Page 50 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Jack

One month later

T here’s a white plaque beneath a large oak tree that overlooks a small park where children are playing.

In loving memory of Emmaline St. Claire, mother, daughter, wife.

In her honor, I make a donation to this park every year. Enough to keep it clean and maintained. Enough to keep her memory alive. It was her request that she have a garden planted here in her hometown.

In the spring, her mother and I have flowers planted—pink and white begonias, her favorite. They are beautiful and sweet, just like Em.

Sitting on the iron bench next to the tree, I watch the children play at the playground, including my daughter squealing in French with the other kids. In her small red peacoat and gray knit hat, she looks more like a dream than a reality.

I always wanted to be a father—more than anything. I wanted to give my kids what my parents gave me. Now that I have Bea, I realize nothing is as simple as I thought it would be.

The last few weeks have been hell, which says a lot coming from me.

The only reason I can say this with full confidence is because I know what hell feels like. I watched my wife wither away over two years. I watched her suffer and die a slow, painful death while desperately clinging to life.

And while I felt all those awful, terrible moments in real time, I quickly shoved those emotions aside for the nearly three years since. I turned off my feelings. I dug a grave, and I buried myself in it.

In the past month, I had to reopen old wounds and feel them all over again.

So yes, it has been hell.

I don’t feel like I’m healing. I feel like I’m just hurting, but Ronan says this is part of the process. He lost his first wife and child, so he’s been down this road before. He was the one who tried to shove me toward counseling when Em passed, but I refused.

This time, I finally obliged.

I found a counselor I like, and I meet with him once a week. I hate every awful, miserable second of it, but at least I’m trying. If I’m honest, trying fucking sucks.

I’m not doing this for Camille, although she’s the reason I keep going. My counselor asked me to identify my why . My reason for healing and living and surviving with all this grief living inside me.

I immediately thought of Bea. My daughter has lost enough already, and she deserves a father.

But I’m pretty sure it was a trick question, one that didn’t take me long to figure out. The real why is me. Because I can’t give Bea or Camille the version of me they deserve until I fix me.

And mostly because I owe it to myself to start living again. Would it be nice to finally have a second chance with her again? To envision that future that felt so crystal clear just a couple months ago? Yes, of course.

But even if that future never comes to fruition, I want to feel alive again.

A cold winter chill moves through the park, and I bundle my coat tighter around me. Christmas is only six days away, and I know I shouldn’t rush these things, but I want to spend it with the people I love.

I want to spend it with her .

My counselor, Paul, keeps reminding me that there is no end goal or finish line with these things. When I feel ready to talk to her, I should. But I’m not sure I’ll ever feel ready. The things I said to her were unfair. The way I treated her, as if she was in competition for my heart, was wrong.

I’m not the type of man to talk to a ghost or a placard in front of a park, so I definitely won’t be doing that, but if I were to say something to Emmaline, this is the place I’d do it. And maybe I’m here just to feel her presence.

And maybe if I was going to speak to her, I’d tell her that…I miss her. I miss our inside jokes and the way she made a cup of tea every single night at exactly 7:30. I miss her socks on the floor next to our bed. I miss her shortbread cookies and her smile.

Hell, maybe I’d even tell her about Camille and how much I think she’d like her. If they were friends, I think Camille would be the bossy one who would cause a scene in restaurants if the waiters were rude to Emmaline. I think they’d talk about Monet and Coldplay and how bad my singing is.

I’d tell her that Camille loves Bea, and I think Em would be grateful for that.

Never the jealous type, I think she’d adore Camille. She would be disappointed in me for treating her like I did, but she wouldn’t yell. That wasn’t Em’s style.

If Em were here and I could really talk to her, she’d tell me to stop focusing on the what-ifs and regrets. It doesn’t matter that there would be no Camille if Em hadn’t died. She’d tell me I worry too much or that I’m too sentimental.

I would tell her that I still love her. I think I always will because that’s what happens when someone dies. My love for her froze in that state forever, and I’ll never fall out of love with her because she was never around to let me.

But my heart isn’t frozen. It’s a living, beating organ with room for more.

I’d ask Em to wish me luck. Fuck, I might even ask her advice. How the hell am I going to make up six weeks of near silence to Camille?

She’d probably tell me to stop talking about it and go do it.

She would definitely wish me luck.

“Papa, my hands are cold!” Bea says as she comes running up to where I’m sitting alone. I take her tiny hands in mine and warm them by breathing on them.

“You have to keep your mittens on,” I reply gently.

Holding my daughter’s hands in mine, I stare down into her blue eyes, and for one beautiful moment, I see her mother. Not just in the shape and color but in the gentleness and warmth behind them.

A part of Em is still here.

Pulling my daughter toward me, I wrap her up in my arms and hug her tightly. Her tiny hands grip my coat as she burrows herself in my chest. For just a moment, I imagine I’m hugging Em.

“Papa,” she whispers.

“Yes?”

“Can we get hot chocolate?”

I smile with my chin resting on her head. “Yes, of course we can.”

Releasing her, I smile down at my daughter. But before standing, I reach into her pockets and slip her mittens on each of her cold hands.

“Keep these on, please.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Did you like visiting your maman’s park?” Emotion makes my voice raspy, and it nearly breaks midsentence.

Bea seems to notice immediately and leans closer as if she is the one comforting me. “Oui, Papa.”

As we stand up, I take her hand, and we walk together toward the nearest café. Sometimes, it’s hard to move on and leave the mistakes I’ve made in the past. I worry that Bea will remember the damage I’ve done and the years I was too absent to show her my love.

But I can’t change the past. I can’t bring Em back. I can’t unsay the things I said to Camille. All I can do is learn from my mistakes and keep going, one step at a time.

“Merry Christmas.”

I glance up from my desk, a half-written mess of a letter in my hands. Elizabeth is leaning against the doorframe with a small box in her hands.

“What is this?” I ask as she walks in and places it on the desk in front of me.

She shrugs. “Nothing. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Curious, I pick up the box. In the past month, since my sister and I have had a heart-to-heart and I’ve apologized for the way my behavior affected her after Em died, she’s been slowly warming up to the idea of having a relationship with me again.

She comes over more often now and even hangs out with Camille on Camille’s days off. It’s a far cry from the woman who wouldn’t even look in my direction four months ago.

“We can’t exchange gifts yet. I’m giving you your present on Christmas,” I say.

“Just open it,” she says with an eye roll.

“Fine,” I reply with a huff. Tearing open the package, I lift the lid of the box to find a snow globe filled with a glass palm tree, sand, and seashells. As I hold it, I glance up at her in confusion.

“Since you decided to stay in Paris for a while, I thought you might be homesick and could use a little something from California,” she says sheepishly. “Mom helped me pick it out.”

“Elizabeth…” I say, staring at the glass ornament. Flipping it over, I watch the sand fall back into place, and oddly enough, it does remind me of home. It creates a warm buzz in the center of my chest.

“If I could have had real American cheeseburgers delivered, I promise you I would have,” she says with a smirk.

My mouth starts to water at the mention. “I’d do some shady stuff for a few In-N-Out burgers,” I reply.

She nods her head emphatically. “Or that greasy place Dad used to take us by the harbor.”

“Oh God, yes,” I reply.

A moment later, we’re both smiling, and I can’t explain how amazing it is to reminisce with my sister again.

“Thank you for this,” I reply, not entirely referring to the snow globe. “Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she mutters without making eye contact. “And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re staying.”

“Well, you’d never forgive me if I left you alone with Julian.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re right about that.”

Just then, he passes by the office, sneering at both of us before lifting up his middle fingers on both hands. “I heard that. Fuck you both.”

Elizabeth and I cackle.

It’s dangerous to wish that everything could be falling into place, but with how well the club is doing and my sister talking to me again, I start to believe it just might be okay.

There’s just one more thing I have to do, and everything is riding on it.