Chapter 3 Gracie #3
I grimace, hoping he doesn’t pick up on how close he’s hit to home.
When my sports-obsessed mom remarried, she gained my football-fanatic stepdad and the kind of daughters she always wanted.
If I had to sum up Brianna’s and Josie’s personalities, it would be with the cheer, “Be AGGRESSIVE! B-E AGGRESSIVE!”
“Unfortunately, yes. They’re both division one volleyball champions and could easily wield their muscles for evil.”
He sighs. “Well, shit. Guess I’d better practice my serve.”
I’m grinning stupidly and try reining it in. “Or, I could just go easy on you. My name is Gracie. Gracie Holland.”
“Gracie,” he repeats softly. “That fits like a glove.”
My chest fluttering promptly turns into a chest rave, and I’m suddenly nervous he’ll be able to see a strobe light pulsing beneath my skin.
“And how did you know my nana?”
I exhale. An easy question. “Actually, I work here. I’m the estate’s wedding coordinator. Your grandmother hired me three years ago,” I tell him.
At this, all the warmth drains from his expression. “You’re the wedding planner? The one who lives on the property?”
The sudden alarm in his voice is edged with distaste, and I fumble to respond. “Um, yes? Does my reputation precede me?”
Jude rubs his jaw, staring at an unfixed point over my head like he’s either mentally shredding his good opinion of me, or wondering if I’ll fit in the body bag he keeps in his trunk. What the hell?
“Is there a problem with my… existence?” I ask, half joking, half desperate to get back to where we were before.
Finally, he looks back down at me, frustration tightening every line of his handsome face. “Frankly, yes.”
I step backward, and suddenly, being closer to the sword plant doesn’t feel nearly as threatening as Jude. And this is why we don’t flirt with strangers! a singsong voice chirps inside me.
I rise to my full height. “Well, since I’m so bothersome to you, I’ll go find somewhere else to take up oxygen.”
He lets out an exasperated sound. “Wait, no,” he says as I begin walking past him.
He places a hand on my elbow, and I stop, shaking him off.
He lets go at once. “I’m sorry. I was just—” He closes his eyes for a moment.
“What I meant to say is that your job and living situation are the issue. Not you.”
My eyes narrow at the bitter way he emphasized the word job because that job is basically my whole personality these days.
The first tendrils of panic begin curling in my stomach.
After Agatha passed, I’d naturally wondered what it would be like to work for Larkwood’s new owner, but keeping my job wasn’t a question.
Not when sharing Larkwood as a wedding venue was so important to her.
Just like the estate’s gardeners and maintenance staff, who have continued going about their business, I’d assumed I was essential.
My mouth goes so dry it could be a fire hazard.
“What’s wrong with my job and living situation?” I try to demand, but it comes out like a croak.
For a moment, he looks apologetic. But then his features firm up like he feels completely justified in dealing the coming hammer blow.
“The issue is that your job and living situation are about to disappear. Larkwood never should have been a wedding venue to begin with, and moving forward, it no longer will be. Your termination notice was going to be given on Monday.”
It’s unclear if the roaring I hear is from the surrounding crowd or the blood rushing in my ears.
No. This has to be another joke. Any moment now, he’s going to grin and say GOTCHA!
Because after the week I’ve had—after what happened with Calvin and losing Agatha—losing my home and livelihood on top of it all seems too catastrophic to be allowed.
“No,” I blurt, when the pressure inside of me builds to a whistling heat. “No, you must be mistaken. It was Agatha’s greatest joy to share her home as a wedding venue.”
Jude’s mouth tightens. “Well, it’s no longer her home, unfortunately.”
“Who is even making this decision?” I demand, looking around the room at funeral guests, like I might see someone casually leaning on a pitchfork. “I’d like to have a word with them.”
Jude frowns. “You are having a word with them. I’m Larkwood’s new inheritor.”
My eyes go round, and I’m almost positive the dramatic DUM-DUM-DUM sound wasn’t just in my head. He isn’t carrying a pitchfork, but my eyes immediately jerk to his dark waves, searching for horns.
“But you can’t do this!” I exclaim. “I have weddings lined up into the fall. Clients who booked us well over a year ago!” I don’t voice the more personally pressing matter of depending on this job to pay off my debt and generally avoid living under a bridge.
He looks around the opulent ballroom we’re standing in, and there’s no mistaking the bitterness in his expression. “I’m sorry, Gracie, but I’m canceling all upcoming weddings. The person interested in the estate needs it by August, and I need to prepare the property for the transfer.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “But our clients have signed contracts! Is it even legal to cancel their weddings?”
Jude straightens. “Since Larkwood is also a private residence, there’s a clause maintaining the right to cancel all events during a family crisis.”
“So, that’s that? Your grandmother’s gone for three seconds and you’ve already decided to turn her beloved home into… into luxury condos, or something?”
“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 even know how 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 even think about 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 he is a 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 even care about 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 was made to be a wedding 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 her grandson. 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 a cynic,” 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 have got to 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, but I do, and so did Agatha. If there’s any way to save Larkwood from your…
your clutches, 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.
“And your 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—my home—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.