I pinch the bridge of my nose as the headache that’s been myconstant companion for the last two weeks pulses in friendly greeting.Christ, Nana. I think of the person interested in the estate. It won’t be news to them that ownership will mean putting up with certain maintenance burdens, but with a preservation clause… I chew my lip. It’ll be another hurdle to cross, but not impossible. Not when I’m prepared to donate any organ they may need if it means ridding myself of this place.
“Okay. That’s fine,” I say, waving a hand for him to continue.
“Are you sure you’re not still hungry?” he hedges.
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
He sighs and pulls off his glasses, carefully folding them.
Shit.
“Okay. The bad news is that while the majority of the estatewasleft to you, there’s a small piece of it that wasn’t. I know you had plans on selling to a buyer whose privacy is of the utmost importance, and this development… complicates things.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask calmly, despite my slowly rising panic. Privacy isn’t just important to the person considering the acquisition—their interesthingeson it.
Henry clears his throat, shuffling the pages of the folio until he finds the right one, marked with a red tab.Fitting. The color of emergencies and Satan’s ass. “It says here that the guest cottage has been bequeathed outright to one Gracie Holland.” Henry looks up. “No idea who that might be, do you?”
All at once, I feel like I need to sit down. But I am fucking sitting down. Head swimming, I struggle to form words. To form thoughts.
“Jude. Hey, man, are you okay?”
When I don’t answer, I hear him quickly walk off somewhere and then the sound of running water. Moments later, I’m being nudged. “Drink.”
Numbly, I do as I’m told, but when the glass is drained, I still haven’t accepted the incomprehensible fact that Nana left an essential piece of the estate to herwedding planner. Why?My prejudices against the entire institution of marriage gather like an acrid film at the back of my throat, but my personal opinions don’t matter. Whatmattersis that the person willing to take on this behemoth moneypit willnotaccept it if someone else is living on the grounds.Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Talk to me, Judy.”
Henry looks about three seconds away from making me a stress lasagna, so I do my best to sit up and answer him. “I know Gracie Holland. Or at least, I’ve met her.”
“Okay, that’s a start,” he says, clapping and rubbing his hands together like my own personal positivity coach. “Was she a friend of your grandmother’s? If she’s elderly, she may not be up for moving. She might be willing to sell it to you.”
I think of Gracie storming away in her snug little dress, her glossy, dark hair a mess around her shoulders. Heat creeps up the back of my neck, and my hand jerks up to loosen my collar. “No, she’s definitely not elderly.”
Henry’s eyes narrow, assessing me. “You mean she’s hot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Andthat’snot a denial,” he drawls with a shit-eating grin.
“Acknowledging whether or not she’s attractive has no relevance to this conversation or the issue of getting her to sell the cottage to me,” I snap.
Henry’s mouth turns down as he weighs this. “Not necessarily. You could always just seduce her for it.”
I know he’s only joking, but the thought spins images of touching her again in my mind like cotton candy, obscuring all reason and sense. Until I remember what happened. A bitter laugh spools out of me. “Not likely. I haven’t mentioned the best part of all this.”
“Which is?”
I pull a hand down my tired, scratchy face. “She can’t fucking stand me.”
Henry lets out a long-suffering exhale. “What did you do?”
So I tell him. Not about her bell-like laugh at the church, or how it made me feel like I wasn’t alone for the first time since Nana had passed. I definitely don’t mention what pulling bobby pins from her hair did to me during my grandmother’s memorial luncheon, of all places. Nope, I don’t tell him any ofthat. Instead, I tell him about her unique work and living situation, and how I’ve ruined any chance ofgetting the cottage by destroying her life and making myself less likable than an ingrown toenail.
“Christ on a bike,” Henry mutters, rubbing a dark eyebrow until the hairs are sticking out in every direction.
“Not helpful, Hen.”
“I’mnot helpful? I beg to differ!Ibreak bad news with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I don’t go fullTerminatoron innocent, grieving women who happen to be the key to all my future happiness.”
