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“Dad won’t contest the will or anything, right? Isn’t it too late for that?” She did not know how the legalities worked, assuming her grandmother’s will would be enough for them to move forward.
“Technically, no. It’s not too late since the court still has to have a hearing to confirm the will, but I’m sure everything is in order.” Jessamyn huffed out a windy sigh. “Anyway, I’m trying to clear my schedule for next month, so I can work on the house before we put it up for sale once the estate is settled. In the meantime, I’m sending a picture of this letter so you can look into it. We don’t want any legalities to tie up the property.”
She plucked at her blouse with nervous fingers, hoping Jessamyn was just being overly cautious. A big green tractor rumbled past on the main road, making it hard to hear anything else for a moment.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said once the farm vehicle had moved away, the words more to reassure herself than as an actual statement of fact. “Thanks for letting me know.”
On the other end of the call, her sister seemed to hesitate before answering.
“If it’s too much for us, Fleur, we can ask Dad for help. He hires companies all the time to fix up houses—”
“Never.” She bit the word out with more vehemence than she’d intended considering Jessamyn had long supported their father’s stance on most everything. “He would do it to help you, Jess, but he would resent every cent that might benefit Lark or me.”
Her sister’s tone softened. “I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
Biting her lip against the urge to argue, Fleur straightened away from her car and turned back to the stacks of plastic containers buckled into the safety harness.
“Either way, I would never accept his help now.” He’d abandoned her when she’d needed a father’s love, never showing up for any of her pageants or putting in time to chaperone her when she’d been tying herself in knots to earn college scholarships. Was it any wonder she’d developed a reputation as a haughty ice queen on the rodeo circuit? She’d had her reasons for seeming untouchable, a kid’s coping mechanism for unwanted attention. Then again, maybe if she’d kept up the old hauteur to avoid attention, she wouldn’t have had to quit her last job, where the kitchen manager had no concept of personal space. Or keeping his hands to himself. “Unlike Dad, I don’t believe the almighty dollar solves every problem.”
He’d been more concerned with guarding his fortune against his ex-wife and anyone who sympathized with her. And while Fleur tried not to be the kind of cringeworthy adult who blamed her problems on her parents, Fleur had found herself frequently unpacking baggage from that time in her life, from her father’s decision that she wasn’t worthy of recognition as his daughter. At least now, she was more aware of her own behavior because of it.
Recognizing it didn’t always make her change, however.
“Heard and understood,” Jessamyn retorted, the biting tone sounding more like her old self. “Far be it for anyone in this family to do things the easy way.”
After saying goodbye, Fleur tucked her phone in her pocket and withdrew the first stack of boxes filled with cookies and tarts to bring inside the restaurant. While she’d been standing in the parking lot, two other cars had pulled in with patrons for the diner, and the scent of ham and bacon wafted on the breeze every time the door opened.
Unwilling to miss out on potential sales because she’d been gabbing with her sister, Fleur hurried inside with the containers, thanking Marta as the other woman appeared in time to open the front door for her, her dark ponytail bouncing on one shoulder in time with her energetic walk.
“Good morning,” Fleur greeted her, taking care not to jostle her cargo as she wound her way through the tables toward the counter, where an old-fashioned bakery case had been scrubbed clean. “I still have more outside.”
A handful of patrons glanced her way while a George Jones tune played softly over hidden speakers. The scent of coffee hung in the air while pans and utensils banged in the back. Fleur missed working in a restaurant, the rhythms of a shared kitchen workspace calling to her.
One day, if she could sell Crooked Elm, she really had a shot at opening her own place.
“Do you need help? I can dart out for a minute—”
She shook her head once she’d settled the boxes near the case. “That’s okay, but thank you. It’s a huge help to have you get the door.”
“I’ll follow you out, then.” Marta paused to pick up a coffeepot behind the counter so she could refill a patron’s cup. “I’m right behind you.”
Fleur nodded, respecting the other woman’s ease with doing multiple things at once, a coveted skill in any busy eating establishment. “Sounds perfect.”
“And be thinking about what you want for breakfast. Drake said to give you a meal on the house whenever you brought us items to sell.” As she spoke, Marta had already moved to start filling the bakery case with fresh pastries.
Fleur noticed an older couple getting up from their seats to check out the wares, but her pleasure in their obvious interest was diminished by Marta’s words.
Had Drake told Marta to buy from Fleur in the first place? She’d been okay with him recommending that she try Cowboy Kitchen as an outlet, but she was less comfortable with him paving the way for her if she hadn’t earned it. And she definitely wasn’t accepting meals from another man who thought he could buy his way through life.
Especially one who also assumed that Fleur could be bought. Just as he’d thought when he found out about her engagement to Colin. Drake had been so sure she only wanted to marry him for financial security.
Pushing her way out the front door, bells chiming, Fleur retrieved the rest of her wares. Yet her joy in the act was diminished with the possibility of Drake’s interference weighing on her.
As much as she didn’t want to see him again—attraction be damned—she really should clear the air with the man who seemed to have all of Catamount under his thumb. She would explain that she didn’t need his help securing work, or feeding herself, for crying out loud. Besides, she still wanted to ask him more about the local conservation efforts since Josiah Cranston had implied Drake was something of an expert.
So, after unloading the last stack of baked goods and politely declining Marta’s efforts to feed her, Fleur stepped out into the sunshine and got out her phone again.
Without giving herself time to overthink it, she found Drake’s contact information. He’d insisted she take it almost a decade ago when he’d appointed himself her disapproving guardian on those times they’d ended up at the same rodeos.
