Page 22 of Freeing Lark

Unfortunately, it couldn’t buy Lark happiness. Her parents had never understood her. Her siblings had learned how to fit into the Meadows mold, but Lark never had. She’d been the odd one. The creative one. The difficult one. The daughter who would rather spend an afternoon covered in paint than attend a charity luncheon.

In short, she was the black sheep and the ugly duckling all rolled into one being.

Bell Creek had been different for her. While her brother and sister resented leaving their Georgetown mansion for the “back woods” of Bell Creek, Lark had thrived. She’d spent every summer here growing up, staying with Aunt Marilyn. Those summers had been the only times she remembered feeling normal. Marilyn had accepted her for who she was, which made Lark feel incredibly free.

No one had cared whether there was paint on her jeans. No one had asked when she was going to give up her silly art hobby and do something more worthwhile with her life.

Marilyn had simply let her be Lark.

So when she’d finally decided she couldn’t breathe in her old life anymore, she’d come back to Bell Creek. She’d leased the storefront and started planning. And promised herself she’d never let anyone dictate her life again.

When her phone rang, she froze. The screen showed the name she’d been hoping not to see. Mother. Not “mom” or “ma”. No, Hildi Meadows would never want to be known as something so plebeian. Publicly calling her “mom” once had resulted in Lark being told to never again use such vulgarities in the future.

She stared at the ID name, letting it ring. It stopped. Three seconds later, it rang again. Lark closed her eyes. Her mother didn’t give up. Would never give up. What Hildi Meadows wanted Hildi Meadows got.

Lark had ignored her calls for three days. That was apparently long enough. Hildi wasn’t going to let herself be ignored any longer. She’d blow up Lark’s phone until she had no choice but to answer.

Reluctantly, Lark answered. “Hi, Mother.”

“Lark.” One word… full of disapproval already. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Apparently.”

There it was. The passive-aggressive tone. Lark turned away from the window. The room seemed less bright, as though just speaking with her mother on the phone sucked all the light out of the area.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to come home.”

“No.” It was understood that if Lark desired her freedom, her family would cease all financial assistance. Therefore, the place in Georgetown was no longer her home… not like it had ever felt like a home to her.

“You haven’t even heard why.”

“I don’t need to.”

Her mother’s sigh carried across the phone. “You’ve always been difficult.”

Lark’s jaw tightened. “That has been made abundantly clear,” she replied, unable to keep the snark out of her tone.

“Stop making this more difficult than it needs to be. I just need one thing from you.”

Knowing it was a losing battle, Lark expelled a breath in a weary sigh. If she wanted this conversation to end, she’d have to hear her mother out. “What is it?”

“The Whitmore Foundation gala.”

Lark went still. “No.”

“You’ll attend.”

“I’m not going anywhere near any Whitmores.”

“You don’t have to speak to him.” By “him” she means Bradley Whitmore, her ex-fiancé. The heir to the powerful Whitmore political dynasty, a family steeped in influence and old money.

“Then why would I go?”

“Because your sister needs you.”