Chapter 7 Jude
Seven Weeks Before the Wedding
The first rule about nervously pacing outside a woman’s door in the dark is to just knock like a fucking adult.
I exhale but still can’t stop my feet. Ever since I told Henry I’d “handle” telling Gracie the news about the will, I’ve become the foremost expert in avoidance.
But tonight, when I got to Larkwood for my weekend stay and saw lights on in the cottage, I was out of excuses.
It’s time to tell her about Nana’s bequest and somehow convince her that selling the cottage to me—her least favorite human on Earth—is in her best interest.
Goddamnit, Nana—what were you thinking?
Exhaling again, I summon all my self-control and stop in front of Gracie’s door.
It’s knowing that I might actually scare her with my loitering that finally makes me knock.
From inside the cottage, I hear indistinct music get quieter and my heart picks up speed.
I quickly push my glasses up my nose and try not to look like I’m sweating in the evening chill.
When the door opens, spilling light onto the darkened garden path, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. As they do, my brain registers the mournful tones of “All by Myself” from inside the cottage.
Then Gracie comes into focus. She’s holding a bottle of red wine and wearing almost nothing but an oversize T-shirt with the words NICE TO EAT YOU over a cartoon zombie.
Above the shirt, her face is slightly obscured by…
a wedding veil? It’s extremely sheer and does nothing to disguise the slightly glazed look of disgust she gives me.
“I’m sorry. You look like you’re busy,” I say quickly. “I’ll come back when—” My eyes drop involuntarily to the hem of her shirt, where it brushes the tops of her very long, very bare thighs. Fuck. I force my gaze away and start to turn. “Another time. Sorry.”
To my surprise, she lunges, slightly off-balance, and grabs onto my sleeve. “I don’t think so, buster.”
“Buster?” I repeat, amused despite myself.
She ignores this, but that may be because she loses her balance slightly and stumbles into me. She smells like sun-warmed flowers and red wine, but the overwhelming nearness of her is undercut by my worry. How much of that bottle has she had?
“Why are you here?” she demands, glaring up at me. “Did you think you could just show up wearing glasses and kick me out in the middle of the night? Did you think it would stop me from making a scene?”
“It’s barely eight thirty,” I point out, steadying her with the arm she’s gripping. “And I’m not sure how my nearsightedness is relevant, but I didn’t come here to kick you out.” Not yet, I think grimly.
“Not yet,” she retorts like an echo of my guilty thoughts. Needlessly, I push my glasses up again, and her eyes clock the nervous movement. She swallows. “If you’re not here to evict me, then what do you want?”
I let go of her shoulder when I’m convinced she’s not going to fall over and clear my throat. “I wanted to talk. I have some news to share with you about my grandmother’s will.”
For a brief moment, her dark eyes lose their accusatory glare, and our gazes meet.
I don’t think I’m the only one who stops breathing as the shared grief that tethered me to her at Nana’s funeral tugs tight.
Then she shivers, and I want to kick myself for keeping her outside.
When you live this close to the ocean, even a summer’s night can be cold.
“You’re going to freeze out here,” I say.
“I can wait if you want to get something warmer on or—”
She blinks, seeming to realize only now that she’s barefoot and pantsless. I half expect her to argue, but then she sighs. “Just come inside,” she says in a defeated tone. She turns unsteadily away while maneuvering the wine bottle beneath her veil to take a swig.
Come inside? That… wasn’t part of the plan.
Something acidic spreads unpleasantly in my chest. I haven’t been inside the cottage since I was a kid.
But any second now, Gracie is going to turn and wonder why the hell I’m just standing here like I can’t get past a force field for idiots.
I let out a difficult exhale. It’s just four walls and a roof, I tell myself firmly, before following her inside and shutting the door with all the stilted grace of a rusty wind-up toy.
As I force myself to breathe slowly, I begin noticing things.
For one, the room doesn’t smell like dust and neglect but like her.
Warm honey and the last of the apple blossoms outside her windows.
The room itself is tidy but lived in, with an alarming number of scattered romance novels, an incongruous collection of zombie-themed paraphernalia, and mismatched furniture that looks cast off from the estate.
Against the living room window sits a desk, and beyond it are several plastic-wrapped bolts of fabric, a dress form, and stacked boxes.
My shoulders lower. Somehow, without doing any of the exercises my therapist has recommended, I feel my heart rate begin to slow on its own. This isn’t the same dark cottage I remember, crowded with ghostly, sheet-covered cabinets. It’s… a home.
My attention is caught when the music cuts off.
I see Gracie drop her phone on the kitchenette counter before coming back toward the living room with her wine bottle still in tow.
Her pouty lips are stained red from the wine, and the wedding veil she’s wearing is askew.
It’s such a stark contrast from her meticulous appearance at Nana’s funeral, and I can’t help feeling like I’m to blame.
“I’m sorry to barge in on your…” I trail off as she passes by and flops onto the old, crushed velvet couch.
“Pity party?” she finishes for me. “Don’t worry, Big Red and I are happy to host as long as you don’t need anything.
” She attempts to take another swig from what I assume is “Big Red” but forgets that her mouth is covered by a veil.
At the press of sheer fabric between the bottle and her lips, she puts the wine between her knees and reaches up to unpin the veil.
But clearly, this requires more coordination than she currently possesses.
“Goddamnit,” she whimpers, attempting to yank the veil from her tangled hair with no success. After a few more tries, her arms lose strength, and she drops them by her side before looking up at me. “Help?”
She looks about a minute from crying, and I automatically sit by her side, despite knowing the last thing I need to be doing is removing an article of clothing from this woman.
“I think you’ve got it. Just pull that left pin, and—”
She turns toward me on the couch, and the white cotton of her shirt slides so high up her thighs that I can almost see— STOP LOOKING, I mentally bark at myself.
Like a saint, I raise my eyes to hers, but their dark, liquid depths behind the veil are no safer.
“Are you trying to make me beg?” she asks.
“No,” I blurt loudly, wishing I had a paper bag to breathe into. “Please don’t do that.”
She rolls her eyes as I reach up to untangle the veil.
I keep my movements as clinical as I can, removing pins that have become stuck on the comb tucked deep into her hair.
Once the veil’s loose, I don’t let my hands linger in the act of pulling it free, but it doesn’t matter.
Watching the sheer white fabric slide away to reveal her chestnut waves and the pale expanse of her long neck still sends an almost painful bolt of longing through me.
“Here,” I say, tossing the veil at her like it’s stung me.
Her long lashes lift sleepily, and I notice her cheeks are flushed peony pink. It’s just from the wine, I tell myself. There’s no way she enjoyed—
“Thanks,” she says, mercifully tugging her shirt down her lap. “If you wanna do me one more favor, you could never ask, mention, or think about the veil… ever.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Liar.
“Or Big Red.”
“Obviously.” I hesitate. “But can I ask if you’ve had any water lately?”
The way she squints as she tries to remember gives her away.
Relieved to put some space between us, I go to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water.
While I’m at it, I open the cupboards to see if she has some crackers, but I’m confronted with nearly bare shelves.
Maybe she eats out a lot? It seems unlikely, given Larkwood’s isolation from civilization.
I continue my search in the fridge, but like the cabinets, there isn’t much inside except some lunch meat and a quart of—I shudder—coffee milk. My concern is punctuated by another hiccup from the living room, but luckily, I find butter and a mostly finished bag of sandwich bread.
When I come back with a glass of water and buttered toast, she eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly so nice?”
Shame prickles down my back. “No danger of that. If I were being nice, I would have dumped out your coffee milk.”
She makes a face of outrage. “Coffee milk is Rhode Island’s beloved state beverage.”
“It’s also the home of ‘clear chowder’ in case you’re a fan of watery clams, too.”
“Aren’t you the attorney general’s son? You should be enjoying coffee milk with every meal.”
“Thanks, but I prefer my drinks not to be sourced from Satan’s teat.”
She groans in exasperation and lifts her wine bottle.
“Speaking of which…” I say, “I don’t think that particular vintage is doing you any favors either.”
She frowns. “You know, snobbery was something your grandmother couldn’t stand.” She takes a pointed sip. “Then again, it doesn’t seem like upholding her values is your top priority.”
Defensiveness flares bright but quickly winks out. After our clash in the garden, I made the effort to see past her accusation that I don’t care about my grandmother’s wishes. It wasn’t hard to do—at least, not after a few punishing, slightly angsty laps in the pool.