Chapter 5 #3
The heavy weight of sorrow becomes too much, and the truth pours out of me.
“I didn’t want to come here tonight. Not because I didn’t want to see any of you but because my heart hurts.
But I couldn’t disappoint Margo, so I did.
It wasn’t enough, though. I can’t shake my blue heart.
You see, I came back to ask my mom for a loan and she said no. ”
My word eruption seems to bounce around the room before settling between us. August blinks, mouth stern. “Why do you need a loan?”
My shoulders slump. The half-eaten sandwich in front of me no longer looks appetizing. “Pops and Pegs left me their house.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“It’s . . . great.” My voice breaks a little, and I clear my throat. “I love their house. It’s a second home. No, not even that. Mom and I moved around so much over the years, it’s my only home now.”
I risk a glance his way and find him watching me intently. It’s too much to take, and I turn back to staring at the plate in front of me. “Losing Pops and Pegs so soon was . . . hard.”
“Yeah.” It’s a soft affirmative that has the lump in my throat growing.
“Finding out they left the house to me was both painful and wonderful. I’d lost them but they left me a home. My home.” I trace a gray swirl in the granite counter. “Dad was, well, he was pissed.”
There’s a pause before understanding hits August. “They didn’t leave it to him.”
Shaking my head, I grimace. “He got nothing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him. He’d ditched his family and cut ties with his parents years ago.”
“Penelope—”
At his pitying tone, I hold up a hand. “No, no. I came to terms with who my dad is a while ago.” Okay, a few years ago, but progress is progress.
I consider mine hard-won. It wasn’t an easy thing to learn that my dad had left not only my mom, but me in the process, in favor of my nanny.
I was ten when they ran off to France to live it up in a villa—yes, a freaking villa—he’d purchased without Mom’s knowledge.
Thing is, I can accept what he did. But I still don’t like him very much for it.
Or Nanny Cathy. Ugh. I can’t think of either of them without a bad taste filling my mouth.
They never had kids. I still can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.
Maybe, just maybe, if Cathy had been pregnant, then I could see how he’d leave Mom.
And me. Because, in truth, from that moment on, my dad had zero interest in my life or seeing me.
The one time I went to France to visit him during summer break had been a soul crushing disaster.
No. I will not spiral over him anymore.
“Anyway,” I force out. “He was clearly expecting the house when they died.”
“Asshole,” August mumbles. He catches my eye. “Sorry, it’s the first thing I think whenever anyone mentions him.”
“Me too.” We share a look, and then I shake my head. “The house is mine. No matter how much he complains.”
“So, the loan?” August lifts a hand in confusion. “Is he trying to contest the will or something? Is that why you need the funds?”
God. The mere thought has my stomach clenching.
“No. That is, I don’t think so. I know he argued with the estate lawyer.
But he was advised that the will, actually it’s a trust, was well drawn and he’d have a tough time contesting.
Not to mention, he’d need a lot of money to continue down that road.
” My nose wrinkles. “Dad is short on funds as well.”
“Then why the loan?”
For a moment, I’m lost in the ugly sludge of feeling Dad leaves on me. Then I blink and clear my head. “It’s the house.”
“The house?”
“August,” I say sadly. “My great-grandparents may have bought the house for ten thousand dollars way back in the 1940s, but it’s now worth about ten million.”
August spits out his lemonade and proceeds to cough violently.
“Sorry.” I pat him on the back and hand him a napkin.
“Jesus,” he says, still sputtering. He wipes his mouth and huffs out a laugh. “Holy shit!”
“Yeah.”
Silver eyes alight on me with shock. “No, really? Ten million?”
“The house is a Cliff May original, sitting on an acre in Brentwood. The land alone would be worth a ton, but the fact that it was designed by the man credited for inventing the California ranch house?” I shrug. “It’s highly desirable.”
To me it’s home. But I don’t underestimate its worth.
“The property tax would be a lot,” August says, finally understanding.
“To say the least.” My fingers clench. “Approximately one-hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars a year.”
August whistles low and long.
I snort in agreement. “More than this college student can afford anytime soon.”
“And your mom wouldn’t loan you the money.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe it’s too much for her.”
“That’s not it.” A sigh escapes. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but she won’t even entertain giving me a small part of it until I can figure out what to do. She wants me to sell. Says it’s ridiculous to sit on that much money and not take it.”
“Well . . .” August scratches the back of his neck. “She’s not wrong to want that for you. Not entirely,” he amends at my dark look. “You’d be set for life.”
“My life is just beginning.” I throw my arms wide, nearly hitting him in the process. “She doesn’t know what I’m capable of. I could do . . . things!”
I have no clue how to make that much money a year.
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t patronize me, Luck.”
“I’m not!”
My lips purse, but I accept his word. “She wants me to take the money, invest in my future. But that house?” Tears well in my eyes. “It’s been in my family since it was built. Oscar-winning screenplays were written there.”
My great-grandparents had been screenwriters in Hollywood’s Golden Age.
“It’s the only true and safe home I’ve known. Is it so wrong that I want to keep it?”
August’s voice turns gentle. “No, Penelope. It’s not wrong at all.”
“Just hopeless. God.” I set my head in my hands and sigh. “You want to know what’s really messed up?”
“Lay it on me, Sweets.”
“I am ridiculous! I have a problem most people would kill for.”
August hums, and then takes a massive bite of his sandwich, frowning as he chews.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin before talking.
“Thing is, Pen, there’s always someone who has it better and worse than you.
Doesn’t make what you’re feeling any less real or any less true.
You love something that’s in danger of being taken from you. Don’t shame yourself for that.”
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly before taking a bite of my sandwich, if only to do something other than cry.
I don’t know what I expected of August, maybe for him to placate me, or tell me to buck up.
But his simple understanding squeezes my heart in a way that has me wanting to turn and ask for a hug, and maybe bawl on his shoulder for an hour.
“Well,” I say when I finish chewing. “That’s my confessional for the night. What about you?” I turn his way. “Anything got you in a mood? Other than failing basic balance while attempting the Funky Chicken, that is.”
“Fucking hell.” He winces and ducks his head before tilting it back to scowl up at the ceiling. “Has anyone not seen those forsaken clips?”
“If they haven’t, they probably will eventually.”
“Oh, thank you. No really, your sympathy overwhelms me.” He’s fighting a smile, however.
I fight one as well. “I figured you’d resent sympathy.”
He studies me with those silver eyes. “Yeah, I would.” Then he brightens and nudges my shoulder with his. “But you can still offer to kiss my hurts and make it better.”
“I’m not going to fall for that one.”
“Damn it.”
Grinning, I wipe my hands on my napkin. “Seriously, August. You okay?”
“Of course.” He waves his hand idly as if to bat the question away. There’s something going on with him, but I can’t see past the barriers he’s put up.
When I don’t respond, he quirks a brow. “What would you do,” he asks, “if I said I wasn’t?”
It’s my turn to frown; it’s not a question I expected. I don’t like to think I’m ill prepared to truly help someone who really needs it. But how? It’s one thing to want to; it’s another to actually succeed.
“I suppose, I’d just listen. I don’t know if that’s the right thing, but I would, you know. I’d listen for as long as you like.”
Straight brows draw together. His mouth opens then abruptly shuts. August turns more fully my way. His hand lifts as though he might reach out but then falls to this thigh and grips it.
For a second he simply stares down at his hand, clutching his thigh tightly. Then he smiles, a small, gentle thing that has me flushing under my shirt. “I’m okay now, Penelope.”
“Okay . . . good.” It stutters out because, for a moment, I got the feeling he wanted to say something else. “So long as you’re sure.”
His smile grows, morphing into the one I’ve seen him give during interviews.
“Nothing like a good late-night sandwich to change one’s perspective,” he says with cheek. “Right?”
Oddly disappointed, I smile back, with my very nice teeth. “Right.”
And that is that.