Page 39 of Silver Brewer

Charlie points to information on the final page of the document. “There’s a phone number for the real estate agency in Chicago.” He taps the page where a Post-it tab rests below the information. “And she gave me her cell phone number. She said I was free to pass it on to the property owner in case he had questions, wanted details, or just wanted to talk.”

“Did she really say that?” Then we can talk. We never had the discussion we needed to have after her third night. The conversation I hoped to have where I explained that I couldn’t sell the land, and I hoped she’d understand the reasons behind my decision, and then I’d ask her if we could somehow explore what we had, what we discovered between us in our adventure on the ridge.

“No.” Charlie chuckles. “But maybe you should call her?” There’s a hesitation in his suggestion.

“I don’t have any questions,” I gruff, more irritated than I should be. Am I angry with her or myself for not explaining everything? “She already admitted she’s no longer interested in the purchase.”

“And what about you? Are you no longer interested?” His brow tweaks upward.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

Charlie pats my shoulder. “Sure, you don’t.” With that said, he stands, leaving the copy of the document and the yellow tab glaring up at me.

Sometimes being a Harrington can be a pain in the ass.

16

Wedding presents

[Letty]

“And he washed your hair?” It’s said like a question, but it’s more of a statement, and Marcus has turned it into his greeting the last week. It’s not hello or how was your day? It’s He washed your hair, as if I need the reminder of the romantic gesture from a man who ripped my heart out.

“Sit,” I tell Marcus as he pulls out a stool at the high-top table. We’re both dressed in business attire, and over the last eight plus days, I’ve found the clothing itchy and restrictive. I’m exceptionally fond of my yoga pants and sweatshirts on the weekends, but these past days, I’ve longed for jeans and a flannel in an unhealthy way.

Marcus looks every bit the professional he is with his sandy brown hair perfectly gelled into a mini coif by his forehead. The sides are shaved, which is a modern style with a razor-sharp part. His brown eyes hide behind dark rimmed glasses. He smiles tightly at me.

“Be brave. Be strong.”

The night will be difficult, but I find I’m more sour over a man some thousands of miles away than the man kissing my sister on the cheek near the door. Mullen Realty decided to host a party to celebrate the nuptials of Dayna and Hudson at the end of the week, as if we weren’t already celebrating Dayna’s good fortune all year leading up to her special day. It’s turned into wedding week, like Shark Week on television, and being eaten by one might be more pleasurable than the experience of this wedding. Kill me.

My uncle Frank beams at Dayna, so proud of the connection her marriage to Hudson Rockford will provide to his realty company. I, on the other hand, have turned into the biggest disappointment again. My contact with one Charles Harrington, mayor of Blue Ridge, Georgia, didn’t go unnoticed.

“What do you mean you didn’t procure the property?”

“It’s not for sale nor can it be sold. Land entailment.” I’ve used the terminology to disguise my failure or, rather, my change of heart. I no longer want us to pursue Giant’s land—the land his precious Pap gave to him. It wasn’t just because he broke my heart, either; I truly didn’t feel right trying to obtain something so precious, so non-materialist from someone so genuinely content with something so simple.

Uncle Frank strangely knew the detail of the land but decided not to include it in the prospect report he gave me. He believed some simpleton in a small town would only see dollar signs and hand over his property for greener pastures. Or in George Harrington’s case, green papers with Benjamin Franklin on them. It appears Uncle Frank didn’t investigate the Harringtons either. How wrong he was about Mr. Harrington, his attachment to the land, and his lack of desire for money.

“You look lovely. Want a drink?” Marcus says, distracting me from my thoughts. He doesn’t mean what he says. He’s seen me all day in this outfit—a pencil skirt, a tight blouse, and a stiff suit jacket. I look a little worn from the day I’ve had, but not as frightening as I looked when I arrived at a hotel outside of Atlanta before flying back to Chicago. I don’t know how the woman agreed to give me a room. Maybe it was the tear-stained face and stiff, dirty clothes. I took an extra night to cry myself to sleep in a big, comfy bed with extra pillows after a long hot bath. It was heavenly…minus the crying part.

“I’ll have a margarita on the rocks with salt.”

“Oh, fiesta time?” Marcus wiggles his ass on the wooden stool.

“Get me drunk time,” I say with a laugh although it isn’t true. I want to keep my wits this week so I don’t say something I shouldn’t. I’m over Hudson and my sister, but a little liquid courage might not stop me from spilling the truth. He cheated on me with her. Hudson didn’t want the bad press, so he asked that we part, stating irreconcilable differences, as if we were getting a divorce. As if he wasn’t seen with my sister at some fundraiser a week later. I didn’t want to admit his indiscretion, equally embarrassed that he’d slept with my sister, of all people.

“Gonna make it through this week?” Marcus asks although he knows I will. I’ll put on my brave face and big girl panties because I don’t want to seem like the bitter, sniveling little sister.

“When’s the ax throwing?” I tease.

“And then he washed your hair.”

I laugh bitterly at the reference. Yes, he washed my hair, and made love to me, and then he snapped me like a twig.

It wasn’t just sex, he said. What else could it have been? His silence had unnerved me, but I had my answer. Just sex, is all it was.

Mindlessly, I stroke back my hair, pushing it behind my ear.