Chapter Six

It was easy to let Emile’s décor distract Amy from the day’s events. She didn’t want to think about it yet.

Emile had let her in, quickly mixed a protein shake, and left again for hockey practice, drinking it as he went out the door. He’d said something about how she should make herself at maison. She didn’t speak French, but she got the drift—home, though the French word sounded more like mansion than home. It would be a stretch to call Emile’s condo a mansion, but it was a lot closer to one than hers and Cameron’s—not that they had a condo anymore. Of course, she never had, not really. She’d just been squatting.

Amy beat the thought back. Obviously, she was going to have to think about it soon and for a very long time. Now that she knew Cameron wasn’t hurt, dead, or kidnapped, she just needed a little grace period before letting her head tell her heart that he had left her because he didn’t love her.

At that very thought, she wanted to slap herself. Why the hell was she thinking about lost love when he had not only taken everything she owned, but he’d also planned it in the most devious way? The bastard had made love to her just this morning knowing full well he was going to dump her in Beauford and hurry back to Nashville in time for the new owners to pick up her car. Still, she didn’t want to think about it. Not now. So she walked from room to room, making herself at maison—not to the extent that she opened drawers or closets, but if a door wasn’t locked, she figured what was on open display was fair game for looking.

The furnishings were surprising. If she had thought about it at all, Amy would have figured Emile would favor a modern, sleek, neutral design—not unlike Cameron’s taste. Cameron might have liked Emile’s brown leather sectional couch, but he would never have tolerated the rest of it—antique world globes, giant wall clocks with Roman numerals, pictures hanging from chains, pendulum lights with bubble glass, lamps with swing-out arms, and bookcases filled with baskets and branches in vases. There wasn’t a single inch that wasn’t covered with something.

Amy didn’t dislike it exactly. It was certainly cozier than her former home, but it all seemed so, so . . . canned. It was like she’d seen it all before.

It was when she wandered into a guest bathroom with its raw pine, marble-topped vanity and ladder-like shelving unit with rolled up towels in wire baskets that it hit her.

Pottery Barn. He had bought whole catalog pages from Pottery Barn.

She began to laugh, though she wasn’t sure why. Certainly today was not a day for laughter, but there was just something so endearing about the cast iron airplanes, kaleidoscopes, and brass hourglasses.

Hourglasses. Time. What the hell was she going to do next? A wave of cold went through her, and it wasn’t the kind of cold that turning up the heat would help. Nonetheless, she chose a honey-colored throw from a big basket of similar blankets, sank down on the couch, and covered herself.

She needed to think of logistics. Money would be no problem. At least she had plenty of that—it was just accessing it right now. She needed to go down to the bank. Surely, as soon as she explained the situation in person, they would release her money.

But what to do until then? She poured the contents of her purse on the couch. For now, this was all she had in the world. Makeup bag with a few basics, sunglasses, bullet journal, zipper bag with about thirty pens in various colors, a phone that was no use, wallet with equally useless credit cards, and $84.38.

Where were her things? Her books, hairbrush, photo albums, and winter coat? Gone, along with her panties, English breakfast tea, and the pearl earrings her grandparents had given her for high school graduation. She didn’t even have a change of clothes or a place to sleep tonight.

What kind of hotel room could she get for $84.38? Nothing within walking distance of here, but maybe at some place like a Comfort Inn out by the interstate. Emile would probably drive her there when he got home, but how would she get to the bank tomorrow?

She needed a plan. If it works on paper, it will work in implementation.

She picked up her bullet journal and quickly leafed past the Beauford pages. She couldn’t look at them now, couldn’t stand to remember how hopeful and happy she’d been this morning.

She chose her orange LePen because it was fall and orange was a cheerful color. She turned to a blank page in her journal and pondered what to title it. How to Get My Life Back was the first thing that popped in her head, but she batted it away. Her life wasn’t gone. She just needed to straighten it out. So she wrote How to Fix this Mess. She was considering what rubber stamps and stickers to use to dress up the page, but then she remembered she didn’t have any.

She needed her stuff back. That was something she would put on her list. Cameron had abandoned her. Okay. It was hard to swallow, but that was the least of her worries. He had no use for her things. Except for her car, surely he had just stashed them somewhere. She had to find him and find out where. The car was gone, but she’d consider that a life lesson and forget it. She could get another car as soon as she got access to her money. But that wouldn’t be the first item on her list. Amy ran through her mind what she was going to put on the page so she would get it in the right order. She didn’t like to make mistakes in her journal.

There were other things that needed to go on that list—things like:

But she wasn’t ready to write that down yet. Suddenly, she was very tired. She laid her journal and pen on the table—the one with the rows and rows of little drawers—pulled the throw up to her neck, and drifted off to sleep.