Page 107 of A Country Kind Of Love
“That’s a terrible example. You’re making me look like an incompetent therapist.” Cleo sits up. Peyton follows. She crosses her legs in front of her, so they’re sitting face to face. Cleo reaches her palms out and Peyton obliges. It looks like they’re about to start some form of chant or mindfulness programme.
“You have nothing to be afraid of. You’re strong. You’re beautiful. You’re built for success. It’s instilled in you. I look at you and I see someone who can make a difference in the world. You are someone who can bring joy, creativity, and happiness into people’s lives by being yourself. You don’t pretend to be something you’re not. Believe me when I say you deserve everything good in your life. You lost your mom, and that is the most terrible thing you will probably ever encounter in your lifetime, but it made you who you are. That trauma gave you this internal struggle and this upper hand on the rest of the world, because she lives inside you.” Cleo holds her hand to her chest. “Your mom is here. She guides you. She protects you. She’ll always love you, Peyton, until the day you meet again. Don’t be afraid. Be grateful for the opportunities that present themselves. She will not guide you down a path you’re not meant to be on.”
Peyton leans forwards. Her head rests against Cleo’s. Her eyes fill like a cartoon character, but the tears aren’t sad tears. She’s so grateful for Cleo and for her ability to always say the right things. Their effortless connection is proof what they have is real, rare, and if there’s one thing she doesn’t fear, it’s her future with Cleo.
“I love you,” Peytonsays softly.
“I love you too.”
?
A full-length mirror balances delicately against the wall in Shonda’s office. She adjusts the button on her power suit. She’s gone with a dark green ensemble today; it’s a bold move, but she pulls it off. She plays with the neck on her white blouse. It isn’t knotted the way she likes, so she unravels and repeats until she’s satisfied with the knot.
Peyton observes her from the doorway of the office as she waits patiently for Shonda to acknowledge her. She’s an hour early, partly to make up for being late yesterday, also to make sure they have time to chat. She checked with Shonda’s assistant. Her diary is clear, and she rarely schedules meetings before 9 a.m. because she needs two coffees and her daily fix ofVoguebefore she can entertain anyone. Her assistant assures Peyton her caffeine levels are optimised on this occasion.Phew.
“Come in,” Shonda invites. Peyton turns to make sure there’s nobody behind her. Shonda hasn’t glanced her way once.
“Good morning,” Peytongreets her.
“Morning.”
“I know I’m early, but I wanted to make sure we had a chance to talk. Sorry, if I’mtoo early.”
“I was expecting you; don’t worry.” Shonda walks over to the mustard-coloured leather sofa and gestures for Peyton totake a seat.
“Oh, good.” Peyton looks surprised.
“Do you think my assistant would allow anyone to turn up without my say so? She’d no longer be working here,” Shonda says. Peyton believes her.
Shonda must apply lipstick at regular intervals because it’s always perfect, and never on her teeth. Peyton finds that skill as impressive as wizardry. She stopped wearing lipstick her first year at college after the most attractive teacher, aka Miss Caldwell, told her discreetly she had it on her teeth.
Peyton was mortified.
If somehow Blake Lively and Angelina Jolie managed to have a child, it would look like Miss Caldwell. The bone structure, the lips, the eyes, the flawless split-end free hair; she was too much. She should have been a movie star or a model, not a music teacher. She must be in her early thirties now, but the day she walked into their lecture with an engagement ring on her finger Peyton could practically hear the hearts breaking across the college grounds.
Shonda doesn’t come across as a casual person. She sits as upright as a member of the royal family. She has perfect posture. Peyton can’t imagine her at home in her expensive mansion wearing an old battered sweatshirt and a pair of over-sized sweatpants that used to fit before she started her new Pilates routine. No, her pyjamas are definitely Gucci.
She does relax though, just an inch. She allows her body to ease into the cushion of the sofa, but in a way that doesn’t crease her suit.
“So—” She crosses her right leg over her left. “You want to know how I knew your mother?”
“Yes.” Peyton nods. “As much as you’d be happy to share.” She’d take anything. It isn’t often she meets someone who knew her mother in a different capacity to what she or her family did. Peyton didn’t know a lot of her mom’s friends, she only knew Melanie Harris as her mom. She was the supportive mom, and the caring mom. She stayed up until 2 a.m. making science projects and tried to help her with the challenging parts of her homework, but Peyton knew little of who she was outside of the role she dedicatedher life to.
“We met in the early eighties. I was maybe ten. Your mom was a year or two older. I moved from Florida to Nashville. My dad was discharged from the Army; he wanted us to have a fresh start, and he heard Nashville had a great reputation as a place to raise a family. I had trouble at school; people made racist comments on a regular basis. Everything always referred to the colour of my skin. It didn’t bother me so much until I reached a certain age. My mom taught me to be tough, but this particular set of girls persisted. That’s when your momstepped in.”
“I hope you beat the crap out of them,” Peyton rages.
Shonda shakes her head. “No, your mom was a lover, not a fighter. She reported them to theprinciple.”
“Oh, andit stopped?”
“No. After that we beat their asses,” Shonda jests.
“Lover not a fighter, huh?”
“Well, in the words of your mother, ‘you can only give people so many chances’.”
“You were friendsafter that?”
