Summer's Crucible- Chapter Six: When the Fool and Her Money Parted

Dr. Hall retired without ceremony.

On the last afternoon of May, his dental practice closed its doors for the final time. The remaining patients had been referred elsewhere, the equipment had been inventoried, and the last appointments had been completed weeks earlier. There was no farewell party, no commemorative photograph, and certainly no sentimental speech from the doctor himself.

He simply finished his paperwork, collected his belongings, and went home.

The practice had been declining for years. Every attempt to sell it had fallen through, leaving Dr. Hall with little choice but to wind down operations and sell the property separately.

Summer had known the end was coming.

In some ways, she was relieved.

Working for an elderly dentist whose hands had become increasingly unsteady was stressful enough without having to accommodate the physical limitations imposed by her own deteriorating spine.

Her degenerative disc disease had continued to interfere with her daily life. Anti-inflammatory medication helped control some of the aching, and physical therapy had improved her ability to manage certain symptoms, but neither had eliminated the underlying problems.

There were mornings when the soles of her feet burned before she even got out of bed. On particularly difficult days, one foot dragged slightly when she walked, forcing her to concentrate on every step.

Her doctor had fitted her with an ankle-foot brace to help when the weakness became pronounced.

Summer hated wearing it.

She hated the way it reminded her that something as ordinary as walking could no longer be taken for granted.

Her posture had changed as well. She sometimes found herself leaning forward without realizing it, then stopping to straighten her back and redistribute her weight.

The effort was exhausting.

At an age when she had once imagined herself enjoying the rewards of a successful career, she instead found herself calculating how much standing, walking, and lifting she could manage before the pain became intolerable.

Still, she had grown fond of Dr. Hall in a reluctant sort of way.

He was cranky, impatient, and astonishingly cheap, but he had never pretended to be anything else.

Summer appreciated that more than she might have a few years earlier.

She would miss the old man occasionally.

She certainly wouldn't lose sleep over his retirement.

Fortunately, Summer had begun preparing for the practice's closure long before it happened.

Through Rusty, Mimsy's former husband and Heather's father, she had met a man named Pat who owned a small siding and screen-door installation company.

Pat needed help with payroll, scheduling, invoices, and the general administrative work he had neglected while concentrating on installations.

Summer initially took on a few tasks in the evenings.

As Dr. Hall's practice wound down, her responsibilities with Pat gradually increased.

By the time the dental office closed, she had already arranged to continue working for him on a part-time basis.

Pat was a good employer.

He paid promptly, treated her respectfully, and rarely interfered with work she had already demonstrated she could manage.

Summer found him refreshingly uncomplicated.

Her only complaint was the inconsistency of the hours.

Some weeks were busy enough to keep her occupied every day. Others offered little more than a handful of invoices and a payroll run.

The income was modest compared with what she had once earned in finance.

Summer sometimes wondered whether she would ever recover the professional standing and salary she had enjoyed before her relationship with Landon fell apart.

She had an MBA, years of administrative experience, and a respectable history of managing complicated accounts.

Yet her career seemed to be moving steadily toward smaller businesses and increasingly modest paychecks.

She tried not to dwell on it.

For now, work she could physically manage and an employer who didn't make her miserable were worth something.

She occasionally supplemented her income through contacts she had made while working for Dr. Hall and through Cecilia, Rusty's first wife and Heather's mother.

Cecilia continued to market herself as a psychic for hire, appearing at parties, fairs, and private events.

Unfortunately, she had an inconvenient tendency toward honesty.

When someone asked whether a suspicious romantic partner was cheating, Cecilia might tell them that they probably already knew the answer.

When a customer demanded an elaborate prediction, she sometimes admitted she was making an educated guess.

Neither response was particularly good for business.

People who paid for mystical insight generally preferred something more reassuring than common sense.

Summer found Cecilia amusing company.

She was certainly easier to spend time with than Mimsy.

As Summer's stay at Mimsy's house continued, her adoptive mother became increasingly demanding.

What had begun as a temporary arrangement gradually evolved into something resembling an unpaid domestic partnership, except that Summer was also expected to contribute financially.

First came the groceries.

Then the utilities.

Then various repairs, errands, and household expenses that Mimsy insisted were only fair because Summer was living there.

Summer didn't object to contributing.

She was an adult, after all, and had no expectation of living rent-free indefinitely.

What bothered her was the way Mimsy treated every contribution as inadequate while continuing to remind her that she was there only through her mother's generosity.

At times, Summer found the arrangement uncomfortably reminiscent of working for Willa.

There was always another obligation, another complaint, another reason she had failed to demonstrate sufficient gratitude.

Whenever Summer began looking for an apartment, Mimsy became offended.

“You're really going to leave me here all alone?” she would ask.

Summer would remind her that she had friends, neighbors, and an active social calendar.

“That isn't the same as having family.”

The argument usually ended with Summer agreeing to stay a little longer.

She told herself Mimsy needed the companionship.

Heather had a less charitable interpretation.

“She doesn't want to lose her emotional punching bag,” Heather said one afternoon.

Summer laughed.

Then she thought about it.

The comment bothered her because she couldn't entirely dismiss it.

It was a beautiful afternoon in early summer when Summer found herself driving a golf cart across the grounds of Dr. Hall's country club.

The sky was clear, the grass was freshly cut, and the course was dotted with retirees who appeared to consider golf a more important obligation than anything else in their lives.

Summer was searching for Dr. Hall.

Although the dental practice had closed, the final sale of its property was still being completed.

The building, parking lot, and adjoining parcel had attracted a buyer interested in redeveloping the site. A Trader Joe's was expected to occupy part of the property once the existing structures were cleared and the necessary approvals were completed.

The transaction had dragged on for months.

Now, with closing finally approaching, an escrow employee had discovered an error in the paperwork that required Dr. Hall's attention.

Summer had been working remotely on Pat's monthly payroll when the frantic call arrived.

“Do you know how to reach him?” the woman asked.

Summer glanced at the time.

“Yes.”

“Could you ask him to call us immediately? We need to resolve this before the bank's deadline.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Summer knew Dr. Hall rarely answered his phone while golfing.

She also knew precisely where he was likely to be at that hour.

Rather than waste the afternoon leaving messages, she drove to the country club.

The staff recognized her from previous visits with the doctor and arranged for her to use a cart to find him.

Sure enough, she spotted him near the seventh hole.

He was preparing to take a shot when Summer approached.

“Dr. Hall!”

He lowered his club.

“What?”

“There's a problem with the closing paperwork. Escrow needs you.”

He stared at her.

“Now?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Can't it wait?”

“Not if you want the sale completed on schedule.”

Dr. Hall muttered something unflattering about bankers and attorneys.

Summer waited.

After another moment of grumbling, he handed his club to a companion and climbed into the cart.

“Every time I think I'm finished with that damned office, somebody finds another piece of paper.”

Summer smiled.

“Hopefully this is the last one.”

“It had better be.”

She drove him back to the clubhouse, where he arranged to meet the escrow representative and sign the corrected documents.

Summer was relieved.

The practice had occupied enough of her life.

She was ready for it to become someone else's problem.

She was crossing the parking lot when a man approached her.

“Excuse me.”

Summer turned.

He was handsome, broad-shouldered, and looked to be somewhere around her age. His clothes were casual but expensive, and he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to talking to strangers.

“Were you the one who rescued Doc Hall from the seventh hole?” he asked.

Summer smiled.

“Rescued might be a generous description.”

“He looked like he was being hauled off to prison.”

“He had paperwork to sign.”

“That explains it. He hates paperwork almost as much as he hates losing.”

Summer laughed.

The man extended his hand.

“Bailey Sutton.”

“Summer.”

“Nice to meet you, Summer. I own a property management company. I've known Hall for a few years.”

They talked for several minutes.

Bailey was friendly and direct without being overbearing. He asked about her work, listened to her answers, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

Summer found herself enjoying the conversation.

It had been a long time since a man had approached her without making her feel as though she were being evaluated against some unspoken standard.

Bailey glanced toward the clubhouse.

“There's a country music festival next weekend. I was planning to go, but I haven't found anyone I'd particularly like to take.”

Summer raised an eyebrow.

“Is that your way of asking me?”

He grinned.

“I was hoping you'd make it easy for me.”

She considered him.

He was attractive, seemed established in his career, and had managed to hold a pleasant conversation without mentioning his possessions or insulting anyone.

After Landon, those qualities felt almost extravagant.

“All right,” she said. “I'd like that.”

They exchanged numbers.

Bailey promised to send her the details.

As Summer drove away, she caught herself smiling.

The attention had pleased her more than she expected.

For years, she had measured her attractiveness against Landon's approval.

Now, after everything that had happened, it was reassuring to discover that a handsome stranger could still find her interesting.

She knew it was a small and somewhat vain pleasure.

She allowed herself to enjoy it anyway.

Back at Mimsy's house, Summer struggled to return her attention to Pat's payroll.

She had barely settled at the computer before her mother appeared in the doorway.

“Where have you been?”

“Helping Dr. Hall with some paperwork.”

“All afternoon?”

“Part of it.”

Mimsy lingered.

Summer made the mistake of smiling.

“What?” Mimsy asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“You look pleased with yourself.”

Summer hesitated.

Then, against her better judgment, she mentioned Bailey.

“I met someone today. He asked me out next weekend.”

Mimsy's expression changed.

“Oh.”

Summer waited.

Her mother looked her over.

“Well, I suppose men aren't as particular as they used to be.”

Summer stared at her.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I was simply thinking about how much more beautiful I was when I was your age.”

Summer returned her attention to the computer.

There it was.

Mimsy launched into a lengthy account of her youthful attractiveness, her various admirers, and her recent disappointments with the Red Hat Society.

Apparently, her attempts to encourage a more adventurous social atmosphere among the members had not been especially well received.

Summer listened with only half her attention.

Eventually, Mimsy changed the subject to cosmetic surgery.

“I've been thinking about having some work done.”

Summer sighed.

“You've been thinking about that for years.”

“Yes, but now I'm serious.”

“Then make an appointment.”

“I don't know who to trust.”

Summer glanced up.

An idea occurred to her.

She remembered a plastic surgeon Eliza used to mock whenever discussing acquaintances who had undergone conspicuously aggressive cosmetic procedures.

Dr. Wentz was expensive, highly publicized, and known for dramatic transformations that Summer considered excessive.

Eliza had once remarked that his patients looked like plastic dolls left too long in a wind tunnel.

Summer had never forgotten the description.

Perhaps hearing his prices and seeing his portfolio would finally discourage Mimsy from pursuing another expensive fantasy.

She looked up the clinic and called.

To her surprise, the receptionist offered a consultation that Thursday morning.

Summer booked it.

Mimsy was delighted.

For the rest of the evening, she tried on outfits, researched procedures, and printed photographs of the results she hoped to achieve.

By bedtime, she had assembled a folder thick enough to resemble a business proposal.

She also began referring to Dr. Wentz simply as “Doctor,” with the solemn familiarity of someone speaking about a close personal friend.

“Doctor will know what to do about my neck.”

“Doctor can probably fix these lines.”

“I wonder if Doctor will recommend something for my eyes.”

Summer began regretting the phone call almost immediately.

On Thursday morning, Mimsy insisted that Summer drive her to the clinic in her oversized Chevrolet.

She had dressed for the consultation as though she were attending a society luncheon.

Her hair was styled, her jewelry carefully coordinated, and her folder of printed photographs rested prominently on her lap.

Summer concentrated on the drive.

She had already decided that whatever happened at the appointment was Mimsy's responsibility.

The clinic was immaculate.

Its waiting room featured expensive furniture, subdued lighting, and photographs of smiling patients whose faces appeared suspiciously similar.

After a brief wait, they were shown into a consultation room.

Dr. Wentz entered with the polished confidence of a man accustomed to selling expensive possibilities.

He examined Mimsy's concerns and discussed several procedures that might address them.

Mimsy was captivated.

She nodded enthusiastically as he explained what could be accomplished through a staged series of treatments and surgeries.

Summer listened with increasing skepticism.

Some of the recommendations sounded reasonable enough.

Others seemed far more extensive than anything Mimsy had originally mentioned.

Dr. Wentz eventually turned toward Summer.

“We would space these improvements out, of course,” he said pleasantly. “But by the end of next year, people might mistake the two of you for mother and daughter in reverse.”

Mimsy gasped.

“Oh, Doctor!”

Summer stared at him.

She couldn't tell whether he was joking, flattering Mimsy, or making a serious sales pitch.

Whatever his intention, Mimsy had taken the remark literally.

Summer's expression must have betrayed her opinion.

Dr. Wentz glanced toward her.

“Would you mind giving us a little privacy while we finish discussing the options?”

Summer rose.

“Not at all.”

She went back to the waiting room.

If Mimsy wanted to spend her savings pursuing an impossible version of herself, Summer couldn't prevent her.

She could only hope that the clinic would give her a realistic explanation of the costs and risks before she committed to anything.

Nearly an hour passed.

Then Mimsy emerged, smiling broadly.

The receptionist handed her a folder containing estimates, preoperative information, and details of the next appointments.

“We're so glad we could get everything scheduled today,” she said.

Mimsy thanked her warmly.

Summer looked at the folder.

She had the unpleasant suspicion that her attempt to discourage Mimsy had accomplished precisely the opposite.

The drive home began in silence.

Mimsy sat beside Summer, studying her paperwork with obvious satisfaction.

Summer kept her attention on the road.

She had no desire to discuss the consultation.

Eventually, Mimsy grew irritated by the lack of reaction.

“You know,” she began, “I'm very embarrassed by how you behaved in front of Doctor.”

Summer glanced at her.

“How did I behave?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to. Your expression said enough.”

Summer sighed.

“Mimsy, it's your money. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“That isn't the point.”

“Then what is?”

Mimsy folded her arms.

“It's obvious you're threatened by the idea of me having these procedures.”

Summer stared ahead.

“Threatened?”

“Yes. You've always been insecure about your appearance, and now with that back thing of yours—”

Summer tightened her grip on the wheel.

“Don't.”

Mimsy ignored her.

“You've spent so long expecting everyone to fuss over your health that you can't stand the thought of someone else getting attention for once.”

Summer was silent.

She had told Mimsy very little about the more frightening aspects of her diagnosis.

Even so, her mother had managed to turn what she knew into an insult.

Summer glanced at her.

“I didn't realize we were competing.”

“Oh, don't pretend you don't understand.”

“I understand perfectly well. I just wish you could hear yourself.”

Mimsy's face hardened.

Summer continued.

“You went to a consultation because you wanted information. That's fine. But that doctor is recommending an enormous amount of work, and you seem more interested in being told you'll look younger than in considering whether any of it is sensible.”

“You're jealous.”

“No. I'm concerned you're going to spend a fortune and end up looking ridiculous.”

Mimsy went very still.

Summer realized a moment too late that she had struck directly at her mother's vanity.

“You ungrateful little brat.”

Summer kept her eyes on the road.

“I'm not doing this with you.”

“You think you're better than me?”

“No.”

“You've always thought you're better than me!”

“Mimsy, stop.”

Her mother's voice rose.

“After everything I've done for you!”

Summer exhaled.

She knew the speech.

She had heard versions of it since childhood.

But this time, Mimsy did something Summer hadn't anticipated.

She lunged across the center console and grabbed the steering wheel.

The Chevrolet swerved sharply toward the adjoining lane.

Summer gasped and fought to keep control.

“Mimsy! Let go!”

Her mother pulled harder.

Summer braked, struggling to keep the vehicle from crossing into traffic.

A horn blared behind them.

Mimsy's nails dug into Summer's hand.

“Get out of my car!”

“Let go of the wheel!”

“Get out of my house! Get out of my life!”

Summer managed to steer toward the shoulder as the vehicle slowed.

She brought it to a stop, shifted into park, and turned on the hazard lights.

Her heart was pounding.

For a moment, she couldn't believe what had happened.

Then Mimsy removed one of her high heels and struck her with it.

“You ungrateful brat!”

Summer raised an arm to protect her face.

“Stop it!”

Mimsy swung again.

Summer reached for the door handle.

She wasn't going to remain trapped in the vehicle while her mother attacked her.

She climbed out onto the shoulder, taking care to avoid the passing traffic.

Her back protested sharply as she straightened.

Mimsy continued screaming from the passenger seat.

Summer backed away.

“I'm not getting back in that car while you're acting like this.”

Mimsy climbed across into the driver's seat.

“Then stay out!”

She slammed the door.

Summer stood several feet away, stunned.

The window lowered.

Mimsy hurled Summer's purse onto the roadside.

“Don't come back!”

Then she accelerated away.

Summer watched the Chevrolet disappear into traffic.

For nearly a minute, she stood motionless.

She had known Mimsy could be cruel.

She had known she could be vindictive.

But grabbing the steering wheel of a moving vehicle and striking the driver was something else entirely.

Summer looked down at her hand.

Several scratches were beginning to redden.

Her back ached, and she could feel the familiar weakness creeping into one leg.

She retrieved her purse, checked that her phone and wallet were still inside, and moved

farther from the roadway.

Then she called for a ride.

Summer knew she needed to retrieve her belongings quickly.

Mimsy had a long history of reacting impulsively when she felt rejected or humiliated.

There was no telling what she might do once she returned home.

Summer had already placed her most important documents, keepsakes, and valuables in storage months earlier.

It was a precaution she had taken after leaving Landon.

She had learned that depending on someone else's goodwill for access to her possessions was a mistake she didn't intend to repeat.

Still, much of her clothing and everyday belongings remained at Mimsy's house.

Summer gave the driver the address.

During the ride, she considered calling the police.

She had no desire to involve herself in another prolonged dispute, but she was beginning to understand that Mimsy's behavior was no longer merely unpleasant.

It was dangerous.

By the time they reached the house, the decision had nearly been made for her.

Mimsy was in the driveway.

She had dragged several bags of Summer's clothing outside and was throwing their

contents onto the pavement.

Beside her stood a metal garbage can.

Flames were rising from it.

Summer stared through the taxi window.

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”

The driver slowed.

“Is that your house?”

“My mother's.”

“Is she burning your stuff?”

Summer watched Mimsy toss another garment toward the can.

“Yes.”

The driver pulled over at a safe distance.

“I'm calling the police.”

Summer looked at him.

Ordinarily, she might have protested.

She was tired of explaining her family's behavior to strangers. Tired of being embarrassed. Tired of having to justify why she continued dealing with people who treated her badly.

But the sight of her mother standing beside an open fire in the driveway made the situation

impossible to dismiss.

“All right,” she said.

The driver called.

Summer remained in the vehicle.

She wasn't going to approach Mimsy while she was behaving that way.

Nor was she going to risk a physical confrontation over clothes she could eventually replace.

She watched her mother continue dragging belongings out of the house.

For the first time, Summer felt no urge to reason with her.

When the police arrived, Mimsy had retreated indoors.

An officer spoke with Summer while another approached the house.

Summer explained what had happened during the drive, including Mimsy's attempt to seize

the steering wheel and her subsequent assault with the shoe.

The driver described what he had witnessed in the driveway.

The officer photographed the damaged property and the scratches on Summer's hand.

He asked whether she needed medical attention.

Summer hesitated.

Her back was hurting more than usual, but she couldn't tell how much of the pain came

from the struggle in the car.

“I may need to have it checked,” she admitted.

The officer encouraged her to seek medical care, particularly given the incident involving the moving vehicle.

He also explained that the events could be documented and investigated regardless of whether Summer wanted to pursue the matter further.

Summer was reluctant.

She had spent so many years minimizing Mimsy's behavior that describing it plainly felt almost disloyal.

Yet there was no reasonable way to explain away what had happened.

Her mother had endangered both of their lives.

Then she had attacked her.

Then she had attempted to destroy her belongings.

Summer gave the officer the information he requested.

She declined to make any immediate decisions about pursuing further legal action.

The officer provided an incident number and explained how she could obtain a copy of the report.

He also advised her not to return to the property alone.

Summer thanked him.

The driver, who had remained nearby, looked at her in disbelief.

“Does she do things like this often?”

Summer considered the question.

“Not exactly like this.”

“But she's done things before?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.

“I don't know how you're so calm. That woman was out here screaming and setting things on fire.”

Summer looked toward the house.

Mimsy was visible through the front window, speaking animatedly to one of the officers.

Even from a distance, Summer could recognize the performance.

Her mother was explaining herself.

She was undoubtedly presenting the entire incident as the regrettable consequence of an

ungrateful daughter who had driven her to desperation.

Summer had heard the story before.

She had simply never seen it performed for an audience in uniform.

“She wasn't always this bad,” Summer said.

The driver looked unconvinced.

“Maybe not. But she's getting worse.”

Summer didn't answer.

She was thinking about the property taxes she had paid the previous month.

The groceries.

The utilities.

The endless errands.

All the money and effort she had invested in making herself useful enough to justify

occupying a bedroom in her mother's house.

None of it had bought her security.

None of it had bought her kindness.

She had spent years believing that if she could make herself sufficiently helpful, Mimsy would eventually treat her as someone worth keeping around.

Now her belongings were scattered across the driveway.

Summer looked away.

She tried calling Heather.

The call went directly to voicemail.

Heather's cheerful recorded greeting explained that she and Morgana were vacationing in

Jamaica and would be unavailable for the next week.

Summer closed her eyes.

Of course.

Heather had talked about the trip for months.

Summer had simply forgotten the dates.

She considered calling Cecilia or Rusty.

Neither seemed like an appropriate person to involve in another one of Mimsy's domestic disasters.

She could ask Pat for help, but it was late, and she didn't want to turn an employer into an emergency contact.

For the moment, she needed somewhere quiet, safe, and reasonably comfortable.

She asked the driver to take her to a hotel in the city.

Once she was checked in, she could arrange to retrieve the rest of her belongings through a third party.

She would also need to address the injury to her back and determine whether her medication and other essentials were among the things Mimsy had thrown outside.

The practical problems were numerous.

Strangely, Summer found them easier to contemplate than the prospect of returning to Mimsy's house and pretending the incident had never happened.

The driver helped her load the few possessions the officers had been able to recover safely.

Then they left.

At the hotel, Summer sat in a quiet corner of the lobby while the driver waited for her to finish checking in.

He seemed reluctant to leave.

“You really ought to stay away from that woman,” he said.

Summer gave a tired smile.

“I intend to.”

“People who act like that don't usually get better on their own.”

“I know.”

“I'm serious. She could've killed you in that car.”

Summer looked down at the scratches on her hand.

She had been thinking the same thing.

The frightening part was how quickly the argument had escalated.

One moment, Mimsy had been accusing her of jealousy.

The next, she had seized the steering wheel.

Summer had spent her life trying to predict her mother's moods, adjusting her words and behavior to avoid provoking an outburst.

She had believed that knowing Mimsy well enough meant she could keep the peace.

Now she understood how little control she had ever possessed.

Mimsy's behavior was Mimsy's responsibility.

Summer could choose whether to remain exposed to it.

The driver shook his head.

“I just don't want you going back there.”

Summer looked at him.

“Neither do I.”

He seemed relieved.

After thanking him for his help, Summer watched him leave.

Then she went upstairs.

The hotel room was ordinary.

A bed, a desk, a television, and a small bathroom.

There was nothing luxurious about it.

But it was clean, quiet, and entirely free of people demanding explanations.

Summer set her purse on the desk and sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

Her back hurt.

Her hand stung.

She was exhausted.

She had lost belongings, money, and whatever remained of her belief that she could maintain a peaceful relationship with Mimsy simply by being patient.

Yet beneath the exhaustion, she felt something unexpectedly familiar.

Relief.

It was the same feeling she had experienced after leaving Landon.

For years, she had mistaken the familiarity of a difficult relationship for the security of a stable one.

She had believed that enduring mistreatment was sometimes the price of belonging.

Now she was beginning to understand that the two things had nothing to do with one another.

Summer thought about Mimsy alone in her house.

She wondered whether her mother was frightened, angry, or already composing a version of events in which she had been terribly wronged.

Perhaps she would call tomorrow.

Perhaps she would apologize.

Perhaps she would insist that Summer had provoked her and that the entire incident had been exaggerated.

Summer knew all the possibilities.

She had lived through variations of them since childhood.

For once, she didn't feel obligated to prepare a response.

She could arrange for her belongings to be collected.

She could find an apartment.

She could continue working for Pat while looking for steadier employment.

Her circumstances weren't ideal, and her health remained a serious concern.

But those were problems she could address.

Mimsy was not a problem she could solve.

Summer lay back carefully against the pillows and looked at the ceiling.

She had spent years trying to make herself indispensable to people who treated her as disposable.

Landon had taught her that affection couldn't be earned through endless accommodation.

Mimsy had taught her that gratitude could become another form of captivity when someone insisted it was never sufficient.

Summer no longer wanted to live that way.

She reached for her phone and silenced it.

Tomorrow, she would begin making arrangements.

Tonight, she needed rest.

For the first time in years, she didn't have to worry about someone bursting through the door to tell her what she had done wrong.

The quiet was unfamiliar.

Summer closed her eyes.

She intended to get used to it.