I flop onto a barstool. I’m too tired to argue. Between finishing up my current cases, fighting with my mother over Nana’s wishes, having to be in the same fucking zip code as my father, and losing one of the painfully few people I truly love, it’s been two of the shittiest weeks in recent memory. And that’s not even counting what happened with the wedding planner.Gracie.
Shame and anger needle the back of my neck at the memory, and I automatically glance at the nearest window. She still lives here after all. But beyond the glass, the lush kitchen garden is empty. What does it say about me if I’m disappointed? That I wouldn’t mind getting glared at again by those dark eyes?
Probably that I need to get laid.
The sound of the toast popping up makes me jolt, and Henry makes a soft tsking sound. “Did you even hear what I just said?”
I jerk my eyes away from the window. “Sorry. It’s been a long two weeks.”
“Forgiven.” Henry lays the toast on the cutting board before digging into the jam with a knife. “I was saying that you have your work cut out for you. Your grandmother gave direction for the major things, but there’s a lot of antique sorting and last request management ahead of you.”
If I were more naive, I’d hope this was the worst news awaiting me. But when Henry starts making comfort food, it generally means I should schedule something with my therapist.
“She didn’t contract the estate out toDancing with the Stars, did she?” I say darkly.
Henry chuckles, now layering the two sandwiches with potato chips. “Good guess, but no.”
“Who puts potato chips on a PB and J?” I ask him, distracted.
“Unappreciated saints,” he answers, before starting on the peanut butter. “How’s the Rocher case, by the way?”
I drop my forehead to the butcher-block counter, slowly rolling it back and forth. “I thought you were trying to make me feel better,” I say, voice muffled against the wood.
“That bad, huh?”
Yes, that bad. For a good portion of my job, I’m able to work with people who don’t suck. Ninety-nine percent of the time, those people are my pro bono clients. I can’t say the same for the ones who pay my bills. Thankfully, my team was incredibly understanding when Nana passed, and this is the last billable case I have to finish before taking a six-week break to handle the estate. But until then, I’ll be mediating disputes over who gets Hay Girl Hay—the thoroughbred neither my client nor her soon-to-be ex-husband ever sees, but are willing, apparently, to duel at dawn over. Reluctantly, I sit up and look at him with dead eyes.
“Eat your sandwich,” he says, pushing the plate toward me. “You’ll feel better.”
I take a bite, and somehow, he’s right. The warm, gooey filling is balanced perfectly by the salty crunch of the chips. “Fuck.” I groan with my mouth full.When was the last time I ate?
“Dude, gross. If I wanted to hear yourOnoises, I would have brought you a Neiman Marcus catalog,” he says, throwing a cloth napkin at me before taking a bite of his own sandwich.
I shrug. Henry has been giving me shit for dressing well since I met him. But underneath it all, I know he’s grateful I helped him outgrow the tucked polos and khakis I’ve come to think of as his Golf Period.
He also knows it was Nana who taught me to appreciate companies that actually pay their workers a living wage and make clothes that last longer than six months. At the realization that I’ll probably never get to nerd out over French seams with anyone else, my heart tumbles a little deeper into the hole that opened up when she passed.
And then I remember a little black dress, perfectly tailored to hug every gaze-demanding curve it accentuated.Gracie. Gracie, who loved my nana. Gracie, who gave me breath enough to laugh when my grief was suffocating. Gracie, who’d be thrilled to see me roll around butt-naked in poison ivy. I push the now-empty plate away, disgusted with myself. Did Iactuallygive her my business card?
Yes, you did. Because she asked if you even cared about Nana’s wishes, and you justhadto lash out.Regret tightens my chest, but I’ve had to field the same goddamn question from my mother at every turn, and unfortunately for Gracie, I’d finally hit my breaking point. Because Nana meant more to me than pretty much anyone, and while I’m 90 percent sure she would support my plans for the estate, the other 10 percent is riddled with doubt. But I can’t ask her about it. Because she’s gone now, and all that’s left is thisfuckinghouse that has only ever felt like a monument to secrets and lies.
“Christ, Judy. What did those crumbs ever do to you?”
I glance up from my plate, which I’ve been glaring at. I let out a slow breath. “Sorry. It’s been—”
“A long two weeks,” Henry finishes for me, putting our plates in the sink. “Well, I hate to say it, but it’s about to get longer.”
“Let’s have it,” I say, sitting up straighter.
He unzips his folio to reveal a hefty stack of paper, fringed with color-coded tabs. “So, the good news,” he begins, leafing through some pages, “is that Agatha left you the main estate and its grounds outright. Because it was privately owned and she declined having it listed on the National Register of Historic Places, Larkwood isn’t subject to preservation laws, in the traditional sense.”
I nod.Thank fuck.
“However.”
Never mind.
“She did set up her own preservation clause. It’s quite detailed and stipulates a number of specific contractors who specialize in historic restoration, and one carpenter who is, and I quote, ‘finer than a thirty-two-year-old Patrick Swayze.’?”
