“No, not condos,” he says, with the decency to look slightly ashamed. “Not exactly.”
“Oh, ‘not exactly’? How comforting. And what’s going to happen to all my clients who expect to get married here? Do you evenknowhow stressful this will be for them? No one needs their marriage to start off on that kind of rocky footing. Relationships are hard enough as it is!”
At this, he’s cold and impassive. “I’m aware that it’s an inconvenience, but I’m happy to break the news to them and issue refunds if you’re not up to the task.”
“Not up to the—” I sputter, infuriated. “Don’t eventhinkabout contacting my clients, I’m perfectly cap—” I stop with a gasp, because I’ve just realized something else. “You understand that if you fire me,” I say with mounting horror, “you’re also firing dozens of local wedding vendors who rely on Larkwood, right? We have exclusive relationships with so many incredible people who would be devastated to lose that income.” I take a choked breath as I think of Angie from The Love Notes, supporting her little girl with special medical needs. My friend Valerie from Sweetly Ever After Cakes, who’s just finding her footing after becoming a single mom, and so many more. “This can’t be happening,” I say, feeling faint.
Jude shifts his weight in the universal sign of guilt. But before I can get my hopes up that maybe heisa decent person, he doubles down. “I assure you, it’s happening.”
“But what about your grandmother?” I say, grasping my last ace. “Don’t you evencareabout her wishes?”
Jude’s eyes harden, and I wonder if I just imagined all their warmth before. “Unfortunately, Nana and I never saw eye to eye on the best use for the estate.”
“Best use?” I repeat incredulously. “Larkwood wasmadeto be awedding venue—it’s one singing candelabra away from out-fairy-tale-ing the Disney castle! Your nana intended Larkwood to be the place all our clients will think of when they remember the best day of their lives.”
Instead of having the impact I want, my impassioned speech only elicits an epically bored eye roll. “Until they’re at each other’s throats in mediation, fighting over who gets custody of the Peloton.”
His bitter words make my jaw go slack. Agatha was romance incarnate, and this grouch is supposed to be hergrandson. If it weren’t for the dead ringer height and can’t-be-bought bone structure she passed on to him, I wouldn’t believe it.
“You’re… you’re acynic,” I finally say, aghast.
He tucks a hand into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m afraid that doesn’t quite cover it.” He pulls out a card and hands it to me. “Here. In case the road proves too rocky for your clients.”
Numbly, I take the weighty card.
JUDE LARKWOOD, ESQ., CA
Divorce and Family Law Attorney
“You havegotto be joking.”
“Unfortunately not. Take care of yourself, Gracie. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”
But I’m barely listening to his false platitudes. His slimy apologies. This man is my natural nemesis, and I’m already busy plotting how to fix this because one thing is certain: I’m not giving up my home, my future, and Agatha’s legacy without a fight.
“Oh, this isn’t the last you’ve heard of me,” I threaten. “You may not care about this estate, butIdo, and so did Agatha. If there’s any way to save Larkwood from your… yourclutches, then that’s what I’m going to do. And you can keep your card.” I fling it at him and notice I’m also still gripping the tiny pink feather I’d shamefully planned to keep. “Andyour feather.” I flick this at him, too, but it has the projectile force of… a feather.
He’s speechless as they both fall to the floor, and I take the opportunity to march past him, shoulders bunching around my neck.The sooner I’m in my cottage—myhome—the better. Then I can figure out how the hell I’m going to save this place—not just for myself, but also for my clients, my vendors, and for Agatha’s memory. Because if there’s one thing she taught me, it’s that fresh starts and fragile hope need a home, too. Larkwood gave me mine, and I’ll be damned if I let him lock those doors for good.
4JUDE
The first time I saw my best friend, Henry, he was passed out and upside down on a children’s slide with a dick drawn on the side of his face. It was his nineteenth birthday, and his first time drinking. You’d never guess it’s the same man I’m looking at right now, though. Not with his horn-rimmed,numbers-are-fun!glasses or his somber, this-is-going-to-hurt expression.
“Just tell me,” I intone as we walk into Larkwood’s warm and cluttered kitchen. When I was growing up, it used to be one of my hideouts, since it was one of the few rooms that didn’t feel like it should charge an admission fee.
Henry tosses the thick leather folio that contains my grandmother’s will onto the kitchen island with a slap. “I’ll make you a PB and J first,” he says, moving toward the walk-in pantry.
I repress a sigh. There’s no point trying to stop Henry when he wants to feed you. He’ll only tell you that you’re making his Indian and Italian genetics hurt until you eat.
He returns with ingredients before looping around the island to the refrigerator, which is still covered in a humiliating gallery of every buck-toothed, cow-licked, pimpled phase of my childhood. I don’t have the heart to take it down, despite knowing I’ll be living at Larkwood every weekend for the foreseeable future. The thought gives my stomach a sloshy spoiled milk feeling, but there’s no way out of it. Nana named me as her executor, and there’s no one else I’d trustto manage her possessions and final wishes. I close my eyes as the pain of losing her rises in me so fast that I feel vertigo.
Why didn’t you tell me you were dying, Nana? Why couldn’t I get over my bullshit and visit you more when I had the chance?
“See? You’re dead on your feet.” My friend tuts like a mother hen. “You need some nourishment.” He sticks four slices of bread into the toaster.
“You don’t need to toast the bread,” I grumble.
A patient smiles stretches over his features. “You’ll be thanking me in a minute, asshole.”
