Roger Schneider was my aunt’s attorney and executor.
He was tall and silver-haired, with an easy posture and a plaid blazer that screamed old-money subtlety.I clocked the cut, the stitching, the drape, the little details that separated off-the-rack from runway.
Ferragamo, I guessed.I’d seen the same blazer in a preview for the fall line, back when I still had access to those.
“It was part of Alice’s final wishes,” Mr.Schneider continued.His gaze flicked to me again, then returned to the folder he’d opened.“She requested the reading of the will on the day of the funeral.”
The prickling on my neck intensified, a fizz of unease and anticipation that felt a little too much like stepping backstage before a runway show.
He cleared his throat.“This is Alice Hawthorne’s last will and testament.Her estate is as follows: the house on Snapdragon Drive, including all furnishings; Enchanted Blossoms, her flower shop on Town Hall Street; her car; bank accounts totaling five hundred sixty-one thousand, four hundred thirty-five dollars; and investments valued at approximately five hundred thousand.”
Clay let out a low whistle.“A million bucks?”He barked a laugh.“Who’d’a thought the old broad was rich?”
“Clay,” Gladys hissed.
Holy.Crap.
My brain tried to assemble the words into something that made sense and… failed.Alice?A millionaire?She’d run a flower shop, for crying out loud.The aunt who wiped potting soil on her jeans and drove a sensible sedan—rich?
Beside me, Iris’s spine snapped straighter, interest sharpening every line of her face.She practically vibrated with hungry expectation.If she’d been a cartoon, dollar signs would have replaced her pupils.I half-expected her to start drooling on the carpet.
“Clay, shh,” Iris snapped without taking her eyes off the lawyer.Then, sweetly, “Please go on, Mr.Schneider.”
Annoyance flared in my chest.Iris hadn’t spent a single Saturday weeding flower beds or hauling bags of soil.She hadn’t fallen asleep in the greenhouse listening to Alice’s soft, soothing stories about other worlds and what-ifs.
I did,I thought.And I didn’t even know she had this kind of money.
Mr.Schneider adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat again.“It is Alice’s express wish that all assets I’ve listed, including all monies, go to Piper Wakefield.”
Time hiccupped.
Iris shot to her feet.“What?”
Gladys’s mouth fell open.Clay let out a loud, delighted, “Well, I’ll be.”
Heat rushed up my neck and into my face.For a second, the words didn’t register.They were just noise.
“Sorry,” I heard myself say, my voice thinner than I liked.“Yes.What?”
“You mean she’s giving everything to Piper?”Iris rounded on me, blue eyes blazing.“You little suck-up.”
Anger crackled beneath my skin, sharp and electric.“I am no such thing,” I snapped.“I had no idea she was doing this.And anyway, I don’t want this.”
That part came out a little too honest.
I hadn’t planned on staying.I had no idea how to run a business—much less a small-town flower shop.I could style a couture spread twelve ways from Sunday, but I didn’t know the first thing about balance sheets or inventory.
“If you want it so bad,” I added, my voice going cold, “you can have it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Mr.Schneider said calmly.
“Why not?”Iris sounded like a petulant teenager instead of a forty-something divorcée.“She doesn’t want it.She said so herself.”
“Alice stipulates, specifically, that Piper is to be the sole successor to her estate.”He glanced at me again, expression unreadable.“There is no provision for transferring those assets to another party.”
“She’s left nothing for anyone else?”Gladys asked.Her tone was flat and brittle.Her knuckles whitened around the handkerchief.
“I’m afraid not,” Mr.Schneider said.
