Chapter 40 Jude
Hi Jude,
Congratulations—the owner just accepted your offer on the cottage. Time to pop the champagne! You mentioned hiring a proxy to be present at the closing in your stead. Send me their contact information, and I’ll get the ball rolling. Thanks!
Swiping the email away from my real estate agent, I wait for the relief to hit.
She’s going to be okay. But somehow, even the knowledge that I’ve been able to give Gracie a financial cushion barely makes a blip against the hollow roar of loss that’s been drowning everything else out since we parted ways.
Money won’t buy her forgiveness, it won’t give her the truth she asked for, and it definitely won’t make me more qualified to be in a relationship than a parasitic fungus.
I exhale, shoving down my self-loathing, which I’ll flop around in later.
The only thing to be said for the last few days is that they’ve been punishingly busy.
As it turns out, discreetly getting rid of a historic estate is fucking complicated.
I’ve even had to step back from my pro bono work just to attend all the necessary meetings between the prospective owner’s leadership team, the escrow company, financial advisers, my estate attorney, trustee manager, and a goddamn partridge in a pear tree.
But today, I’m at Larkwood because while I’ve somehow managed to go through the entire estate and label my grandmother’s possessions into keep, auction, or donate categories, there’s still one room I haven’t touched.
I stop in front of the door, which has been closed ever since she passed. I had tentatively hoped that Gracie and I might be able to tackle this overwhelming task together. My rib cage contracts when I think of how it would have bonded us.
But that possibility is gone now. Not only did I break her heart, but I’ve also robbed her of a last goodbye. Stomach twisting, I open Nana’s door, knowing I deserve whatever pain waits inside.
But when I cross the threshold, the familiar scent of Chanel No.
5 envelops me like a hug. Pieces of the room that lost their wonder through familiarity seem to glow anew.
The signed Broadway poster for Funny Girl in its pride-of-place above the fireplace mantel.
The carelessly flung dressing gown on the green fainting couch.
The space is as warm and eclectic as Nana was, and despite the tears burning behind my eyes, I can’t help feeling comforted.
As I scan the room, wondering where the hell to start, my eyes catch on a bright yellow piece of paper on the mantelpiece.
Something about it is familiar, and as I cross the room, I see it’s a card I made her as a child.
On the front is an unfortunate drawing of a dolphin that looks almost indistinguishable from a penis, complete with a graphic spray of water from its misplaced blowhole.
Below this, in toiled-over lettering, are the words:
Too Nana
Luv Jude
Happy Bichday
The surprised laughter that escapes me is almost painful after days of frowning.
Of course this is the childhood relic she’d display.
I pick it up, surprised to find that it’s heavy.
My heart kicks in my chest. Inside is an envelope paper-clipped to the back side of the card, labeled in Nana’s perfect cursive: Jude. Stomach leaping, I quickly remove it.
Taking out the letter with trembling hands, I walk distractedly to the fainting couch and open it.
Dear Judy,
So you found your card. How long did it take you to work up the nerve to enter my haunted chambers?
If I were a betting woman (and I am), I’d say it probably took long enough for you to be kicking yourself right now, wondering why you waited so long.
But unfortunately, this bet isn’t one I’ll be cashing in on because if you’re reading this, I’m already dead.
Sorry for the morbidity (actually, I’m not sorry—who doesn’t love a juicy postmortem letter?). But I know you probably have some pressing questions, and as I’m running short on time in both the day-to-day and existential sense, I’ll hop to it.
Question 1:“Nana, will you curse me with male pattern baldness for getting rid of Larkwood?”
How dare you ask such a thing. For one, have you seen your hair, boy?
Doves would fall from the sky, and baby angels would weep at its loss.
Secondly, no: I’m dead! If I played my cards right (and I’m certain I did), I’m butt naked in a heavenly hot tub with Cary Grant, Paul Newman, and Omar Sharif as you read this.
Trust me when I say the fate of Larkwood is the last thing on my mind. But I can understand your concern.
Yes, I often and loudly proclaimed that turning Larkwood into a wedding venue was the best decision I ever made.
Yes, seeing it play a starring role in so many new love stories brought me incredible happiness.
But most importantly, it helped me achieve what I’ve always wanted for the estate: to be a place of hope and new beginnings after so much darkness.
And while I suspect we’ll have very different ways of accomplishing that goal, I left Larkwood to you, Judy.
You’re the one who gets to decide what happens now, and because of who you are—the most caring and selfless man I have ever known—I know that whatever you do will be eye-wateringly moral and kind.
Question 2: “Then why the fuck did you leave Gracie the cottage, Nana?”
Oh, I can’t wait to answer this one. As I prepare to shed this fabulous mortal coil, one of my only regrets is knowing I won’t ever get to see the nuclear bomb detonate behind your eyes when you see Gracie Holland for the first time.
I can imagine how it’ll transpire, though.
Naturally, you’ll be at each other’s throats when you discover she’s my wedding coordinator and she finds out that you’re planning on terminating her job.
But because of the cottage, you’ll be at a stalemate unless you can find a way to work it out.
And therein lies my absolutely delicious reasoning for putting you in this pomme de discorde.
After three years of getting to know Gracie, I’ve come to the irrefutable conclusion that you each have something that the other desperately needs.
After being badly burned in love, Gracie has retreated from the world and become stuck in her past. She needs someone as pragmatic as you to shake her loose and show her that not every person she shares her tender heart with will be careless with it.
And you, my sweet, guarded grandson, need someone to fall head over heels for.
As someone who’s known you since infancy, I can say with zero hesitation that despite the unromantic airs you put on, you have more love to give in your pinky finger than the rest of us combined.
And while siphoning it off toward worthy causes is a noble endeavor, it has broken my heart to see you deny yourself the experience of receiving love in return.
You are worthy of that kind of love, Jude—no matter what you tell yourself—and I do hope meeting Gracie will open you up to it.
Question 3: “Nana, why didn’t you tell me you were dying?”
Oh, sweetheart. Something tells me you already know the answer to this one, but I’ll spell it out for you anyway.
It has been one of my life’s greatest heartbreaks to watch you grow up bearing the burden of so much grief and worry over things beyond your control.
No child should have to witness what you witnessed, just as I never should have had to see my daughter and grandchild shoulder so much pain.
More than anything, I wish your mother and I had found a way to close the rift between us, despite her choices.
It’s why I’ve also written her a letter, in the hope of telling her that a single moment hasn’t passed since she was born that I haven’t loved her with all my heart.
You’ll find it in my dressing room, beneath her old teddy bear. Please give them both to her.
And so. Knowing the kind of pain you have both endured, withholding my diagnosis was the least I could do to spare you from any further suffering.
Let me assure you, Jude—there was nothing you could have done to extend my life or make me more comfortable.
You have been the axis around which all my hope and love spins outward.
By simply existing, you’ve already done more than you know.
And now, off to my nail appointment. Can you imagine me showing up to the Pearly Gates with chipped polish?
Heaven forbid. Literally! But I’ll leave you with this: It’s a beautiful thing to protect the ones you love.
But when protecting them means sacrificing your own well-being, it’s time to stop.
Your mother is a grown woman, Jude. She can handle more than you think, especially if it means seeing you find happiness.
And with any luck, my meddling will help you do exactly that.
Kisses from the hot tub,
Nana
P.S. You’ll find a letter for Gracie in my jewelry case. Give it to her. And if you’ve fallen just as hard as I suspect you have, you may want to consider giving her something else in the box, too.
When I finish reading, I let the letter drop onto the couch beside me, only to immediately pick it up again.
It wasn’t enough to read it once. Having my grandmother’s words and wisdom fill my mind when I never thought I’d hear them again leaves me feeling glutted and hungry at the same time.
I scan greedily back over the section where she explains the most elaborate, Machiavellian match-making scheme there ever was, and shake my head as a hoarse laugh escapes me.
Wiping my eyes, the unexpected joy of finding this message mingles with grief and, more than anything, the crushing urge to share these words with Gracie, along with her letter.
My eyes drop to words that got stuck in my chest as I read them.
It’s a beautiful thing to protect the ones you love.
But when protecting them means sacrificing your own well-being, it’s time to stop.
Resistance automatically swells in me, ready to shoot down any attempt to prioritize myself over the secrets I’ve guarded for so long.
I swallow down another choking lump in my throat.
But it’s not just my heart at stake this time—it’s Gracie’s, too.
Exhaling with difficulty, I stand, pulling my phone from my pocket. A plan crystallizes in my mind like it’s been there all along, waiting for permission to be put into action. But if I want any chance of pulling it off and repairing the damage I’ve done, I’m going to need help.
Staring at Henry’s name for just a moment, I tap on it to call.
“Jude, hey.”
He sounds nervous, but my stomach relaxes at his willingness to pick up my call at all.
“Hey,” I respond, hoping he can’t tell I’ve barely stopped crying.
“You sound sick,” he says.
I take a shaking breath. Honesty. “Nah. Just having a good old-fashioned emotional breakdown.”
“Shit. Jude, listen,” he says, in a miserable rush. “I know I fucked up. I don’t have an excuse—I just saw Gracie in your shirt and that lipstick and—God. I was so jealous and pissed, but as soon as I cooled off, I couldn’t believe what I said to her about you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “I’m not mad,” I answer truthfully. “I appreciate the apology, but she was always going to find out that I’m not keeping Larkwood. I should have told her first.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t need to plant any evil fucking seeds in her mind, did I? I told her you were seducing her for the cottage!” He lets out an exhale like he’s been dying to get this off his chest. “That wasn’t just low, it was subterranean.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I mutter.
“Exactly. So why the hell are you giving me the time of day?”
I look up at the luminous clouds painted on the ceiling, promising brighter days to come. “Because I need to tell you some things I should have shared years ago, and if you’re willing, I need your help.”
“Of course,” he says, and then goes quiet, like he knows I need the space to open this door between us.
“You’ve never made me feel like I had to share the parts of my life I’d rather keep hidden,” I begin.
“You’ve always just accepted my boundaries without question, but I’m starting to understand how one-sided that must feel.
Like I simply didn’t trust you enough.” I close my eyes.
“But I do trust you, Hen. The only reason I’ve never shared those pieces of myself with you is that they weren’t just mine to share.
“In my family, I’ve been given the kind of trust that has always outweighed my own wish to confide in you.
I’ve even rationalized that I was doing you a favor by not burdening you with all my issues.
” I take a breath. “But I know it’s not fair to shut you out either, which is why today, I’m going to get permission to share those things with you and Gracie. ”
I impatiently rub my blurring eyes. “You’re two of the most important people in my life, and you deserve to be trusted.
I’m starting to see that I deserve to tell you, too.
But before I can, I need you to help me get Gracie back,” I say, the words catching in my throat.
“I love her, Hen. I can’t lose her when I’m finally ready to tell her everything. ”
“Jesus, Judy,” Henry says, his voice as choked as mine. “Just tell me what to do, and we’ll ride at fucking dawn.”
I close my stinging eyes as relief and gratitude radiate through me. “Can you rent a moving van and be here as early as you can tomorrow?”
“I’m on it. Are we talking a U-Haul or like a Mack Truck?”
A smile that’s nearly painful breaks across my face. “A U-Haul’s great. Thank you, Hen. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me till you’ve got your girl back.”
I press my lips together, praying to Nana that it’s not too late. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
We hang up, and without giving myself time for doubt or fear to sink in, I move on to phase two of my plan.
Swiping to my contacts, I call my mom.