Chapter Seven Lucy
Chapter Seven
Lucy
The buzzer crackles and then Hunter speaks over the intercom. “Of course you’re early.”
“Technically, I won’t be—” The door unlocks with a buzz, cutting me off. I balance the Bankers Box on my knee and pull open the door. He could have offered to come down and help me with this.
I arrive at his door and tap it with my foot, as I don’t want to put the box down. Hunter is already talking when he abruptly pulls open the door.
“What the actual hell, Lucy? Why are you kicking my . . .” He sees my full hands, and there’s a moment when we both silently recognize how quickly he jumped to conclusions. The wrong conclusions.
“Add it to the list,” I say.
“The . . . what?”
“The list. Of grievances? About me? I’m sure there’s a running tab somewhere.”
He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his ankles, like it has never once occurred to him to take the heavy box out of my hands.
“You forget,” Hunter says. “I’ve met your parents.
I’ve met your sister. I’ve even met your great-aunt Mildred.
They all seem so . . . normal. What happened to you?
Dropped on your head as a child? Switched at birth?
Alien overlord trapped in a human-skin suit? ”
There’s an edge to his teasing that makes me feel like he’s reached into my rib cage and pulled out my heart. Hunter might be a lot of things—a lot of annoying things—but I didn’t realize until just now that he’s mean.
I glance down at the box in my arms and realize this is pointless.
I don’t have the energy to go on like this.
I can’t even be bothered to tell him that Great-Aunt Mildred is Ed’s aunt, not mine.
I’m never going to be my sister. I’m never going to flit through my perfect life, sprinkling perfection wherever I go.
No matter how organized or punctual or put together I am, I’ll always just be me. The other Jones sister.
I sigh and turn back to the elevators. I’m done. I don’t have it in me to fight with someone who doesn’t care. At least not tonight.
“Lucy,” Hunter calls.
I can’t even bring myself to respond.
“Lucy,” Hunter calls again as he follows me out of the apartment. “Look, I’m sorry if I overreacted about the door. Let’s just go inside.” He tugs at the Bankers Box. “What the hell is in here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“It does matter.”
My arms are tired from carrying the box, my back is starting to twinge, and I’d give anything to take off my heels. Worst of all, though, is how tired my soul is from constantly trying to prove myself.
“I’m going to head home,” I say. “I give up.”
Hunter tucks the heavy box under his arm like it’s a newspaper and loosely grips my wrist, tugging me back toward his apartment. If I had the energy, I’d chastise him for attempted kidnapping.
“Come in and have a drink at least.” His voice is soft, like he’s concerned about me. He probably thinks my last few threads of mental health have finally snapped. And he might not be wrong.
I don’t fight him because I have no energy left. He leads me back down the corridor and into his apartment.
“Okay, so we can put that there.” His tone has shifted. It’s not as acidic as normal. It’s like he might have realized he’s pushed me too far. “Sit here on the couch, so you can see the TV.”
I frown. I’m not here to Netflix and chill. We have plans to make. But I don’t object when he guides me to my designated spot on the couch. A moment later, he’s pressing a cold glass of lemonade into my hands.
“I thought we could start with the house. Does that sound good?” The tone of his voice is the kind used by people who work with the elderly—patient, but wary.
I shrug and take a sip of lemonade. Maybe the sugar will help my mood. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to help my mood.
Hunter takes the seat next to me and points the remote at the screen affixed to the wall. “Everything looks better on a big screen.”
The screen comes to life with images of the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.
Rising out of a bed of white hydrangeas, with twin gables, a sprawling wraparound porch, dormers, and a rounded turret, it’s more Kennedy Compound than cozy beach house.
But the authentic gray shingles and clean white window frames make it feel . . . friendly.
I glance at Hunter. Is this an elaborate trick? He can’t really have secured this house. There’s no way. Then I remember his caveat about the location. I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“This is available?” I ask.
“Yeah. I didn’t want to risk losing it, so I already paid the deposit.”
“For this house,” I say, jabbing my finger toward the screen. “Not the guest house to this house, but this house.”
“Yes,” he says. “This is the house.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask. “Because I didn’t see it on the market. I mean, maybe I wasn’t looking in the right price category, because that must cost about a hundred thousand dollars for the weekend. I mean, can we even afford it?”
Hunter shrugs. “I’ve got it figured out.”
“You said it wasn’t on the Cape. So where is it? Maine? Canada?” There’s no way he managed to secure this house on short notice anywhere near Cape Cod. It’s just not possible. There has to be a ginormous catch.
He sighs and pushes his hands through his hair. “Don’t lose it,” he warns.
I brace myself, sending up a small prayer that the house is located somewhere Cape-adjacent.
“I won’t lose it. Where is it?”
“The Vineyard.”
I spring to my feet like someone’s jabbed a red-hot poker up my ass. “This house.” I pause and then go over to the screen and put my finger on the beautiful image on the screen. “This house right here is on Martha’s Vineyard.”
He nods, panicked, his eyes wide, like he’s waiting for me to punch him in the face.
“And it’s available for the weekend we need it, and it comes within budget?”
He nods again.
My mind starts to race. What were the other criteria? It had to be on the Cape, but the Vineyard is even better. It had to be big enough . . . Well, this place looks like it could accommodate a marching band. And it had to be on the beach. That’s got to be the catch.
“How far away from the beach is it?”
He picks up the remote control and flips to another picture. It shows the side view of the house, complete with silky sand dunes, spiky marram grass, and the foamy surf of the Atlantic.
He’s got to be kidding.
If I’d created a house for our weekend, I couldn’t have imagined a better one.
I step back from the screen to take in the entire image. “Do you have more pictures?”
He doesn’t say anything, just clicks his remote. The picture changes to an image of the porch, which overlooks the water. Mahogany floor, the Star-Spangled Banner, and a porch swing, all surrounded by white hydrangeas. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I slump back onto the sofa and cover my face with my hands. I can’t stop the tide of emotion welling up in me right now. This house is better than perfect. It’s more than Katherine or any of her friends would ever expect.
“If this is a joke, I’m going to kill you.” My voice breaks on my threat.
“God, Lucy, are you okay?” Hunter asks. The couch dips as he scoots closer to me. He rests a hand awkwardly on my arm.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, turning to look at him. Concern fills his bright-blue eyes, and he doesn’t look away. “Thank you,” I say, my voice soft. “This means everything.”
He grabs my drink from the table and pushes it into my hand.
I take a small sip and start to feel a bit better.
Energy seeps into my limbs, and my breathing comes easier.
It feels like I’m recovering from some kind of endurance test, like I’ve been stranded on an island and finally rescued or just passed the finish line after a twenty-six-mile run.
It’s relief and gratitude and sheer exhaustion, all mixed up in one.
“Martha’s Vineyard will work?” he asks hopefully.
“Absolutely,” I say, sliding my glass back onto the coffee table.
“It’s better than the Cape. More of an adventure to get there.
More exclusive. More memorable.” And then I realize that all my planning has been around the Cape and not the Vineyard.
I’ll have to go back to the drawing board.
We don’t want to waste time going back and forth on the ferry.
“I thought we could even look at getting a helicopter to save time if that’s an issue,” he says.
I hold Hunter’s gaze. He’s completely serious. He’s thought this through. He cares. And it feels so nice not to be on my own with the burden of planning this weekend.
“Wow,” I say. “We should definitely consider it. And fishing. I presume there’s fishing around there?”
Hunter shrugs. “I’ve had a hell of a week. I haven’t finalized every detail.” A smile curls at the corner of his lips. “But I’m thinking we’ll be able to find something.”
“Yeah, there’s bound to be something, even if you have to get a boat from Hyannis to come and get you.”
“Right.”
“Right,” I reply. We hold each other’s gazes for a second. I don’t know how to convey how grateful I am. How relieved.
“I hadn’t grasped quite how important this is to you,” he says, like everything fits into place for him now.
“It is important,” I say.
He nods resolutely. “It’s going to be great.”
My breath hitches in my chest. I really think it is.
He glances to the Bankers Box. “Want to tell me what’s in the box?” he asks. “I’m slightly concerned you’ve got all the equipment needed to murder me and get rid of the evidence.”
I can’t stop my smile at his comment. It feels like a long time since I’ve genuinely smiled when it comes to this wedding, even if we are talking about me being a murderer.
“I’m not sure any of it’s relevant now,” I say.
“Because you’ve changed your mind about my imminent death?”
I narrow my eyes as if I’m considering whether I’ll still murder him. “It’s mostly stuff about the Cape. I think we should stick to activities on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“But what, exactly, is in here?”