Andrea Laurence - Passionate Proposals

Today her hair was in a casual ponytail, something she would never wear to the office on an average workday. She was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and jeans. Carson realized in that moment that he’d never seen Georgia look like this before. She was always so professional and put together, even on a casual Friday. He appreciated that about her, but she looked so much younger and more easygoing today.

“You know, it’s rude to stare.”

Busted. Carson grinned wide and met Georgia’s amused gaze. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here today. Nor did I think I’d find you in jeans.”

Georgia looked down self-consciously at herself. “Is that okay? I didn’t think anyone would see me. I’m usually here alone on the weekends.”

“It’s absolutely fine,” he said, although he was concerned by the rest of her response. “Are you here most weekends?”

“Yes. I like the quiet of the office. It lets me catch up on things and focus without calls or people coming by. I know the company is big on spending time with family, but I don’t have a family.”

Carson tried not to frown. He didn’t know much about Georgia. She was all work during business hours, so they hadn’t spent much time socializing. Her office was tidy and well decorated, but there weren’t any photos of family or friends on her desk or bookshelves. Now he knew why.

“What about you?” she asked. “Why are you in today? I thought after all that champagne last night that most people would be laid out until noon at least.”

He had woken with a slight headache, but nothing he couldn’t handle. As for why he was here, that was a good question. He’d gotten into his car, fully intending to drive to his mother’s home and make good on his promise to clean out the house. The next thing he knew, he was at work. “I thought I’d come in and check on some things.”

Georgia wrinkled her nose. “You’re avoiding something,” she said without a touch of doubt in her voice.

He sighed and slumped against her door frame. Was he that transparent? “I guess I am.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

Whereas he hadn’t been looking to drag anyone into the slog of work, he realized that he didn’t dread the task so much when he envisioned Georgia there with him. “No, no. You’ve probably got better things to do,” he argued.

“No, tell me,” Georgia insisted.

“I’m supposed to be cleaning out my mother’s house. I told Brooks and Graham that I’d go through everything and start getting it ready to sell. That’s where I intended to go today, but I ended up here instead. I don’t know why.”

“I can imagine that would be difficult,” she said. “Would you like me to go with you? I’d be happy to lend a hand. At the very least, I can offer moral support.”

It sounded great, but he still felt anxious about it. “Are you sure? Her house is about a half hour from here, up in Kenilworth.”

Georgia closed her laptop and stood up. She picked up her massive black purse and slung it over her arm. “I’m sure. Let’s go.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her. Without even making it as far as his own office, they turned around and headed back to the elevator.

They were on the expressway north before they spoke again. “So tell me,” Georgia began, “what’s going on here? I mean, if you don’t mind. I get the feeling this is about more than just sorting through your mother’s things.”

Carson gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel and focused his gaze intently on the traffic ahead of him. “Do you really want to know my tragic life story?”

Georgia snorted delicately. “I think I can trump you on tragic life stories.”

“Tell me about you, then.” Carson was far more interested in Georgia’s life than he was in rehashing his own.

She shook her head adamantly. “Nope. I asked you first. And besides, this trip is about you. I need to know if I’m treading into a mine field here.”

His brothers wanted him to dig up the truth about their father. If she was going to be there helping him, she needed to know. “Okay,” he relented. “My mother is the only real family we ever had. Our aunt Gerty died a long time ago, and she wasn’t really related to us. Losing Mom, we lost any connection we have to our roots. It’s been a difficult realization for us all.”

“I understand what that can be like,” Georgia said without elaborating. “Did your mother ever speak about her family or your father to you?”

“Rarely, and when we pushed her, nothing she said was good. She insisted that our father was abusive and she ran away from him in the middle of the night when we were still babies. She never would tell us where we lived before, his name or anything about the past. She made it very clear that she didn’t want us to find him when we were older.”

“That must be frustrating for you all,” Georgia noted. “Wanting to belong, yet having that fear that the truth would be worse than being alone.”

“Exactly,” Carson said with surprise in his voice. He didn’t expect her to be able to understand it all so easily. “Brooks and Graham want me to look for clues in the house. They seem convinced that the answers are hidden away somewhere. I’m not so sure, but I told them I would look. It’s our last chance at the truth. The rest died with Mom.”

That was probably the hardest part. Carson had gotten the feeling that maybe one day their mother might tell them the rest of the story. They weren’t children anymore. She had nothing to fear from her past because the boys could protect her, no matter what. Cynthia probably thought she had time to share the whole tale about where they came from, and then it was stolen away in an instant.

“I’ll help you find out the truth,” Georgia said.

As Carson exited the expressway and headed toward the house in Kenilworth, he found himself nearly overwhelmed with gratitude that she was here with him. That she understood. “Thank you” was all he could verbalize.

“I don’t know my real family, either,” she offered. “I grew up in the Detroit foster care system because my mother was a teenage runaway. She got into drugs and a lot of other nasty things and they took me away. I have no idea who my father is or anything about my family. My father’s name was left off the birth certificate. I don’t even know for certain that my last name is really Adams. She could’ve just picked that name out of the sky. Not having that link to your past and where you come from can make you feel like discarded paper drifting on the wind.”

Carson was surprised by her confession, but it made a lot of the pieces of the Georgia puzzle fall into place. Maybe that’s why he was so drawn to her. They were both lost, anchorless. “Have you kept contact with your mother at all over the years?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and looking down into her hands folded in her lap. “I haven’t seen her since I was three and social services came for me. I wouldn’t really even know what she looked like if my caseworker, Sheila, hadn’t given me an old photo of her. I keep it in my purse.” Georgia reached for her bag and pulled out the photo.

Carson turned in to his mother’s driveway just as she handed over the picture. He put the car in Park and studied the worn photograph. The blonde girl in the picture was holding a towheaded toddler. She looked very young, not more than fifteen or sixteen. The late ’80s influences were evident in her big hair and heavy makeup, which didn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes or the hollowed-out cheeks. There were purple track marks on the girl’s arm.

“I think she looked a lot like me, but thinner. Harder. There wasn’t much life in her eyes by that point. Aside from that, I don’t have any memories of her that really stayed with me. I just remember the homes.”