They hadn’t gone through their piles of stuff.

But Olympia had not put her old bed things back in her room.

I texted them both to make certain they were good with me donating their things and added on Pippa’s that she wanted to keep her new linens.

Neither replied.

Chapter Seven

Picking up the Pieces

The next evening, I sat in my car and stared at the cineplex.

I did this concentrating.

And what I was concentrating on was not on the disastrous visit I’d had with my children that weekend.

No, I was concentrating on the fact that the auction furniture I bought would be delivered the next day and thus I could turn my mind to creating a tranquil, beachy, fanciful room that would delight the dearth of guests I would probably not be having.

I was also concentrating on my triumph that day at Dove House when I did not freak way the heck out during mealtime when Mrs. McMurphy clamped my wrist in her clawed hand, yanked me to her and looked at me with clear, light blue eyes, hissing, “I know you’re a spy.” Then she’d let me go only to drag a finger across her neck threateningly and declare, “I’m telling General Patton.”

Further, I was concentrating on the fact that right then, instead of going out and buying a teal Thunderbird with white upholstery and driving it to the nearest cliff where I would then drive right off it—considering I’d made such a mess of my own life, that was the only option open to me—I was going to a movie.

By myself.

I’d never done anything by myself, except shopping. I’d not gone to a meal by myself. I’d never even gone to a spa for a facial by myself.

When I lost Conrad and all my other friends, Robin had come with me.

On this thought, my phone rang.

I shouldn’t have pulled it out of my purse. I knew who was calling.

Though, it could be Josie and Alyssa. It seemed they actually liked me and they definitely liked decorating.

But when I looked at the display, I saw I was right.

It said “Dad.”

I stared at it for a long time. Long enough for it to quit ringing. Long enough for it to bing in order to tell me I had a missed call.

Then, to my surprise, it binged again to tell me I had a voicemail.

New.

He hadn’t yet left a voicemail.

Shit.

That was when I did something else I shouldn’t do.

I activated my phone, went to voicemail and listened to it.

“Amelia, call me,” Dad bit out icily.

“Shit,” I whispered, dropping the phone but moving my finger over the screen, going to my text messages.