I’ve been in limbo these past ten days, waiting for my mother to return from her trip. Waiting to personally hand her my resignation from the company. Confronting her with something of this magnitude isn’t something I wanted to do over the phone, so I’ve had to wait, with virtually no contact with Delaney except for texting with her a few days ago.

Maddie brought me the deed. I don’t know what to say, except I told you I didn’t want you to do that.

I don’t like to be told what to do. You fulfilled your obligation. Although technically, I still had you for three more days, so I’m thinking some sexual favors are in order.

Stop. This isn’t funny.

You’re right. It’s crazy. I’m resigning from the company and cutting ties with my mother. She’s been out of the country but will be back Thursday. Stay tuned.

Damon, please, PLEASE don’t do that. Think of your future.

That is exactly what I’m doing.

Delaney attempts to change my mind with a few more texts, but it’s not happening. As hard as it is, I stop responding so she’ll know there’s no negotiating with this. She doesn’t understand the history, the years of bullshit I’ve put up with from my mother. There’s a bigger picture here, one that I’m ready to paint over and start fresh.

I’ve taken it one day at a time over the past week and a half, focusing on things within my control, like updating my resumé, starting a job search and working out. The Beach to Beacon race is Saturday, so I’ve been gearing up for that with a couple of eight mile runs recently. I also thought it might alleviate my sexual frustration.

Nope.

The waiting has fucking sucked, but that ends tonight. I texted my mother to see what time she was arriving home. She played the jet lag card, but I told her that I needed to see her, I’d be brief, and that this couldn’t wait. So I’m driving over now to Southwest Harbor in the midst of a thunderstorm. Hail, even. It seems fitting, given what’s about to go down.

I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say. And surprisingly, I’m not a bit nervous. I’m no longer going to allow myself to be intimidated by my mother. All my life, I’ve been surrounded by material things, and I’ve never been really happy. I’m ready and willing to give up my lifestyle—sell some of those material things and even my house if I have to, because what matters to me is a spunky little blonde girl who signed on the dotted line and wrote her name on my heart. She is what I can’t give up.

My windshield wipers are slapping hard as I pull in to my childhood home. I avoid this place; it’s not exactly conducive to warm fuzzy memories. Haven’t been here since the dinner party with Delaney in mid-April.

One of the three garage doors is open with my mother’s Mercedes inside. She’ll be tired and bitchy after just getting back, but this talk I’m going to have with her is long overdue. Adrenaline rushes through my blood as I climb out of my vehicle and dash inside the garage, rain pelting my head.

Gloria’s waiting for me in the kitchen, standing near the table with a glass of wine, her maroon-tipped fingers curved around the glass. Only Gloria Cavanaugh could return from a nine-hour flight with clothing, makeup and hair looking flawless. The only indication she might possibly be keyed up is the wine glass trembling ever so slightly in her hand.

“Mother.” The appropriate thing to say here would be welcome home, but when you’ve got our kind of relationship and other words that are burning on my tongue, the welcome home thing just isn’t going to happen.

“Damon. I hope this won’t take too long. I’m exhausted from the trip and plan on going right to bed.” 

“Oh yes, the trip. How convenient that you’d make your threat to my girlfriend and then leave the country for ten days.”

She blinks, looks at me blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d made it clear I wanted to visit all of the sites exhibiting our boats, and it just happened to be the right time.”

“And you just happened to go see Delaney the night before you left.”

“It was purely coincidental.”

“Bullshit. But anyway, I’m not here to talk about what you want. I’m here to talk about what I want. I’m done being pushed around by you.” I reach into my coat and take out the envelope containing my freedom—my letter of resignation—and toss it on the granite top of the island. “I’m leaving the company. I can’t tolerate your refusal to accept my relationship with Delaney. I can’t tolerate your trying to run my life.”

She is staring at me incredulously, her lips pinched together in anger. There is a heavy, cold silence as hail spatters loudly against the windows. When she speaks, her voice is low—almost  hushed. “You would risk everything for that girl?

“Absolutely, I would. Delaney told me she couldn’t see me any more because she wouldn’t come between you and me—which is further proof of her character—so I’m cutting ties with you.”

Her hand shaking, Gloria Cavanaugh sets down her wine glass. I half-expect to see sparks emanating from her.

“I’ve made my decision, Mother. All you need to do is accept my resignation.”

Another Antarctica-like silence, and just when she starts to speak, her phone’s ring tone goes off, sounding absurdly cheerful. She reaches for the white leather bag on the table, glancing down at the screen.

And she answers the fucking phone, because that’s what my mother does. Whatever she fucking wants.

“Portia? Is everything all right?” I watch as my mother’s stiff features slacken into concern, then fear, as she listens.

What’s this about?

“He’s been admitted? Did your brother tell you what the doctors are saying? Make sure he gets some answers...I’m glad you let me know. I’ll call you in back in just a few minutes.”

She ends the call. Her hands are shaking as she puts the phone on the table.

“Mother? What’s going on?”

Gloria’s skin has gone pale. “It’s Portia’s father. He’s had a major heart attack.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry to hear that. How did Portia seem?”

“Terrified. She’s looking at flights now.” My mother blinks rapidly. “I’m going to go with her.”

“What? Go with her, to England? You just got back from Moscow. Christ, Mother, if this is your way of taking off again to end this conversation—”

“That has absolutely nothing to do with it, Damon!” My mother is hissing, sputtering. “He—she—should not be alone. I’m going with her. You have to leave...I can’t talk anymore. Not right now.”

Without another word, she brushes by me in a blur. I hear her running upstairs on the carpeted steps, and I’m alone with my two friends, Bewilderment and Frustration.

The white envelope containing my life-changing decision is still on the island, unopened. I’ll move forward, whether or not my mother chooses to acknowledge I’m done with Cavanaugh Yacht—and with its CEO. Now, hopefully, my future with Delaney begins.