Free Just Let Go… by Kathleen O'Reilly Page B

Mindy would read it as such, but it would stall her friend until tomorrow.
    When Gillian didn’t feel so forlorn.
    The door now open, she moved inside, careful not to disturb her—
    Mother.
    Modine Wanamaker was sitting on her favorite floral sofa, the one they’d moved in from the original Wanamaker home. Her knitting needles clicked away, until she spotted her daughter. Knitting aside, she was clearly waiting for her daughter to explain.
    Damn.
    “Hi, Momma.” Gillian stored her purse in the bin in the front closet, lined up her shoes where they belonged. Ordinary sounded good. Routines were easy to follow, she didn’t have to think.
    Her mother watched her with solemn eyes. She didn’t have to see her mother to feel the look. That was the thing with families.
    Gillian turned, tried to smile. “You shouldn’t have stayed up.”
    “You’re my daughter. You’ll be my daughter until I die. If I think I should stay up, I will.”
    Gillian turned her attention from her mother to other less knowing objects like the antique glass collection perched on a ledge at the front window. She dusted the imaginary cobwebs. The collection was from the old house, too. One more thing that Gillian had insisted her parents keep. “You stayed up for nothing.”
    “I was worried. That’s not nothing. Are you okay?”
    Realizing there was no cobwebs, there would never be any cobwebs, Gillian faced her mother and forced a smile. “I’m peachy.”
    Her mother nodded once, then patted the cushion next to her. Obediently, Gillian sat.
    “You are the best daughter a mother could ever have. You took us into your home without a second thought. Never complaining, not once. You work hard for yourself, for others, and especially for Emmett and I. And when you hurt, I hurt. When you ache, I ache. And those are things you can never hide, because I feel it here, just like you.” Modine bumped a fist to her chest.
    Her mother looked so tired, circles under her eyes, and Gillian felt so tired, as well. Drained. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
    There were times when words were pointless, both Wanamaker women knew it. With a bone-deep sigh, her mother folded her into her arms. “I know. I was never a talker, either. He’s one of the H-A-R-Ts, honey. He can’t help the way he is. A cruel man for a father, and you read the rumors in the paper, a meth dealer for a brother and now Austen’s up on indictment. Kickbacks. Graft. Corruption. Did you expect anything better? It’s the way God made that family and I’m sure that He in His infinite wisdom had some purpose for that blight on humanity, but it always escaped me.”
    The tears started then. Gillian was a first-class cryer. Silent, dignified, it was the Wanamaker way. Her mother hugged her tighter, making little hushing noises that only made the tears run faster. Gillian could smell her mother’s lavender fabric softener on her gown, the faint smell of vanilla, all mixed with the musky smell of sex.
    Instantly, she pulled away, wanting to clean up, and her mother knew the signs, probably smelled the signs, as well. She let her daughter go, wiped away a few of the tears and held out a box of tissues for good measure.
    “He’ll be gone tomorrow and meanwhile you need to move on. Marry Jeff Junior. Have a good life, Gillian. You don’t deserve the pain. Leave that to a stupid woman. That’s not you.”
    Gillian blew her nose, dabbed her cheeks and studied the bluebonnet landscape on the wall. Serene and tough, very telling.
    Done with the pain, she met her mother’s eyes and nodded. “You’re right, Momma. I don’t deserve this.”
    Tomorrow he would be gone and Gillian wasn’t going to cry over Austen Hart anymore.
     
     
    A USTEN SIGNED THE legal papers at 8:57 a.m. sharp. The lawyer, Hiram Handley, was the nice, kindly sort, not the blood-letting sort that roamed freely in the state capital.
    “What are you going to do with your part of the property?”
    Austen leaned