Audrey's POV

I MISS Gemma. It's been a few days since she's been gone. And twenty years before that. But I've always cherished our friendship.

Between having the kids and being Brian's wife, I've lost who I am along the way. I'm either Claire's mom, Daphne's mom, or Brian's wife.

I'm not me anymore.

"Honey, do you know where my blue shirt is?" I sigh and walk up the stairs.

"Which one?" I ask, as I lean against the doorframe of our bedroom, "there's the blue striped, plain blue, dark blue, baby blue—"

"The short sleeved blue," as though he senses my next question, "the Old Navy one."

He can never find anything. I guess it's a character flaw.

I walk into the closet, and grab it, "what would I do without you?" He kisses my lips, and takes it from me.

"You'd be living with your mom."

"Oh, dear. She'd have me married off to the next widow just to get me out of her house," he laughs as he puts it on, "I do appreciate everything you do. Please don't send me there."

"I won't," I grab a tie for him, "I was thinking of taking a short trip—"

"Where, honey?"

"To Vegas."

He sighs, "to see Gemma?" I nod, "you know I don't like her very much."

"I know. But I don't know why."

"How can you be friends with someone who doesn't believe in God?"

He takes the tie from me, and wraps it around his neck, "she never said that she doesn't."

"Right. All she said is that God can be anyone," I could strangle him with that tie right now, "Gemma isn't a good influence. Especially on the kids. She was around for a few days, and Claire wants to be a makeup artist, and Daphne wants to chop off her hair."

"You're blaming Gemma because our daughters care about how they look?" He places his hands on my shoulders and rubs.

"We're good Christians. I mean that she's not the type of person that respects our—"

"Her family has helped mine time and time again over the years. They're good people," I sigh, "they used to be. She's the only one left. I'm not going to turn my back on her."

"You're not going to Vegas, and that's final."

I'm infuriated with him. I know that it's because she's gay. Why else would he make such a big deal about it?

"Fine." I work everyday and also care for this family, yet I never seem to have a say.

I'm voiceless. But I don't have the courage to go against him.

Sabrina's POV

EVER SINCE I handed the business' responsibilities fully over to Jack, everyday has been filled with endless hours of nothing.

I'm not used to having nothing to do. There's always paperwork, and more paperwork. And taking care of my husband. And my kid. And the house.

Now, I have a damn housekeeper. It's not that I'm not really happy that I do. But I literally have nothing to do. Other than wash dishes everyday and spot clean.

I've also been feeling guilty for the past few days. The things that Gemma said to me... they hit a nerve. Or more so, a soft spot. I made her feel all those things. And it's almost like I betrayed her.

I always knew that I wasn't fair to her. But she chose to be with me. She was young. Maybe I should have put my foot down—allow her to move on with her life.

But, she eventually did. She's got the life I always imagined for her. I've always known that she's cut out for great things.

"Mom, it's me. Please open the door," Jack knocks and knocks. He's so impatient.

I open it, and he walks in. He looks like he's been running. He's panting and holding onto his knees.

"You okay?" He nods, "let me get you some water."

I head to the kitchen, and grab the pitcher from the fridge. I pour him a glass, and he downs it within seconds.

"Thanks. I needed that."

"Another one?" He shakes his head. I put the pitcher back into the fridge, and wait for him to tell me why he's here.

"Gemma left," he starts, "Audrey told Eleanor. And Eleanor told—"

"Okay. What's that got to do with me?" I cross my arms over my chest.

"Well, I thought she's your friend, so you'd want to know."

"Not anymore. After your accusations, I'm staying away from that woman for good."

He places his hands on the counter, and glares at me, "what about you going over to her, and causing a big scene. Is that my fault too?"

"It was just a conversation."

"Sure, mom. Gemma's just a friend. And you two had a conversation. Let's keep lying to ourselves."

He starts to pace the room with his hands on his head, "Jack, you need to forget—"

"Forget? Forget, mom? I've known about you two ever since I was a kid. How must I forget all those multiple times you would sneak over to the guest room when she slept over? Or all the times you talked on and on about her when she wasn't around? Or when you cried days after she left for college? I've noticed all these things and more. I know you fucking love her!"

I feel like collapsing to the floor. He noticed? And never said anything before? I swallow. Did his father know?

His father always suspected. But I always denied. All that Freddy wanted—Jack's father, was to get in Gemma's pants.

He'd always suggest a threesome. That's just the kind of guy he was. Oh, how I hated him for it.

"Jack, why now? Why are you asking about this after all these years?"

I walk into the living room, and sit down. I can barely breathe.

"I knew you'd deny it. And I thought maybe I was making things up. But it makes sense, mom. Everything adds up. And when I saw Gemma, I knew I had to ask her, before I confronted you about it. The look on your faces tell the whole story, even with all the denial."

I place my hand on my chest. Come on, Sabrina, deny it. Don't let him rattle you. You're stronger than this.

"Jack," I feel the tears threatening to fall. Just the slightest movement, and I know that I'll burst into tears.

"I just want the truth, mom. I'm not judging you. I just want to know that I'm not crazy."

Nothing else could convince me to tell him, other than what he just said. He's not crazy.

"You're not crazy," I mumble, feeling my body crumble.

He walks over, and sits beside me, "I'm not?"

I shake my head, "you're not crazy, Jack. But I'm not ready to talk about it."

The tears finally fall. He pulls me into him, and tries to soothe me. But how can I feel at ease? I don't like these emotions, and I don't want to admit that I actually have feelings for Gemma. Even after all this time, do I love her? Have I always loved her?

Veronica's POV

THE GIRLS are over for yet another drinking night. I've currently got two guests staying at the bed and breakfast, and another couple will be arriving tomorrow. Along will some other bookings throughout the week.

It's always been my dream to open this place. I love being a host. I love cooking. I love making people happy. And I love this town. But as I'm getting older, I wonder if this is it. Is this what I'll be doing for the rest of my life? Till the day I die?

I've always wanted kids. And a loving partner. And a simple life filled with good memories.

I'm happy. And I can be content with what I have now. But is it selfish to say that I want more? Everyone wants to be loved, don't they?

I've been in countless relationships with women. After my divorce from my ex-husband, I hit all the lesbian bars in Conneticut. I've even slept with a few straight women in a five mile radius from where I live.

And who hasn't been propositioned by Penny and her husband? Those two are very adventurous. But I can't jeopardize our friendship, and I don't sleep with men since before I got divorced.

"So, I just have to know. What happened between you and Gemma?" Beatrice asks me with a huge grin on her face, and a glass of wine in her grasp.

"What? Nothing," the girls are looking at me, and nudging each other, "I was wondering if anything happened between Penny and her actually," I say.

Penny scoffs, "she's a plain Jane. Got offended when I popped the question."

"You need to stop popping that question, Penny," Maggie rolls her eyes, "it's rude to ask every attractive woman if they'll sleep with you and your husband."

"Oh, come on, he's fine with only watching too."

Beatrice shakes her head, "I wish my sex life was as wild as yours. Bobby's fetish is me sucking his balls."

I almost choke on my wine, "T-M-I, Beatrice! Fuck."

"What? Would you prefer to talk about how he likes watching lesbian porn as we do it doggie style?" I cringe.

"Don't be a prude, Veronica." Maggie looks at me, "when's the last time you got laid anyway?"

I shrug, "I can't remember."

"Wow. It's been longer than I thought then."

"Shut up," I lean the glass to my lips. Does everyone have a better sex life than me?

Penny says, "how I wish I did get to try Gemma Cohen out. She's one hot commodity, especially back in the day."

"You sure you two didn't hit it at least once back in highschool, Penny?" Maggie asks.

"No. I wasn't into women yet. What about you Veronica? Didn't try her out in high school either?"

I shake my head. Gemma was two grades ahead of me. When she was a senior, I was a sophomore. I had my boyfriend. And she was, well, I don't think she dated in highschool. At least, not that I know of.

I vaguely remember her from back then. But she doesn't seem to remember me at all. I think I like it better that way.

"Nope. We didn't know each other," I answer and look at Maggie.

"Sure, you didn't," Maggie teases. I give her the look—the shut the fuck up look, "there's something between you two, I can tell."

"Whatever. She's in Brazil, and might never come back here."

"Really?" Beatrice seems very interested in Gemma. They all do, "I wonder what she's going to do about her shares in Bobby's workshop."

"She hasn't handled that yet?" Beatrice shakes her head.

"She called and told Bobby not to worry. That she'll relinquish her ownership of shares, but I don't believe her. Who would do something like that without wanting anything in return?"

"The Cohens," Maggie says, "her grandpa's done a lot for the people around this side of town. Without ever expecting much in return. I guess she took after him."

"What's up with that anyway?" Penny asks. We all look at her, "I mean, her grandpa told almost everyone that she's a lawyer. Why'd he lie? It's not like she's a bum or anything."

"Who knows," Beatrice sighs, "I wonder if he knew she's a lesbian. That might be the reason she left, and didn't come back until after he was dead."

My friends seem to want to know everyone's business. I don't know much about Gemma's relationship with her grandfather. But everyone can tell that it was a rocky one.

"I wonder if she's going to sell the house. I know that a lot of people would love to buy it. And I'm the perfect realtor to do it," Maggie says.

The three of them are starting to talk to themselves. Because no one else is paying attention to what they're saying.

It might be because we've drank so much wine already. I need to stop drinking so much. But these grapes are irresistible. I wouldn't say that I'm an alcoholic, but I might be on the verge at this rate.

Jack's POV

I FEEL bad for my mom. I know that I've been pushing her to tell me the truth, and I think she has.

You're not crazy.

Is that all the confirmation I need? Is it enough? I can't imagine seeing her burst into tears like that again. It's heartbreaking.

It made me regret everything I said and have done. Maybe I should've dropped the issue a long time ago.

But I just can't.

I feel as though I'm obligated to know. Gemma was a part of my life too. I know that things will never be like that again. But when I was a kid, she was there. And that means a lot.

It hurts that my mom is able to lie like this. And for so long. Is it normal for people to keep secrets like that for years and years? It makes me wonder about what else she's lied about.

"Jack, are you in here?" Eleanor walks into the living room where I'm at. I'm sitting on the couch, lost in thought about everything.

"Yeah. Can't sleep."

She sits beside me, and leans her head against my shoulder, "are you okay?" She asks.

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

"So you're not fine?" She places her hand on my thigh, "is this about your mom?"

I know that Eleanor doesn't approve of me meddling in my mom's life. But I bet if her mother had a big secret, she'd want to know what it is.

As much as it's the right thing to respect someone's privacy, certain things should be unfolded, in my opinion.

I'm tired of living in the dark. I want to know about what happened between my mom and Gemma. Did my mom break it off because she loved my dad? Did Gemma break it off because my mom wouldn't leave my dad? Were they a... tropple?

Anything's possible.

"I don't want to talk about it. It's not my business, right?"

"Exactly. I mean, come on, your mom having an affair with a woman? That's absurd."

"I didn't realize that you're homophobic," I look at her. She leans back and sighs.

"I'm not, Jack. It's just hard to believe that your mom... your mom likes women. She voted for Truimph. And she has that damn Truimph sticker on the back of her car."

"I know. I know. But I'm not crazy, Eleanor. Can't you trust my instincts?"

"No, Jack. There's facts. And they don't add up."

"Not to you. Have I ever told you about how she'd drop me off at my grandmother's at night to go see her?"

"How do you know that?"

"Well, they were supposedly friends. My mom never lied about if she was with Gemma or not. Of course, no one knew what they were doing."

I lean forward, and place my hands on my head, "let's get some sleep. You can tell me more in the morning," she says.

"Okay," I mumble. I'm becoming impatient with my mother. Will she tell me about Gemma? Or will she hold it off? Maybe she'll even deny that she ever said that I'm not crazy.

Gemma's POV

THE CONVERSATION around me is like music to my ears, as cliché as it sounds. Although, I don't understand much of what they're talking about, I'm not feeling excluded.

They laugh, and I laugh. I eat and carefully watch each of them. Memorizing their faces, and the things that they say. The way they smile, even though they might not be happy at all. They're lovely. Almost taken right out of a movie.

I look beside me to Estela. I guess I got what I wished for. Even if this is just a dinner with a stranger, and she'll leave right after. I have a moment with her, and these people. And it's priceless.

She has gorgeous, black hair. I've always loved a woman with a head of thick curls. And, it must be the wine talking, but those lips... I'd love to kiss them.

Camila looks at me and smirks, "Gemma," my name sounds so sexy in that accent, I almost blush, "tell us... about you."

Do I really want to tell them the same boring things I tell everyone else? I mean, I'm in this exotic country with beautiful people all around. Can't I create an interesting persona for myself?

"Yes, I want to know. Who is... Gemma?" Estela tilts her head, as she looks at me, "você parece misterioso."

I seem mysterious? That's new. And very interesting to hear.

"Não sou misterioso," I respond, looking around the table, "what do you think of me?"

Paulo scratches his jaw in consideration. I'd say that they're all a bit mysterious themselves. It's got to be because of the language barrier.

But I feel as though I'm in one of those French movies. Or like I'm going to Eat, Pray, Love on this trip. Something like that.

That's just a tingling thought running through my head. My life can never be as interesting as Julia Roberts' movies. I'm not that girl.

Sometimes I wish my life could be like a movie—more accurately, a romance movie. Where I meet people, and make friends. Try things I've never tried before. Find love without looking for it. Or find love just when I need it the most.

It's not that simple in real life. A happy ending seems so easy in movies. But it's so hard. Really hard. How can I have my happy ending, when I don't know how to let someone in again?

Will my walls automatically fall when I finally meet the right person? And is there really a right person?

I've met the right person once before. She's the only woman I think of, when I think about love. Or hurt. My mind seems to pick and choose how to think about her.

But, no, I don't love her... not anymore. I can't. I won't let myself.

"Gemma," Estela places her hand on my shoulder, "you seem..."

"I'm fine," I smile, "I'm an artist. Artista," I look around the table.

"I wouldn't have guessed," Paulo says. Should I be offended? "No, disrespect, Gemma," he laughs.

"Yes, I see that," Matilde studies me, with her chin propped onto the back of her palm, "interessante."

WE CHAT about my relationship with a canvas for a while. I don't think they understand much of what I say. But that's okay. It's nice to have people listen.

Estela's friends leave, and I'm sitting at the bar again, waiting for another glass of wine.

"Are you okay, Gemma?" Estela asks when she walks towards me. I look behind me and nod.

"Sim. I liked your friends," she sits beside me and nods.

"They liked you," the bartender pours me another glass, "gosto de você."

"Really?" I smile, "I like you too."

"Bom."

She buys me another drink. And before I know it, we're in her car, my hands in her hair, and her tongue in my mouth. She might be Portuguese, but she kisses like a French.

I haven't made-out with anyone like this since I was in my twenties. But it's exhilarating. And when she snakes her hand around my waist, I involuntarily moan against her lips.

"Estela, I'm—" we part for a second. And she looks into my eyes. Now I remember what lust feels like, "your place or mine?"

Her hand runs up my side, "mine."