All of this should’ve been my first red flag.
Everything has a condition.
I shouldn’t have expected anything less from Mae Hargrove.She believed earning things builds character.
Edmund Mills sets down one page and picks up another.His eyes find mine across the table, and I straighten in my chair, the low hum of anticipation tightening in my chest.
The moment is here.
“‘To my youngest grandchild, Hadley.I’ve always admired your need to explore and live life without attachments.I suppose you got that from your dad, the need to go out in the world and take it for yourself.But I still remember the little girl who would tuck herself into the corner of the bookshelves and read for hours, then follow me around the store recounting every single thing she’d discovered.Of course, The Story Jar is yours.’”
Warmth floods through me, so sudden and so sharp it almost hurts.
Sloane makes a small dismissive sound under her breath, but she’s not going to ruin this moment for me.
“‘With two stipulations.’”Mr.Mills peeks up above the rim of his wire-framed glasses at me.
Sloane’s scoff becomes something closer to a laugh.
Whit’s hand finds my forearm under the table.
“‘Even though I deeply admire your spirit of adventure, I need you to demonstrate that you are ready to care for The Story Jar the way it deserves to be cared for…’”
Mr.Mills glances up once more and offers me an odd smile, so I prepare myself for the stipulations that will come with me inheriting the children’s bookstore.Maybe I’ll have to show the books to the accountant and have someone mentor me for a period of time.
And I love all the employees, so no worries about firing anyone.
Whatever stipulation she’s put on me getting the store, I can handle.
“‘First, you need to establish permanent residency in Chicago for a minimum of one year.’”
“Done.”I nod in agreement.
Easy.
Sure, it’s not my favorite place because of my family, but it’s not a hard price to pay.
His eyebrows lift slightly.“‘And you need to be married.’”
I lean in closer, sure I misheard him.
The silence that fills the room is absurd, since everyone here prides themselves on never acting shocked by anything.
My mother’s composure, which has survived decades of Hargrove family drama without one visible crack, fractures just slightly.“Married?”Her voice shakes.
“She was quite adamant.”Edmund Mills sets the papers down and leans back in his chair.“I did attempt to advise her that the condition was antiquated and bore little practical relation to Hadley’s readiness to manage a bookstore.”
“Well, thanks,” I mutter.
“But she didn’t budge.”He slides an envelope across the table.“She left you a letter.”
“No one else got a letter?”Sloane asks.
Nobody answers her.
I stare at my grandmother’s handwriting—the perfect, looping cursive she maintained her entire life because she believed penmanship was a form of self-respect.
Around me, my mother and Whit and Sloane have descended into murmured conversation.
