It Had to Be You, Georgia Clark [phonics reader TXT] 📗

to be a lie), and her, newly adult and curious. The way a deliberate moment of eye contact could transmute a relationship was a thrilling, frightening power.

When the shock of his death wore off, it started to feel like kismet. Eliot was a smart guy: he must’ve had his reasons, even if they weren’t clear. And Savannah had an unwavering faith in the universe and the God who created it. This was all obviously meant to be.

She arrived at Liv’s brownstone in Prospect Heights a full forty-five minutes early. The New York that Savannah had grown up seeing in movies conjured rows of the classic houses that were all exactly the same, standing to attention like a well-dressed marching band. But actually, the brownstones on Liv’s street were all slightly different shades of brown. This one bold mahogany, that one nostalgic sepia, the one next door a chichi caramel. The Goldenhorns’ had a weathered, washed-out facade. In the small front garden, a faded LOVE WON poster was stuck at an angle in the last island of dirty snow. Most people in Savannah’s small hometown voted against love winning. Savannah didn’t consider herself political, but maybe privately disagreeing with the status quo had set her on the path here, to New York, a city that was the same and different from her imagination.

She snapped a selfie in front of Liv’s house, swiped for a filter that bettered the color of the brownstone, and added it to her Instagram, @Savannah_Ships. She’d read in a travel magazine that the last American quarry to mine brownstone closed years ago, in Portland. It was actually a mediocre stone—just brown sandstone. Its softness made it vulnerable. An odd choice to clad a city where it appeared resilience was key. But New York also traded in beauty, Savannah thought, smiling at a woman walking two fuzzy Pomeranians. The woman smiled back, and why wouldn’t she? Beauty could be powerful, too.

At 10:00 a.m., Savannah picked up the potted orchid she’d purchased as a gift and marched up the wide front steps. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. She knew, by some measure, this was completely insane. But she had the moral high ground (she’d really had no idea Eliot was still with Liv), she had the legal grounds (Eliot’s will), and most important, she had the unwavering belief that this was the right thing to do. Not just for her, but for Liv. According to her online sleuthing, In Love in New York was currently nonoperational, following a scathing review entitled PIGEONS AND BEES RUINED MY WEDDING! that went mildly viral and now lived on every wedding planner review website. The diatribe was from a wedding last November. The day Eliot died.

Savannah could guess what Liv thought of her: a gold-digging airhead, a midlife crisis, a few mean words inked on a bathroom stall door. And that was just plain wrong. Savannah was determined to prove herself to Eliot’s wife and help resurrect a business that did the most noble thing of all: celebrate people’s love for each other.

Because Savannah Shipley was always up for a challenge.

She summoned the biggest smile she could muster and rang the doorbell.

Nothing. Her cheeks started to hurt.

She rang the doorbell again. And again.

A voice sounded from inside. “Jesus Christ, coming!” The front door cracked. Liv was in an old dressing gown. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Her tangled black bob looked like the aftermath of a fire. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Three months had passed since they’d met across the street from the brownstone. Savannah had assumed three months would be enough time to fall apart, mourn, and begin rebuilding. Clearly, Savannah was wrong. But to be fair, she had emailed about all this, many times.

“Good morning, Mrs. Goldenhorn. I’m here for our first meeting. With our new clients.”

“What are you doing in New York?”

Alarm edged into Savannah’s chest. “Like I said in my emails, I moved here. For this job.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious, Mrs. Goldenhorn.” Savannah shifted the plant from one arm to the other without breaking eye contact. “I moved here, from Lexington, to run In Love in New York. With you.”

Liv let out a hard bark of a laugh. She tightened her dressing gown and narrowed her eyes. “How did you get my husband to change his will?”

Savannah was unaccustomed to being accused. Heat seeped up her neck. “I didn’t. Like I said in my emails, I had no idea he’d done it until your lawyer called me. And I did not know y’all were still married. He told me you were separated.”

Liv tapped her cigarette. Ash floated onto Savannah’s shoes. “Do you know what the term undue influence means?”

Savannah’s smile dropped; she caught it and put it back in place. “Yes. And I know it doesn’t apply to me. I had no sway over Eliot at all. Honestly, Mrs. Goldenhorn, I’m here to help you. I sent you a deck. With a business plan, and a social media strategy, and a division of roles, and—”

“Couldn’t open it.” Liv cut her off with a curt wave of her hand. No ring on that fourth finger anymore. “I don’t have Key-whatever.”

“Keynote.” A program she could download for free. “But I got on a plane, I got a sublet, and our first clients are— our first meeting is today.”

“Meeting?” The bags under Liv’s eyes were the size and color of figs. “In Love in New York has been on hiatus since… actually since the last time I saw you.” Liv pointed her cigarette at the orchid. “I hope that’s not for me. I can’t keep anything alive.”

Savannah’s industrial-strength optimism finally cracked. “But I’ve messaged you about all this a dozen times: she’s an Instagram celebrity, he’s a talent manager—Kamile Thomas and Dave Seal—”

“She’s a what?” Liv’s nose crinkled. “Instagram… celebrity?”

“Yes! Her support will help get the business back on its feet. Good reviews are our number one priority right now.”

“Our?” The word was slick with contempt.

Tears