“There’s my girl.” Granddad’s eyes twinkle as I lean in for a hug. His embrace is solid, warm. The kind of hug that makes you drop your shoulders without realizing they were tensed.
“How you holding up out here?” I ask, settling into the chair beside him.
He gives a small chuckle. “Oh, you know. Avoiding questions about politics and golf handicaps. I’m surviving.”
I laugh and look back at the house. Just then, I see Mrs. Hughes eyeing my bouquet as if it’s a weed she forgot to pull. My smile fades slightly, but Granddad notices.
“Pay no mind to her,” he says gently. “She forgets sometimes. Likes to pretend this family has always been polished. But her husband, my son, he didn’t come from money. We worked for everything we had.” He turns, locking eyes with me. “It took grit. And a woman strong enough to see the long game. You remind me of Grammy, you know that?”
My throat tightens. He is the only one in this family whocame from nothing too, and somehow that makes him the only one who truly sees me.
“I’m proud of you. You and Sam both. But I’m especially proud Sam had the sense to marry a woman with her feet on the ground and her head looking toward the sky. That’s the winning combination, if you ask me.”
He squeezes my hand and gives me a wink.
“You’re the best kind of trouble, Becca. The kind that builds something real,” he insists.
I don’t trust my voice, so I squeeze back.
He lets out a little grunt as he stands, reaching for his cane. “Well, enough sitting around. Time to go find my good woman before she starts telling people I’ve wandered off again.”
I laugh. “Tell her I said thanks for saving me back there.”
“I’ll tell her,” he says, tapping the cane twice like a punctuation mark. “But she already knows. Plus, it’s one of her favorite pastimes.”
I watch Granddad walk off across the patio, his steps slow but sure, cane tapping with each stride. He finds Grammy near the lemonade station, and the way her face lights up when she sees him makes something ache in my chest.
I turn to head back into the crowd, needing a refill or maybe just a breather, but instead I see my favorite pair. Holly and Mandy. Holly is soft and delicate—the kind of girl who has never had a bad photo taken. Mandy looks expensive, which I’m sure is the point. They’re glued at the hip like always, standing in the shade of a hydrangea bush.
As I’m walking over, a flash of movement catches my eye: Sam near the bar, laughing with a man in a cream blazer. He has the easy confidence of a man who has never been told no and has mistaken that for charm. The developer hementioned earlier. I catch part of the man's voice over the music. “… That’s the problem with letting women into the numbers—too many feelings, not enough sense.”
Sam laughs. Not loud, not long, but enough.
I swallow it down, chalk it up to networking, then turn my focus to the walking brand collaboration in front of me.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile. “How’s the new job going?”
Holly lights up. “It’s amazing. Busy, but great.” She graduated from cosmetology school six months ago. The program was supposed to take ten months, but it took her three years; still, she finished. I celebrate and applaud her progress.
She got a job at the top salon in Cascadia. Her mother’s regular visits and kind referrals helped a lot. And surprise, surprise, Mandy works there too, conveniently installed behind the front desk.
“We’re already brainstorming ways to update the business,” Holly gushes like she owns it. “The whole place is stuck in 2009. I have a vision.”
I’ve heard the vision before. Organic, wellness-centered beauty, botanicals, all that. Honestly, she’s not wrong. Cascadia would eat that up. But she’s been in the industry forsix months.Maybe learn the ropes before trying to reinvent the wheel?
Still, I smile. “They’re lucky to have you.”
I nod along to their conversation long enough to be polite. Then I excuse myself to the restroom. It’s massive, of course. The soap smells like bergamot and costs more than my skincare routine.
When I come back out, I run into Mr. Hughes near the wet bar. He’s nursing a neat scotch, standing like he’s conducting a quiet audit of the entire party. Crisp slacks, collared shirt, not a hair out of place.
“Rebecca,” he says with a nod, his version of a warm welcome. “Thank you for sending your business plan over. You know how much I enjoy reading these things.”
His dry tone doesn’t quite match the compliment, but I catch the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Classic Mr. Hughes: dry as toast and just as expressive. But business?BusinessI can get behind.
“No problem, Mr. Hughes. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“It was well done.” Short and simple. “Five-year plan with conservative projections based on comparable properties. Accounted for seasonal variables, outlined contingency plans for climate disruptions. I also appreciated your section on layered insurance needs. Most overlook that. Your overhead stays lean, and you’re minimizing debt. Sensible.”
