Page 31 of Sunny Skies Ahead (Watford Sweethearts #2)

Chapter twenty-one

Imogen

I walked into Blackbeard’s the next morning with my head held high. Carmen had asked me to join her for coffee this morning, and I begrudgingly agreed. I still didn’t have a clue why my mother was in Watford, and I really didn’t care to know.

I was just grateful she didn’t spend the night at the farmhouse. There was a last-minute cancellation at the campsite, and Kevin had driven her to her cabin, saying he’d drive her into town tomorrow for our coffee meet up and any other activities she wanted to take part in.

The only reason I was even entertaining this conversation with my mother was out of a misplaced sense of duty to give my family every chance I could to right these wrongs.

“Hello,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her. “Did you order already?”

“I did,” Carmen said, folding her hands in her lap. “Thank you for meeting me. ”

“I’m here,” I said, not taking the bait. I scanned the QR code on the menu to order my coffee. Scrolling through the menu on my phone also made a great excuse for why I wasn’t looking her in the eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I’m sorry, Imogen.”

I was momentarily stunned. Out of all the things I’d expected to come out of my mom’s mouth during this conversation, an apology was not one of them.

“Um. . . okay,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as I placed my order for my usual oat milk latte and cheddar scone.

One thing I realized about my mother was that she always had an angle, and it was always a self-indulgent one. My mother didn’t do anything in this world that didn’t protect her standing or advance that standing.

“How are things at the farm?” Carmen asked, flashing me an awkward, tight smile that had me cringing a little from second hand embarrassment. I knew she wasn’t talking about the homestead.

“Winding Road has several businesses all housed in the same place. I’m actually handling more of the administrative tasks for the non-profit. Lucas, Kameron’s close friend, mostly handles the farm and for-profit side of things.”

My mother let out a disinterested hum, and my shoulders tensed.

“Administrative work?”

I clenched my jaw. “Yeah. I’ve been revamping their website with pictures I’ve taken around the property.

I’m also in charge of their social media.

We’re trying to expand our reach, since the new barn venue just opened up.

We’re trying to get our name out there. So far it’s going well.

We’ve had several inquiries for weddings in the next year. ”

“That sounds right up your alley.”

A blonde woman I didn’t recognize arrived with our drinks and food, and I was grateful to have something else to do with my hands.

“Wow, that was almost a compliment,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. My mother sighed, putting her face in her hands.

“Come on, Imogen, I’m trying here.”

“Let’s cut the crap, Mom, shall we?” I said, tired of playing the small talk game. I didn’t want to be here any longer than I had to be. “Tell me why you’re really here.”

“I wanted to see my children,” she huffed. “Why does that make me a criminal?”

Here we go.

“It doesn’t make you a criminal, but it does make me question your intentions. The last time we spoke. . .”

A lump formed in my throat as I recalled her words. Carmen’s eyes flashed with something that looked like regret.

“I’m more sorry than you can understand about the things I said on the phone that day. When Abbie called to say you were back in Watford, and without Jacob, I. . . granted, assumed the worst.”

I scoffed.

“What you actually assumed was that your no-good daughter had cheated on her husband with another woman,” I said.

My bisexuality was not something I advertised.

Not because of the people in Watford, or because of the biphobia in the media, but because I knew myself better than anyone else.

I didn’t need to advertise my sexuality because it was mine.

It wasn’t up to anyone else, and I didn’t need other people’s input into it. I knew who I was.

Now it was my mother’s turn to shift uncomfortably.

“You can’t blame me for suspecting that something like that might have occurred,” my mom said, and it felt like she slapped me across the face. “Especially after the string of girls you dated in high school.”

She spat the word girls as if it was something dirty, something to look down upon.

This is how it had always been with my mother.

My mother would never dare to look me in the eyes and spew anything outright hateful, but she would toe the line of disrespect.

She walked right up to the edge of too far and hovered there.

The only thing that gave away her distaste for my dating history was her facial expressions and the tone of her voice.

I’d heard far worse from her as a teenager.

But after everything that had gone down with Jacob, after everything that man put me through, looking at this woman, entertaining her thinly veiled vitriol, made me sick.

“Jacob almost killed me that night,” I said, quietly seething.

All of that anger and frustration I’d tried to bury came bubbling back up to the surface as I looked at my mother, the one person in the world who was supposed to love and protect me, the one person who looked at me and saw a problem child.

A mistake. The lowest of the low. “Did Abbie tell you that? Did you even try to listen to what she had to say?”

The tendon in my right elbow ached, as if remembering the distant echoes of an injury long healed. I instinctively wrapped my arm around myself, cradling my elbow, protecting myself from whatever blow came next.

Carmen at least had the decency to look pained.

“I didn’t—when she called, your father was in the middle of signing a massive contract, and our attention was elsewhere. I am sorry, Imogen, that we didn’t stop to understand.”

Oh, my father . As little as I’d seen my mother in the years since they’d left Watford to build a shinier, bigger life in Los Angeles, I hadn’t seen my father in person once.

All’s well that ends well. My father and I were never close.

That had been my choice. Cassie, Kevin and I were trophies to him, rather than children.

We were to be seen and not heard, constantly carted off to booster events and town council meetings, showed off wherever and whenever it was necessary for my father to be seen as successful.

I blamed my father for shaping my mom into the woman she was now. I blamed him for never answering my questions about his side of the family. My Nana had reached out many times to try to connect me with my Black relatives, and he’d shut her down every time without fail.

All my life, I’d heard stories about their great love story, how the great Grant Phillips had come to town, invested an obscene amount of money into Watford’s infrastructure, and gave the town the push it needed to become the bustling small town it is today.

He swept Carmen off her feet; or so they told me.

She was head over heels for him. But neither one of them were cut out to be parents in the way the three of us needed.

“I’m sorry,” Carmen repeated, reaching for my hand. I jerked away, ashamed to find that tears were stinging my eyes .

“You keep saying that. But you can’t actually believe that showing back up in Watford unannounced and saying ‘I’m sorry’ without any meaning is going to help us have a relationship,” I said. It took everything in me not to let my face fall and to keep my expression neutral.

I silently chided myself for letting myself get wrapped up in the delusional idea that Cassie had been right. Somehow, I’d been willing to let bygones be bygones, if my mother could produce even a scrap of evidence that she’d done the internal work to heal our relationship.

Hell, when I’d walked in and seen her sitting at this booth by herself, looking so painfully out of place in a town she used to know so well, I had pity for her.

It was all an act. Just like it always was. This little tour she was doing with her children wasn’t about us at all. It wasn’t about celebrating our accomplishments or fixing the mistakes of the past.

It was about drumming up sympathy points among the people she hurt the most.

My father might have given my mother the life she always dreamed of as a small town girl—the fancy galas, and more money than she could ever hope to earn on her own as an actress.

She’d thrown all of her dreams out the window in exchange for security in a man who had swept through town when she was barely nineteen.

She’d become what he wanted, and left everything else behind.

My Nana had been heartbroken. Carmen’s decision to leave Watford had devastated her, and yet she’d stepped up to take care of her grandkids when my mother decided the Los Angeles spotlight wasn’t something she wanted for her children.

Watford was a safe place for us, but not for our mother.

Watford was good enough for us, but not for her.

My Nana had never gotten over it, even though she put everything she had into ensuring we had a beautiful childhood.

Our mother visited every month, but never for long, always citing a new initiative or opportunity.

“Do you know why Kevin stayed in Watford when you left for L.A.?” I asked quietly.

Carmen shook her head. “I assumed it was because he wanted to tie up loose ends. I figured the two of you would say your goodbyes.”

“It’s because he finally had the chance to breathe without you and Dad breathing down his neck,” I snapped.

“It was because he was exhausted, being your prized show horse. The two of you only ever saw him as your male heir, like it’s not the 21st fucking century where people don’t give a crap who takes over the family business. ”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Carmen said sternly, shoving a finger in my face. “I’m taking a lot from you right now, Imogen, hoping we can work past this.”

“Did you and Cassie have a conversation about how difficult it is to grow up biracial in a small town?” I said. As much as I didn’t want to bring this up with her, I needed to. I needed her to hear it from me.

“We were raised in a small town that is predominately White, and our parents’ actions actively prevented us from being in touch with our Black relatives.

We were raised almost entirely in White spaces, and as much as Nana loved and cared for us, we were kids who deserved to know our family.

Our entire family. Do you even have a concept of what that was like for us? ”

Carmen’s face fell. For once, she had nothing to say.

Whatever was left of my resolve dissipated.

There was no salvaging this.

“I’m leaving,” I said, sliding my coffee mug towards the center of the table and rising to stand. “I’m done with this.”

“Imogen, don’t walk away from me,” Carmen said, snagging my wrist when I tried to walk by.

I snatched my arm back.

“What?” I said, exasperated.

“I heard you’re selling the farmhouse.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I looked back to my mother, unsure of what she would say next.

“I am,” I said. “It’s time for me to head down a new path.”

“Hm.”

Carmen’s distaste was palpable, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

My grandmother had been more of a mother to me than Carmen was. She had given me the farmhouse because she knew out of everyone, I was the most likely to need it. I had needed it, but I had also cherished it. I cherished my memories with her and with my friends within those four walls.

“I don’t give a damn what you think about me, or my life,” I said. Carmen was rattled in a way I’d never seen before. For a minute, she almost looked scared. Something about it empowered me to make this moment count, because I knew I wouldn’t have this conversation again.

“I don’t want to hear from you,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see your face, and I don’t want anything to do with you. Don’t call, Carmen. I mean it.”

I left my mother there, staring disbelievingly into her coffee cup. I knew as truly as I knew my name that I would never speak to her again. And my life would be better for it.