Page 38 of Things We Tell Ourselves

“Great,” Leah sighs, leaning forward to readjust the pillow under her leg, “my leg’s already throbbing. You can go.” She glances up at Camille as she’s about to turn for the door. “No word of this to anyone.”

Camille sees the intensity in Leah’s eyes. She isn’t talking about Gwen.

“Of course.”

She pauses at the bedroom door a moment. “I can’t help but remember something my father told me when my mother passed away.” She turns to face Leah, who’s rubbing a hand over the top of her ankle, a pained expression on her face.

She glances up at her. “And what was that?”

Camille turns her gaze to the floor, searching for the words he told her when he openly cried the night her mother died.

“We only get a short time with the people we love, some shorter than others.” Camille pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling her emotions taking hold. Her father spoke more spiritually about the afterlife and how her mother was in heaven now, but Leah doesn’t need to hear that. She looks up; Leah’s stare unwavering. “We did what we could with my mother while we were lucky enough to have her here with us, so why shouldn’t you do the same?”

As soon as her words are out, Leah’s face softens.

Leah casts her eyes down to her leg, a mirage of emotions passing over her features. “It’s not that easy.”

“You’re no different than anyone else. You deserve to be happy, and if your family has a problem with your happiness, then it’s not your problem, it’s theirs.”

Before Leah can say a word, Camille opens the door and walks out of the bedroom. She shuts it behind her, taking a breath. Hearing heels clicking against the floor, she looks up to see Delilah walking toward her.

Delilah looks Camille over. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

Camille can only imagine how she must look—a mix of sadness at the memory of losing her mother and hope for Leah. She rolls her shoulders back, stepping away from the bedroom door.

“Leah’s leg is bothering her again. Give her a minute, but she may need something for the pain.”

Thirteen

Wade’s voice reaches Camille midway up the stairs to the second-floor conference room. She smiles, glancing down at the dark blue McCartney slacks she chose for the meeting. The way it appears almost black when it’s not in direct light makes her think of the sofa in the upstairs guesthouse.

Camille isn’t a superstitious person, but she decided to leave her newest prototype, an aide for diabetics needing daily insulin, in the guesthouse since her last meeting went so poorly.

“There will be plenty of time to talk future deals,” she tells herself as she second-guesses her decision, wishing she brought her oversized bag to at least have something to clutch onto.

“No worries,” she can hear him saying. She follows Wade’s voice. “It’s going to be taken care of. I’ll have this thing put to bed by Monday.”

Poor guy, she thinks to herself, walking up to the only half-open door, his brother gets to play, and he has to spend the weekend working. She knocks lightly, opening the door as she walks in. As soon as she sees Wade, standing with his hands in his pockets—wearing khakis and a polo in a dark enough blue that people may think they coordinated their attire—she relaxes. No one else is in the room.

“I have to let you go,” Wade says to the conference phone sitting in the middle of the table.

“Better figure this out,” a resigned, older male voice resonates through the phone.

Wade leans over and ends the call. “I have some good news and some bad news,” he says, straightening.

Camille tilts her head, stopping opposite him behind the first chair. “Well,” she urges, growing impatient as he grins across the table at her, “tell me.”

He places a hand on the back of a chair. “The bad news is,” he takes a step, moving his hand to the next chair back, “my mother can’t make it to the meeting.”

Camille drops her head back and groans at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me that.”

“But,” Wade adds quickly, “I have our company’s best and final offer.”

She examines the top of the table and finds it bare of any sign of an offer. “But I haven’t even gotten your first and worst.”

“I know,” he continues. “But with everything that’s happened this weekend and how well you’ve handled it all, my mother agreed with me that it’s the least we could do. And,” he says with a big smile, “the contract is already drawn up and ready for Evelyn and you to sign—”

“So, where is it?”

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