I’ll be there in four hours, hopefully less. The competition’s rules state that all tiny houses have to be at the warehouse for viewing by five that afternoon. Ours should be there at three at the latest, which will give us plenty of time to make sure no pot is out of place and no crockery cracked during transport.
I’ve driven this stretch of road so often, I could do it blind, but my heart is racing with such anticipation, I’m on a high. I turn up the music to keep my head busy, wanting to eliminate all the ‘what ifs’ of how this could go wrong.
Hours later, as I drive through the parking lot, which is already a hive of vehicles and people prepping for the convention, I spot Georgiana’s red maggot where it’s parked some distance away from the easiest entrance. I hope she hasn’t carried all those files inside yet. It would be easier to move the car before we tackle that job.
We can worry about that later. For now, it’s time to get this show on the road.
33
GEORGIANA
I rush to the convention center’s main entrance. Nothing during the drive here calmed me the heck down. Despite my GPS, I managed to take two wrong turn-offs because my head was too busy trying to figure this out and then I got stuck in traffic on one of my wrong turns. With my luck, Raiden is going to be here before me, and I’ll have zero chance of doing damage control.
At the entrance, a doorman directs me to another entrance for contestants and convention staff and I almost snap at him that I don’t have time for this crap, but apparently, I need a badge to get in and I can only get mine at the other entrance.
I hurry there, clutching my purse for dear life, sweating with nerves and hyperventilating every second breath.
By the time I’ve collected my badge and walk into the big open space, I’m even more panicked.
I stop dead in my tracks. Nine tiny houses are cordoned off on one side of the warehouse, and a team is setting up roped pathways to guide the crowd’s flow from one house to the next. Through an open back entrance, a truck, like the one that collected our tiny house this morning, is reversing in the last entry, its incessant beeping grating on my nerves. Our tiny house is parked already and probably arrived in the last thirty minutes or so, since I spot Jack and his team standing next to it with two other photographers.
For a second, I burst with pride. Of all the tiny houses on display, ours is the showstopper. Whatever happens next, we’ve created a beauty we can be proud of. People are going in and out of the houses already, and I recognize them from the website—they’re the other contestants, making sure their houses are ready for display. I want to reach out and take Raiden’s hand, but he isn’t here, and anxiety clutches my stomach tight and twists.
Jack is my first port of call, and I duck under the rope and stride towards him. I tap him on the arm to get his attention and he turns to look at me.
“George, welcome. As you can see, your entry arrived in one piece.”
“Yes.” I swallow. “Jack. We’ve got a problem.”
He signals something to one of the cameramen and steps aside with me. “We do. We’ve been waiting for you. How do you manage to have such impeccable timing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where’s Raiden?”
“We drove here separately. I don’t know how far behind me he—” My words stall as movement in our tiny house’s door catches my eye. It’s the legs, the signature stone capri pants and boat shoes I see first. Then my mother glides down the stairs, Rover, ever well-behaved, following a demure doggie step behind.
“I want you to know, I had no idea and no hand in this,” Jack mutters to me as I watch my mom turn and wait for someone else to step out of the trailer. “That’s the competition’s director, John Wallis, by the way.”
I can’t look at her. I just can’t. Instead, I stare at Rover, who has become aware of me. My hand taps on my thigh of its own volition and Rover lets all discipline fly away in the wind and bounds towards me, his tail wagging. Despite the looming catastrophe, my heart skips with joy. I missed Rover more than I realized. I sink down onto my haunches and hug him close as he tries to lick me. I dig my fingers into his thick creamy fur and hide my face, forcing control over my emotions.
A hand strokes my hair and I recognize the tenderness of his touch before I sense his body heat flow over me. Then he is next to me, also on his haunches.
“Raiden?” I’m as much relieved as I am horrified to see him.
“What’s going on, Georgiana?” he whispers to me. “Is that your secret twin?”
I don’t want to look up, because in my peripheral view, feet are coming closer. Two pairs. One in expensive boat shoes—because they’re pretty and practical when you’re on your feet the whole day—and another in a pair of polished Oxford shoes that look very director from here.
“This is Rover,” I say, not wanting to ever stand up and acknowledge what’s about to happen. “From Wess & Rover, my mom’s company.”
“And that’s your mom?”
“Yes.” Raiden doesn’t know. He can’t know. He is so calm. He got here too fast.
My mom isn’t supposed to be here.
I had no time—