“Well, yeah. You made that peanut butter pie.”
I sniff, tossing my head to the side in mock outrage. “Ares and Iunderstandeach other, okay? We’re both peanut butter motivated.”
“If Ares could read, we’d really be in trouble,” Margot jokes.
“Yes. I’ll learn ten new tricks if there’s a book involved. If only it motivated me to walk more.” I sigh.
“Walking isn’t a trick, Hattie. But you look good. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She’s too generous.
We both know I could stand to shed some pounds and finding motivation is harder than the workout itself.
I pull out my phone and do a quick search.
“Actually,” I say, holding up a finger, “Merriam-Webster defines a trick asa deceptive, dexterous, or ingenious feat.”
Margot folds her arms, but she’s smiling.
Another surge of victory.
Keeping her smiling today is a huge accomplishment.
“Walking isn’t exactly ingeniousordexterous or whatever,” she says.
“Actually, I would say that when I’m walking, I’m being deceptively healthy.”
She gives up and leans back in her chair, covering her face.
I grin as I take another long pull of my drink, giving myself a whipped cream mustache I wipe off with the back of my hand.
But when her laughter dies down and her eyes turn pensive again, I know we can’t avoid dancing around the pissed off elephant in the room forever.
Neither of us wants to avoid it, really. It’s the whole reason we’re meeting this morning.
“So, how are you doing?” I level a gentle look. “I mean… really?”
“The polite answer? I’m coping, Hattie.” She exhales until her shoulders slump. “The reality is, total shit show.”
“I can only imagine.” I wince in sympathy.
“We had hyper-demanding dickheads on six different continents beating down our doors so they could be seen paying their respects. Rich people are so fucking obnoxious.”
I keep my mouth shut, because it’s true.
But seeing as she’s rich—and my personal exception to the rule—I don’t agree too enthusiastically.
“And let’s not eventalkabout the scammers. Holy shit, now that he’s dead, everyone wants to swoop in for a few crumbs of his pie. Dad had to throw this guy out who showed up all the way from Boston, trying to sell handcrafted funeral wreaths.”
“Oh yeah, the funeral. How’s that coming along?” I ask cautiously.
“There wasn’t one. Gramps insisted he didn’t want any big goodbyes and made sure he let us know it through his lawyer. My parents were relieved at the savings. But you know what they’re like.”
I do.
Let’s just say Leonidas Blackthorn’s business genius skipped a generation. Margot’s folks like to call themselves entrepreneurs, but what they really are is pampered, living off the family trust.
Without it, they’d go broke before you could blink.
