Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Emmersyn
I’ve been gripping my phone for so long that my hand has gone numb, my thumb hovering over the call button like it’s a detonator. This is it—the moment I try to untangle myself from my grandmother’s latest scheme from beyond the grave.
With a sigh that feels more like surrender, I tap the button and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes as I brace for the inevitable.
“Percival Harrington III speaking,” comes the smooth, slightly condescending voice in my ear.
Of course, he would answer like that. He knows it’s me—my name definitely popped up on his caller ID—so why the need for the full formal introduction? It’s infuriating. I can practically see him sitting behind a mahogany desk, wearing a three-piece suit and a smirk, probably savoring every second of this.
This man is the one who helped Grandma orchestrate her little posthumous surprise. He’s probably ready to play his part in her final act. Why do I think he might help me? Maybe, just maybe, he’s in so much pain after losing the woman he loved that he’ll take some pity on me.
Doubtful, but I can always try to persuade him.
“Percy, it’s Emmersyn Langley,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. I don’t add anything snarky like ‘the granddaughter of the woman you were doing.’ No, I won’t be petty—at least not right now. It’s all about the right amount of honey to attract flies, or so they say. Maybe I should’ve sent him a fruit basket first. Nothing says ‘please undo this ridiculous stipulation’ like a pineapple. “So, I received my grandmother’s letter.”
“You mean the one I dropped off this morning?” he asks, his tone dripping with faux surprise. “It’s been hours. I’m glad you finally read it.”
“Yes, some of us have work to do.” I clear my throat, forcing a sugary sweetness into my tone. “This is just a letter, there’s no will with this absurd?—”
“The will is in the big manila envelope, Emmersyn. Trudy was right. You don’t pay much attention to detail unless it’s something pertaining to the company.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, the sting grounding me just enough to keep me from snapping. My hand clenches into a fist, but I force myself to take a deep breath and loosen my grip. Losing my cool with him won’t help. Not yet, anyway.
I tear open the manila envelope, pulling out the stack of papers inside. The crisp, typed text is a relief compared to my grandmother’s near-illegible cursive. I start scanning through the legal jargon, my eyes quickly moving over the familiar terms. It’s easier than deciphering her letter, which had been filled with her signature flair and emotional manipulation.
Is it sad that I understand the terms in the will better than I did her letter? Probably. But that’s because I was using my heart—and my anger—when I read her letter, not my brain like I am now.
As I flip through the pages, everything is laid out as she said: the same terms, just wrapped in lawyer-speak. I take a deep breath and let the papers fall back onto the desk with a soft thud.
“All is clear,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral, though the frustration simmers just beneath the surface. “But I need to know if there’s any way to undo the will. You know, like a loophole or something?”
There’s a pause, followed by the sound of papers shuffling on his end. “Two out of three,” he says with a smirk I can practically hear. “You’re pretty predictable.”
“Excuse me?” My irritation spikes, but I keep my voice even .
“Trudy said you’d call me to see how you could wiggle your way out—even though she left you a note with a clear warning,” he replies smoothly, his tone grating on my last nerve.
“If it was you, wouldn’t you try to figure out if you can get out of some legal mumbo jumbo your crazy grandmother set you up for? I mean, the woman emotionally scammed me my entire life.” Okay that’s probably not a thing but applicable when we’re talking about Gertrude. “I’d call her eccentric, but honestly, I think she was certifiable. Trudy, as you call her, just faked it so well that no one ever thought about sending her to the loony bin where she belonged.”
“She was a smart, perfectly capable woman, Ms. Langley.” His voice is maddeningly calm, like he’s discussing the weather. “And I’m afraid there’s no way to undo the will. Your grandmother was very thorough.”
“Obviously, she was brilliant. Sociopaths like her usually have a high IQ and love to have the last laugh. Hence my current predicament.” I shoot a glare at her portrait on the wall, where she’s still smirking as if enjoying the latest mayhem she’s caused. I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the impending headache. “You’re telling me that I have no other choice and I’m stuck with this?”
“Indeed,” he replies with all the enthusiasm of someone describing a dull afternoon. “And you have two weeks to figure out how you’ll fulfill her wishes. If not, I’ll be forced to split the company and sell it off in parts to the highest bidders with no regard for the employees.”
My stomach twists into a knot, and I feel the blood drain from my face. “Two weeks? And what am I supposed to do if I can’t find Caleb?”
That’s a great excuse, right? I have no idea where the Mister is . . . or whether the divorce has gone through. No, that’s impossible. He was supposed to send the signed papers back to me so I could file them. Maybe I can intercept them. Finally, some logic kicks in. Why didn’t this idea hit me earlier?
Probably because I’ve been letting my heart lead the way instead of using my brain. Now, I’m back in CEO mode—cool head, clear focus, as Grandpa used to say. Alright, time to lay out everything that’s wrong with this ridiculous proposal.
Percy, or should I say Perky Percy—because he’s far too chipper about this—is crazy if he thinks I’m going to bend to my grandmother’s ridiculous wishes. “Plus, we no longer own the apartment in Brooklyn. The last time I checked it was all debris and they won’t start building until next year.”
“Ah yes, there’s that detail. I suppose we’ll have to figure out your new accommodations and?—”
“You can’t just decide where we’re going to live. She definitely didn’t think this through. For all I know, Caleb might not even be single or . . . well, alive. He was a SEAL, if you recall.”
Okay, now I’m lying, but can anyone blame me? I’m desperate—completely, utterly, hopelessly desperate.
“You two are legally married, so that’s not a problem. Though, if you must know, he’s currently unattached, alive and well,” Percy responds, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to know the whereabouts of my estranged husband. “I happen to have his contact information. He’s currently residing in San Diego. He owns a security company with three colleagues. They operate primarily in San Diego and Boston, but they serve clients all over the world.”
Percy knows where he’s at? “You’re serious?”
“Quite. He’s done well for himself—healthy income and financial stability. You should’ve been a little more concerned about your spouse throughout the years,” he replies, and I can practically hear the smug smile curling his lips. “I’ll forward you his contact details so you can reach out and . . . move forward, as you put it.”
I let him believe my disbelief was about Caleb’s success. Truthfully, it was more like, ‘Are you serious? You stalked him and knew not only his whereabouts but his financial bottom line?’ I barely managed to track down his current address, and I thought it was in Boston.
Next time I should pay for premium information or hire a PI. Not that there’ll be a next time. It was pretty awkward to try to find my estranged husband’s address. Yet, I’m genuinely surprised to find out he lives in San Diego.
But that’s really the least of my worries. I need to get out of this mess, so I press on, “And there’s really no other way?”
“None,” Percy says, his tone as final as a gavel slamming down. “I suggest you start making plans. If you catch me in a good mood, I might approve your choice of living quarters—assuming both parties agree on the location. And, of course, there’s only one bed.”
“What if we can’t come to an agreement? You just said he lives in San Diego and I . . .” I trail my voice, knowing that I can do my job from anywhere but would rather not leave the city and the comfort of my own home—or live with my ex .
“If you can’t compromise, I can always choose for you,” he offers, his voice dripping with faux generosity.
“This is . . . Somehow, I’m pretty sure this is illegal—or at the very least, it’s got to be a violation of the Geneva Convention. I mean, forcing two people to share one bed? Isn’t there a clause against cruel and unusual sleeping arrangements?” I can feel my frustration bubbling up.
“Not even the United Nations can help you with this, Emmersyn. Chop, chop.” He claps, the sound patronizing, like I’m a child. “Time is of the essence.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Right. Thanks, Percy . . .” for nothing .
“As always, I’m here to serve. Good luck, Ms. Langley,” he says, and I don’t miss the hint of amusement in his tone before the call ends.
I drop the phone onto my desk and let out a long breath, trying to steady myself. Two weeks to figure out how to execute my grandmother’s wishes and keep the company from being sold off piece by piece. And to do that, I have to track down my estranged husband.
As I think that, an email from Percy and a text pop in with Caleb’s phone number. And then his address. And the email has an attachment with all his information. My head spins with the sheer absurdity of it all.
“Great. Just great,” I mutter to myself, staring at my phone. “What am I supposed to do? Call and say, ‘Hi, Caleb. Long time no see. I know I sent you some divorce papers, but can you just ignore that? Oh, and while we’re at it . . . want to move in together for six months, so I don’t lose everything I’ve worked for?’ ”
I pick up a pen from my desk, twirling it between my fingers as if the motion could somehow ease the frustration bubbling inside me. The urge to scream into the nearest pillow is almost overwhelming. This is ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous. But what choice do I have? I have to reach out to him. I have to make this work.
Two weeks. I have two weeks to pull off the impossible. No pressure, right?
And so I do the most mature and logical thing there is to do, I call his office. That’s good right, calling his office instead of his personal number, which I now have because Perky-Percy has each and every detail about Caleb and his life. That’s a little creepy, isn’t it?
The phone rings, and with each passing second, my heart beats a little faster. I fidget with the pen, my mind racing through a dozen different scenarios, each one more awkward than the last. Finally, the call connects, and I hear a voice on the other end.
“MELCK Securities, how may I help you?” a woman’s voice answers, brisk and professional.
I glance at the information Percy sent me, which says this is supposed to be Caleb’s direct office line. Obviously, he’s wrong. Should I hang up and try again?
“Hello? MELCK Securities. Where should I direct your call?” the woman repeats, her tone still polite but a bit more insistent now.
Instead of hanging up, I decide to push forward and see if they know him there. “I’m looking for my . . . Is Caleb . . .?” My voice trails off, and I cringe inwardly. What am I supposed to say, ‘Is my husband available? ’
“Who are you looking for again?” The voice remains polite but now with a hint of confusion.
“Caleb,” I repeat, clearing my throat and willing my nerves to settle. “Caleb Cunningham.”
“May I ask who’s trying to reach him?” The question is routine, but it still makes my pulse spike.
“Umm . . . Emmersyn Langley,” I say, my tone shifting to something more assertive, as if saying my name with confidence will somehow make this less awkward.
“He’s not available,” she says flatly, with a touch of professional exasperation creeping in.
I take a breath, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “How can I reach him? This is a pressing matter.”
“Urgent?” she asks, her tone still polite but edged with a bit of wary skepticism.
“Yes,” I respond quickly. “It’s a life or death matter.” Okay it’s not, but maybe she’ll transfer me to him right away.
“As I mentioned, he’s unavailable, but if this is as you said, that important, I can forward your message to someone who can help. Can I have your call back number and any details that might help expedite the process?” she asks, her tone suddenly more professional, even urgent.
What process is she talking about? I have no idea, but as long as Caleb gets the message, I’m good with it. I quickly rattle off my phone number and add, “Tell him his wife needs to speak with him ASAP.”
“Wife?” she repeats, the surprise clear in her voice, but I hang up before she can ask any more questions.