Page 66 of The Artist and the Muse

“Let me think.” She finally managed to take off the T-strap sandal she was wearing and chuck it on the shelf. Well, in the direction of the shelf—it landed in a potted fern by the door, which only caused her to laugh harder. “Oh, we met for brunch at ten. What time is it now?”

“It’s eight-oh-seven pm, Mom. Want some chicken pot pie?”

As if on cue, I heard her stomach grumble. “Yes, please. You know I’ll never turn down your cooking.”

We sat and finished off the pie together. When they were gone, my mother leaned over, resting her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Georgia.”

“I love you, too, Mom. But were you seriously out with Auntie Ava all day?” She had just finished telling me about how they met for brunch, and then had ended up browsing a bookstore, going out to dinner, and had the brilliant idea of going out to karaoke until they collapsed into a cab. It sounded like more fun than I’d had in a while with my girlfriends. I made a mental note to go out to karaoke with Abby, Katerina, and Allie sometime.

“Oh, you know, time flies when you’re having fun. What have you been doing all day? It looks like a hurricane blew through this kitchen and Martha Stewart was in it.”

I yawned. “I’ve been unpacking and cooking. Oh, and I booked an appointment with my agent.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I’m going to tell her I’m retiring from modelling.” As I spoke the words aloud, a frisson of panic gripped my heart, threatening to tell me that it was a mistake. That I was going to fail at whatever I did besides modelling. But I needed to do it, despite the voices. I needed to be someone other than that haunted picture of me in the magazine.”I think I’m going to try out a different career path.”

My mom was silent for a while, for so long that I thought she might have fallen asleep on me. Then she spoke. “What do you want to be, Georgia?”

What do you want to be? It was a question she’d never asked me before. Teachers and other grown-ups had asked me, of course, and I had confidently given them the same answer: modelling. Modelling had always been the only path laid out for me. Now that I was walking away from it, I wasn’t quite sure what I would be.

It wasn’t that I was a blank canvas filled with possibilities. I knew I had certain strengths and weaknesses that would steer me in one path or another. But staring at the uncertain path of my career and life ahead of me—I slowly populated it with things I loved. Family. Friends. Art. And food.

“I want to be a chef,” I said. “I’m not sure how I’ll go about it yet, but I think that’s something I would enjoy more than modelling.”

My mom squeezed me in another suffocating hug. “Oh, Georgia. All I ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“But… I thought you wanted me to be a model.” A frown creased my brows.

“Iwanted you to be a model because I thought you enjoyed it. It always seemed like every woman’s dream, to dress up and have their hair done and look pretty for a living.”

I bit my lip. “Mom, modelling made me miserable for a long time.”

She sighed. “Honey, you never told me that.”

“I never knew how you would react. I thought you would think I was ungrateful. I mean, you gave up so much—your sleep, all the jobs you worked—so we could have food on the table. How could I tell you I didn’t want to do the one thing I was good at, that made us money?”

My mother’s next words came out in a crippled sob. “Georgia… I never wanted you to feel like you had to provide for us. I’m your mom, not the other way around. You’re my daughter, and I never want you to think that you have to stay in a job you hate out of some misguided sense of filial piety. It’s not about the money. And you are good at so many other things than modelling. I have no doubt you’ll be a fantastic chef.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I found myself sniffling and holding back tears. “I’ve wanted to get that off my chest for a really long time.”

“Thank you for telling me, Georgia. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t want to listen. I never wanted you to feel like you were nothing more than a pretty face, or that I only ever wanted you to be a model.

“I compliment you on your looks, and I always have, because growing up, my parents never showed me any affection. You remember how your grandparents were. My mother always scolded me for not doing well enough in school and made me feel like a burden. When I had a daughter, I promised myself I would always make her feel like a princess.” She wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I didn’t realize my compliments would have such a backhanded effect on you.”

We sat side by side in silence for a while, each of us absorbing the others’ words.

“Mom?” I said at last, resting my head on her shoulder as another yawn overtook me.

“Yeah?” She squeezed my hand.

“I know you did your best.” Saying the words felt like forgiveness, and tasted like freedom.

“Thank you, honey.”

Chapter Thirty: George Devereaux

Between the turmoil of my airport interrogation and my hasty resignation from my job, I’d forgotten to charge my phone. I pulled my portable charger out of my bag, thankful that there were an abundance of taxis near the university. I plugged my phone in and waited for the screen to light up. Just when my phone had powered back on, it rang, showing Pastor Tony’s name on the caller ID.

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