical hem. Even though the one side was shorter and showed more leg, it didn't show that much leg.

"Correction," George said, heading to the door. "I'm joining a support group for people whose parents are stalkers."

"Are you opening the door for me? It's cold out here."

She buzzed her mother in.

"Thank you, Georgina," her mother said, and she swept into the room like there were people to impress. She took her stole off and tossed it on a chair. "It was chilly outside."

"This is a surprise." She crossed her arms, not sure what was going on. "You don't usually come by."

"No, but sometimes aggressive action is needed."

That
didn't sound reassuring at all. She backed up a step. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you,
mi corazón
?" her mother said gently, looking at her with disappointment.

Not disappointment, George realized with a jolt—with sadness. "What happened?"

"I don't know, which is why I came here tonight." She draped herself onto the couch, fixing her skirt. "You used to love to dance."

George winced. "Not this again."

"Yes, this again."

"I don't want to tango. That's not my thing, it's yours."

"You come from me, so it's a little yours, too." Her mother's brows furrowed. "Something had to have happened to take you from the passionate girl who loved to twirl to the dour woman who denies her femininity."

She hugged herself tighter. "Not everyone can be like you."

"I don't want you to be like me. I want you to be yourself." She waved her elegant hand at George. "I don't believe this persona you've adopted is really you. If I believed it, I'd accept it and move on."

"Would you?" George raised a skeptical brow.

"I didn't say I'd be happy, but yes." Siobhan gave her a narrow look. "But you loved the tango. I've never seen anyone lose themselves in it the way you used to. I used to envy that, you know."

George blinked. "What?"

Her mother nodded. "You gave yourself to the dance in a way I've never been able to. It must be because you have a combined version of my love for it as well as your father's. Still, I used to watch you and wished I felt that sort of connection."

She swallowed, feeling the longing, not sure what to say.

"Sit, Georgina"—her mother patted the couch—"and tell me what happened."

The words tasted bitter, and she had to force them out. "I don't want what you have."

Her mother frowned. "Happiness?"

"Is that what you call it?" She began to pace again, pressing her fingers to her eyes, seeing the scene all over again. "And is Christopher happy, too?"

"Of course. Your father is always happy."

George snorted. "Then it's because he doesn't know about your affair."

Dawning realization flooded Siobhan's expression, and then tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, Georgina. What do you think you know?"

"Think I know?" she burst out. "I don't think anything. I saw you with that sleazy guy you used to dance with."

"I'm so sorry," Siobhan said, shaking her head. She pressed her hand to her mouth. "I never realized. I understand now. But it's not what you think."

She snorted. "Right."

"You shouldn't make judgments about someone else's private life, particularly when you don't have the facts." Her mother sat up and looked her in the eye. "Your father and I were going through a difficult patch. We loved each other, but the passion was waning. We needed to rediscover that in each other."

"So you had an affair?" George asked, hearing the bitterness in her voice.

"Your father and I decided that we would each see someone outside of our relationship," her mother said, lifting her head. "It was a mutual decision, one we made together, with full consent from each other. So if you're accusing me of cheating, so did he."

George froze and gaped at her mother.

Siobhan nodded. "You don't have the facts, so don't draw conclusions. You should have come to me. I wish you hadn't held it inside you, festering, all these years."

She dropped onto the couch, not sure what to think or feel.

Her mother brushed her hair back. "It was a risk. I knew I wanted your father, but he was restless. I was afraid he'd like her more and want to leave. But our love was strong enough, and has been ever since." She smiled ruefully. "It's not a course of action I recommend, but it worked for us."

"I . . ." She shook her head. "I don't know what to say."

"I need to say I'm sorry." Her mother took her hand and pressed it to her heart. "Your father will be sorry, too. When we decided to do it, it never occurred to us that you'd be affected by our decision. We were in our own bubble, and that was unforgivable."

Her mother cupped her face. "You aren't us. You don't have to push passion away because you're afraid of it. The more you deny it, the more it's going to leak into something unhealthy and come out a perversion of what you really want and deserve."

George shook her head. "I don't know what you're saying."

"You don't tango because you didn't want to risk betraying or being betrayed," her mother said. "Have you been happy without the dance?"

No
.

Before she wouldn't have admitted it, but now she said, "I kept all the tango shoes you've sent me. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away."

The tears flowed from her mother's eyes. "I'm happy for that. They'll support you nicely when you start dancing again."

She frowned, seeing Remy's unhappy face.

"He belongs with you, Georgina," her mother said firmly. "You're two pieces that fit together. Not just in the dance, but in life too. I could see it the first time I met him. He wouldn't have stayed if he didn't feel it, too."

She got up and began to pace, twirling a curl around her finger. "He's hung up on his wife."

Her mother shook her head. "He feels guilty for living when she isn't. But she wouldn't want it that way. You need to show him what choosing to live has to offer."

"Jeez." Stopping, she put a hand to her forehead. "Then we're doomed."

Her mother chuckled. "Have faith in yourself. You know what you need to do." She stood up, pulling George into her arms.

For the first time in years, when her mother hugged her, she didn't pull away or groan, or anything else. She wrapped her arms around her and let her hold her tight.

When they let go, her mother gave her a watery smile. "I should get back to the
milonga
. Your father's waiting for me. You are
mi corazón
."

She nodded, not quite able to say the words yet, but they were on the tip of her tongue. She knew one day soon, they'd roll off easily and with feeling.

As her mother reached for her stole, she glanced over her shoulder. "Just like you aren't your father and me, you also aren't Poppy. You're living your grandfather's life. He loved you, but he wouldn't have wanted that," her mother said gently. "Isn't it time you lived your own?"

She watched the door, listening to the click as it closed. Who would have thought she'd ever agree with her mom? Who'd have thought she'd think her mom was right?

* * *

Standing in front of Poppy's garage, George stared at the disaster that was the mural and heard her mother's words loud and clear in her head.

Isn't it time to live your own life?

The knot in her stomach tightened, but she dropped her head and unlocked the gate to go inside.

Where it was a disaster, too, with the furniture looking like she was about to host a tea party. None of it was her.

Then again, the garage wasn't her, either. The only thing that looked vaguely like her own work was the custom job she'd done on the Black Shadow.

She went to kneel before it.

"It's pretty."

She glanced over her shoulder to see Michelle enter, a plate in her hand. "It's more than pretty," she said. "It's art."

Michelle walked around the motorcycle, checking it out. "I don't know anything about motorcycles, but I'd have to agree. Are you fixing it?"

"It's almost done." She frowned at the curves. She should paint it black, like the original, but she kept seeing it in red. Shaking her head, she picked up the photo of what it was supposed to look like and handed it to Michelle. "It'll look like this."

"It doesn't look like this," Michelle said instantly. She held the photo up to compare it to the bike. "The bike here looks way different."

George winced. "You think?"

"Yeah. It's in the lines." She handed back the picture. "I used to be a seamstress. I know lines."

"I customized a few things."

"Well, I like it better. It seems like you have a real gift for making something better. I can appreciate that." She held the plate out. "I brought you these."

George stood and took the plate. On it were singed cookies.

"They're chocolate chip," Michelle said apologetically. "It might be hard to tell because they're well-browned."

Charcoal might have been a better description, but she just smiled. "Just like when Dolores was here," she lied.

Michelle's mouth turned down. "I wanted to thank you, for helping with the car and also inviting me to meet your friends. I had fun."

"Bronwyn ordered you to come back and hang with her."

"I'd love that." Moisture welled in Michelle's eyes, but she blinked them back really quickly. Then she pointed at the plate. "Anyway, I meant well, but I'm not a good baker."

"It's okay." Shrugging, George set the plate down. "There are plenty of things I'm not good at."

"But it's not that." The woman pointed to the motorcycle. "Whatever you're doing here is awesome."

"You think?" George asked slowly, turning to face the motorcycle. She
was
good at customizing. "I guess if I changed the focus of my business, it'd be a good advertisement for what I can do."

"I'd let you revamp Dolores's car based on this." She made a face. "If I had the money."

Dolores's car . . . George looked out the garage door, picturing it parked on the street, or at real estate open houses. It really would be good for advertising. The excitement in her built at the idea of getting to restore and enhance that old yacht of a car.

Maybe it was time to just do it. Alex supported her.

Poppy wouldn't have liked it.

But Poppy wasn't here, she reminded herself, and he was always for anything that made her happy. The idea of turning the garage into a custom shop filled her with all sorts of energy and excitement.

She was going to do it, she realized with sudden clarity. She was going to do it her way.