“Not at all. They’re called the wetlands, by the way.”

“Is that so,” Georgiana said in a bored tone. Then, getting back to her point: “Summer holiday is over. It’s time to come home. We have a very exciting fall lineup. I need you back at work.”

“I didn’t think I had a job to come home to,” Harper rejoined pointedly.

Harper heard the sound of her mother inhaling from her cigarette. “I vaguely recall that you quit.”

“I suppose I did.”

“It was a heated moment.”

“Yes, it was.” Harper recalled the bitter phone call the previous May when her mother made clear, in terse words, that Harper worked for her and had to do as she was told, not only for her job but in her personal life. That moment had crystallized for Harper the true nature of her relationship with her mother. With the veil of sentimentality ripped off, she was able to stand up to her mother for the first time and declare her independence. Or, a first step toward it. She’d found the strength to quit her job, which freed her up to spend the summer at Sea Breeze. Something she’d not planned on doing, but had turned out to be a blessing.

“Actually, Mummy, that’s why I called. I wanted to talk to you about a job.”

“Good. You must come back as soon as possible. You were quite right about that girl,” Georgiana pushed on in a confidential tone. “Absolute nightmare. She can barely spell, much less punctuate a sentence. And entitled?” She exhaled. “Can you believe the twit wanted to be promoted to editor? Already? Imagine. I sent her packing.” Another exhalation.

“Nina? You were singing her praises last time we talked. You were quite clear that you thought she’d be a better editor than I. How I wasn’t ready.” Harper’s cheeks flushed at the memory.

“You’re imagining things. You’ve always been oversensitive, Harper. The salient point is that I need you back. All is forgiven.”

Forgiven? Harper’s fingers clutched the phone in a fistlike grip. Her mother always had the ability to twist things around so that in the end she was the victor. “I’m not coming back to—”

“Not coming back? Where would you go? Wait a minute . . . Has Mummy been talking to you again about moving to Greenfields Park?” Georgiana laughed, a high trill sound. “Typical. Now you know where I get my wheedling and conniving side from. Well, I can’t blame you if you choose to move to England. I’ve been a disappointment to them, so I suppose there’s some satisfaction in knowing that at least my progeny can fulfill their dream.”

“But I haven’t—”

“Haven’t what?”

“Mother, will you let me finish a sentence?” Harper said with heat. There was a silence. She continued in a calmer voice, “I haven’t chosen to move to Greenfields Park. I haven’t chosen anything. What I began to say was I’m not coming back to being your editorial assistant. Though I appreciate the opportunity,” she hurried to add, “I’ve grown beyond that position.” She thought that more politic than declaring she no longer wanted to be her mother’s lackey. Over the past two years she’d given more of the editorial jobs to the other employees and her personal agenda to Harper.

“Not be my assistant?” Georgiana sounded affronted. “But who else can do the job?”

Harper prayed for patience. Why was it her job to ensure her mother had a satisfactory assistant? “Mummy, you can hire someone new to be your personal assistant. I’ll train her, if you like. But I’m qualified to be an editor. More than qualified.”

Harper waited. She knew her mother would often make whoever was on the other end of the conversation wait in silence for long periods while she thought things through.

“I’m going to start sending out my résumé,” Harper said flatly, ending the standoff. “I wanted you to know first. I’d appreciate a letter of recommendation.”

“When did you become so heartless?”

“I beg your pardon? How am I heartless?”

“Who do you think nurtured your career in publishing all your life? Sent you to the best schools, mentored you, introduced you to every important publishing house? Me. You never could have made the connections and have the opportunities you’ve had were it not for me. And this is how you repay me? You threaten me that you’re going to another house? That’s like turning down my option clause.”

“I’m not turning anything down,” Harper said with exasperation. “Other than the job as your assistant. You haven’t offered me anything else yet.”

There was a pause and she heard her mother puffing away like a locomotive. At length Georgiana spoke again, this time in her business tone of voice—clipped, heavy on the British accent, impersonal. “You always were hard to reason with when you’re at that place. I’d hoped you’d outgrown your grandmother’s influence.”

“Which grandmother are you referring to? Not that it matters. Mother, I’ve not discussed this with either Mamaw or Granny James. I’m not talking to you as your daughter but as your former editorial assistant who wishes to apply for a position as editor.”

There was another long pause. This time, Harper waited her out.

“Very well. If you’re serious about applying for a job as an editor, I’ll be happy to discuss it with you. In my office, like any other applicant. Call me when you get back to New York to set up an appointment. Must go now. Cheers.”

Harper heard the click of disconnection. She fell back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling, momentarily stunned and confused. When she’d called her mother, she’d been filled with determination to make decisions, to return to New York. Yet once again her mother had shown her that her hopes were naive.

Working for her mother in any capacity was a bad idea. Harper realized that now. Georgiana James would turn on her. Tell her she wouldn’t succeed. But what else was new? The logical, pragmatic side of Harper knew she had to stop stalling and apply to other houses.

But the emotional part of her was feeling belittled and hurt. Harper brought her hands in to cover her face, then turned on her side and curled up in a ball. Rejection hurt. Even after all these years. She thought she’d get used to it. But she kept this childish hope that someday her mother would, if not love her, at least appreciate her qualities. Not Georgiana James. She excelled at letting Harper know, in every manner possible, that she didn’t matter. Or if she did, it was only in how Harper could fill her mother’s needs and wants.