Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Savvy
I watched Henry’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but his face remained tranquil.
His mother touched his arm—a silent reminder to keep his composure. Victoria Kingston was the picture of dignified mourning in her black dress and pearls, but there was steel beneath her grace. I’d seen that same quiet determination in James.
The service itself passed in a blur of hymns and remembrances. I sat in the back, letting the words wash over me as sunlight filtered through the stained glass, painting rainbow patterns across the wooden pews. Someone read from Ecclesiastes—a time for everything under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die. A time to break down and a time to build up.
My throat tightened as Henry stepped to the pulpit. He looked impossibly young in his dark suit, the loss visibly etched in his posture. His voice, when it came, was steady but raw with emotion .
“My grandfather understood the power of stories,” he began. “He believed they could bridge any gap, heal any wound if we were brave enough to tell them honestly.” His eyes found mine briefly in the crowd. “He taught me that strength isn’t in what we own or control, but in what we protect. What we cherish.”
Richard moved in his seat, his perfect mask of grief slipping for a moment. I recognized that look—the calculation behind the compassion. I’d seen it in countless clients who viewed relationships as transactions.
After the service, the crowd slowly dispersed into the crisp autumn afternoon. I lingered near the church steps, watching Henry accept more condolences with growing weariness. When Richard approached him, I moved closer, some protective instinct drawing me forward.
“Son,” Richard began, his voice pitched for maximum sympathy. “Your grandfather and I may have had our differences, but I want you to know?—”
“Save it.” Henry’s voice was quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “We both know exactly who you are and what you want. But this isn’t the time or place.”
Richard looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “Why is she here? This is a family matter.”
“Miss Honeysucker is included in the will,” Victoria said smoothly, satisfaction in her voice. “James was quite specific about her presence being required.”
The muscle in Richard’s jaw ticked—a tell I’d seen in countless clients when their perfect plans started unraveling. “Included in the...” His face flushed with barely contained rage. “She hardly knew him.”
“Quality over quantity, Richard dear,” Victoria said, her voice honey-sweet, but her eyes hard as diamonds. “The lawyer is waiting. We shouldn’t keep him. ”
The will was read in Todd Whitman’s downtown office—a place that smelled of leather and old paper, its walls lined with leather-bound law books. I sat near the back again, watching Richard’s shoulders tense. His mask of grief had slipped, revealing glimpses of the calculation beneath.
Mr. Whitman cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Before we begin, I want to note that James Morrison was exceedingly clear about his wishes. Everything has been properly documented and witnessed.”
Richard leaned forward with that predatory gleam returning to his eyes. My stomach clenched, remembering similar expressions on clients who thought they were about to win something.
The initial bequests were straightforward—personal items to friends and family and charitable donations to local causes. Then, Mr. Whitman paused, shuffling his papers with deliberate care.
“Regarding the Morrison family library, specifically the first edition collection.” He glanced at me over his glasses. “James was most explicit about this. The entire collection is to be transferred to Miss Savannah Honeysucker.”
The air left my lungs in a rush. Around me, the room erupted in murmurs. Richard’s head snapped up, his mask cracking further.
“The books,” Mr. Whitman continued, “are being delivered to your residence as we speak, Miss Honeysucker. James left specific instructions about their care.”
My vision blurred with tears. James’s precious books—his treasures, his legacy. He’d chosen me to protect them.
“Now, regarding the matter of family assets.” Mr. Whitman’s voice cut through the whispers. “As established in the Kingston-Morrison Agreement of 1995, and I quote: ‘No party shall lay claim to familial wealth established prior to marriage, including but not limited to business holdings, property, and inherited assets.’”
The color drained from Richard’s face as the implications sank in. James and Victoria had outmaneuvered him decades ago, protecting both families with a single document.
“Furthermore,” Mr. Whitman continued, adjusting his glasses, “the Morrison holdings will be distributed as follows. Fifty-one percent to Henry Kingston, and forty-nine percent to Victoria Morrison Kingston, making Henry the primary shareholder of all Morrison business interests.”
Richard’s knuckles went white on his armrest, his facade collapsing.
“That’s impossible,” he snarled. “The Morrison fortune?—”
“Remains exactly where it belongs,” Victoria cut in, her voice calm and composed. “With the family. Just as the Kingston assets remain with theirs.”
Henry caught my eye across the room, his expression shifting with something unreadable. James’s chess game started long before we realized we were pieces on the board.
The rest of the reading passed in a blur of legal terms and asset distributions. When it was over, I slipped out, needing air and space to process everything that had happened.
When I made it home, the late afternoon sun had turned the streets golden. True to Mr. Whitman’s word, dozens of packed boxes lined my apartment walls. Each one was labeled in James’s precise handwriting: “Dickens First Editions,” “Austen Collection,” “Bront? Sisters.”
My hands shook as I opened the nearest box. The familiar scent of old paper and leather rose, bringing a fresh wave of grief. These weren’t just valuable books—they were pieces of James’s heart, collected and preserved over decades.
Inside a first edition of Jane Eyre , I found an envelope with my name written in James’s elegant script. The paper was heavy and expensive, and my vision blurred as I unfolded it.
My dear Savvy,
If you’re reading this, then my last move has been played. These books have been my companions through many chapters of my life, but they deserve a new guardian now—someone who understands that stories are more than words on paper. They’re bridges between hearts, between generations.
You entered our lives like a hero from one of those timeless stories, breaking down the walls we so meticulously built with your unwavering honesty and boundless heart. I know you've guided others to their endings, but your real gift lies in helping people discover their beginnings. These books are more than a collection—they're possibilities. Use them well. Build something wonderful.
With great affection,
Jame s
A knock at my door startled me from my tears. When I opened it, Victoria Kingston stood there, elegant as ever in her mourning clothes.
She studied me for a long moment. “I hear you’re quite skilled at ending things, Miss Honeysucker.”
“I was,” I said, caught off guard by her directness. “But I think I’m done with endings. I’m ready to help people find their beginnings instead.”
Her lips curved—not warm, but expectant. “What about one last ending? For old times’ sake?” She gestured toward the boxes lining my walls. “We need to talk about Richard, the future, and what James really left you.”
I stepped back, letting her enter. Something in her expression told me this conversation would change everything.
Victoria moved through my small apartment with surprising grace, taking in the boxes of books lining every wall. Her fingers trailed over one labeled “Victorian Treasures” with something like affection.
“I’ll be direct, Miss Honeysucker. I want to hire you for one last job.” She turned to face me, her eyes sharp with purpose. “I’m leaving Richard. After James’s death, I realize I can’t let him destroy anything else I love.”
My gaze drifted to the Jane Eyre first edition, James’s letter still tucked inside. Help people find their beginnings, he’d written. Maybe this was mine.
“Richard will fight back,” I said. “He won’t go quietly.”
Victoria’s expression sharpened a glint of determination in her eyes. “Count on it. That’s exactly what we need. Let him show everyone exactly who he is. In public. Where he can’t hide.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, placing it on my coffee table. “Your student loans. James kept meticulous records of everything Richard might try to use as leverage.” She tapped the envelope. “Consider this hazard pay for one last job.”
“I can’t—it’s too much,” I protested, staring at the envelope.
“It’s the cost of freedom—mine.” Victoria’s voice softened. “Some things are worth any price, Savvy. I learned that from James. Now I’m learning how to fight for it.”
I picked up the envelope. “If I do this … it’s my last breakup job. Ever.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s time for you to write different stories.”
“When?” I asked.
“You pick the time and place,” Victoria said, standing smoothly. “I’ll tell him it’s a meeting about merging assets. Make him think he still has a chance to get everything he wants.”
A glimmer of satisfaction crossed my face. “I know exactly where to do this. And I know who can make sure the right people are there to witness his true colors.” I could already picture it—the perfect stage for his final act. “Word travels fast in this town. If we set the scene right, the people who need to see Richard for who he really is will be there.”
“Henry has everything you’ll need,” Victoria said, moving toward the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. “Savvy? Thank you. For understanding what needs to be done.”
After she left, I stood among James’s books—his legacy, his protection, his last gift. Outside, leaves skittered across my window, red and gold in the fading light. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle echoed—wistful or hopeful. I couldn’t tell anymore.
I picked up Jane Eyre again, running my fingers over its worn leather spine. “Well, James,” I whispered to the quiet room. “I guess we have one last story to tell. And this time, it’s happening at Rise and Grind.”
The books around me seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the next chapter to begin.