“OK.” Closing her eyes, she sighed. “I really am sorry about what I said. You’re right. Steph would want us to move on. I just miss her, and it helps to think that you miss her like I do.”
“Apology accepted. And it’s OK to miss her, Suzanne. I miss her too. But it took me a long time to get where I am now, and I like thinking she’d be proud of me for that.”
“She would be. I’m sure of it.” Suzanne sniffed, and then laughed a little through her tears. “She was a much nicer person than me.”
Three weeks after she’d gone home, I was ready to apologize to Margot and ask for another chance, but I wasn’t sure how to do it. An apology over the phone wasn’t the same as coming face to face with someone and asking their forgiveness. Admitting you’d been wrong. Putting yourself out there. If I was going to ask for a second chance, I needed to do it in person.
But how? What could I say that would convince her to see me again without giving myself away? All day Friday I thought about it, trying to come up with something romantic and clever—but romantic and clever had never been my thing. I needed help.
Swallowing my pride, I went to Georgia.
She grinned. “I’m not sure what you should do, but I know someone we can ask.” Scooping up her phone from the counter, she tapped the screen a few times. My own phone buzzed in my pocket, and I took it out.
She’d shared a contact with me. “Jaime Owen?” I asked. “Who’s that?”
“It’s Margot’s close friend and business partner. Call her.”
I frowned. Involve another woman in this? “I’m not sure.”
“Call her.” Georgia squeezed my arm. “I’m positive she’ll know exactly what you should do.”
I told her I’d think about it, stuck around to play with Cooper a little bit, then went home to brood about making the call. Georgia was probably right, but this was fucking embarrassing…it was one thing to call Margot and explain myself. She knew me. Calling this Jaime woman was another thing entirely. God only knows what kind of stories Margot had told her, what she thought about me.
That’s your own fault. Make the call, asshole.
Groaning childishly, I dialed the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Jaime Owen?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“My name is Jack Valentini. I’m—”
“Oh.”
‘Oh?’ What does that mean? “I’m a friend of—”
“I know who you are.” Her tone wasn’t rude, just a bit aloof, but I’d expected that. She probably had a whole headful of things she’d like to scream at me, but I was technically still a client.
I wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Georgia gave me your number.”
“Did you have a question about your account?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s…” I took a breath. “I need to see Margot.”
“Why?”
“To apologize.”
“Why aren’t you calling her?”
“Because I need to do more than apologize—I need to make up for the way I treated her, for the things I said.”
“You hurt her, you know.”
I closed my eyes. “I know. I’m sure she told you I was a total dick to her. But it was the only way I could get her to leave.”
“And you needed her to leave because you didn’t care about her anymore?”
“No, because I cared too much,” I blurted, wondering how I was going to explain that. But she surprised me.
“I knew it!”
“What?”
“I knew that’s what it was.” She sounded happy all of a sudden. “You started falling for her so you had to back off—or in your case, you had to scare Margot off so she wouldn’t get too close. But you didn’t really mean the things you said.”
“Yeah,” I said, mystified. I held the phone away from my face and stared at it a second. Was this woman psychic?
“You were scared,” she went on. “Because letting her in meant you had to let go of yourself in a way. And you didn’t think you were capable.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Who are you?”
She laughed. “Someone who understands. So now what?”
“I need to see her. I’d like to surprise her somehow, but I’m not sure how to do it.”
“Surprise her, huh? Hmmmm.”
“Yes. And I think I should go to her. Prove to her that—”
“Oh my God!” she burst out suddenly. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Other than work, I had nothing planned. “Nothing,” I admitted, feeling a little pathetic.
“Good. Margot is attending a cocktail reception at the DIA. It’s a fundraiser for the opening of a new exhibit in the Lewiston Gallery.”
“DIA?” I wasn’t sure what that was.
“Detroit Institute of Arts. Her family donates a lot of money every year.”
“Ah.” Of course they did. I braced myself for where this was going. “And?”
“And what better way to show her that you want to be part of her life than to introduce yourself to it? I have a ticket but I’ll give it to you. I won’t say anything to her.”
“Isn’t there a less…socially awkward way for me to see her? I’m not good with crowds, and I don’t own the right clothes or anything.”