3. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
I knew what she meant when she said, “It’s time.”
She’d been trying for years to place me on her accounts. To sign over a substantial portion of her wealth. The house included.
I’d always resisted. I didn’t want her money. It had never brought her happiness—except that it allowed her to give me anything I wanted and then some. Besides, I had my own money. I’d built a life. But more than the money, she wanted me to have power of attorney.
Just in case.
I didn’t want to think about just in case.
Still, I did as she asked.
I called Doris, asked her to bring my aunt’s “necessities” to the hospital, and, with a heavy heart, I dialed Mr. Howard—her attorney.
Apparently, he made hospital room calls.
By late afternoon, the test results came in. She’d had a heart attack. Two blocked arteries. She’d need angioplasty.
Aunt Lu wasn’t thrilled. She demanded second and third opinions, arguing with every suggestion. Eventually, she relented—but with conditions.
No procedures until Mr. Howard arrived. No treatment until her accounts had my name on them and the power of attorney was in place. I couldn’t get her to budge.
She was blackmailing me with her health.
By evening, I was running on fumes. Yawning between thoughts, blinking through fog.
“Ella Lu, go to the house and get some sleep,” she said.
“I’m getting a hotel room.”
Her voice softened, but her words didn’t. “Ella Lu, it’s time to face your past, sugar.”
The words spilled out before I could polish them. “You told me to leave and never come back.” Not only did I sound childish, but I felt childish.
She reached out, her I.V.-hooked hand trembling slightly as it touched my cheek. “Ella Lu, don’t you ever tell anyone I said this . . . but I was wrong. I thought you’d be able to move on and be happy.” Aunt Lu never admitted to being wrong about anything.
“I’m happy, Aunt Lu.”
She gave me a look that saw through everything. “For the most part, you are. But I don’t think you’ll ever be truly happy until you move on from that Jackson boy.”
“I’ve moved on, Aunt Lu,” I grumbled out my lie.
She shook her head, slow and certain. “No, sugar. You moved away .”
I didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not here. And I wanted so badly to say, Just like you moved on from his daddy? But I wouldn’t sass my aunt like that. Not when she looked like this.
Besides, it was my own dang fault anyway. If I’d just followed the rules, there wouldn’t be anybody I needed to get over.
“Fine,” I said, not wishing to argue and to prove my point that I’d moved on from Brady Jackson. “I’ll go to the house. Do you want me to bring anything back with me in the morning?”
“No. Just make sure you dress properly for our meeting with Mr. Howard tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, Aunt Lu.”
She had her rules—especially about fashion. Business was business, and business required heels. I knew better than to show up in anything less, so I’d packed accordingly. Suit. Pumps. Lipstick that didn’t smudge. She’d trained me well.
I kissed her goodbye and marched out of the hospital before I could change my mind.
The drive to Kaysville took thirty minutes. With every mile, the discomfort grew. It had been nine and a half years since I’d been back.
It was dark when I reached Main Street, but somehow, it felt the same. Christmas lights twinkled on every storefront. Garland looped across lampposts. And if there had been snow, it would’ve looked like a scene trapped inside a snow globe—quiet, fragile, untouched.
I saw a couple of people I recognized leaving the hardware store.
Silently, I prayed I wouldn’t see any Jacksons.
I had no idea where Brady lived, now that he was out of the limelight.
I just hoped it wasn’t in Kaysville. Odds were, he’d probably married another pageant winner and had two kids and a dog by now.
Aunt Lu and I made it a point never to talk about Kaysville or its residents. It was easier that way—or at least I thought so. Now that I was driving through town, the thought occurred to me that I should have probably asked her about Brady’s whereabouts, just in case.
Our home sat in the middle of town, proud and sprawling—an antebellum-style manor with sweeping white pillars that reached for the sky. It was ostentatious, sure, but it fit Aunt Lu perfectly. Beautiful. Larger than life. Impossible to ignore.
As I pulled through the iron gate, my throat tightened. It felt silly to cry over coming home. But it had been a long time. Nine and a half years. And this house held as many sweet memories as bitter ones.
I circled the drive, ignoring the impulse to park off to the side like Aunt Lu insisted. She wasn’t home. So, I parked front and center, my rebellion as small as it was personal.
I hadn’t even reached the steps when Doris burst through the front door, tears streaming, hands fluttering in every direction. She honestly looked a lot like a gray-haired Doris Day. Cute and perky.
She was all a dither—sobbing, fussing, hugging me tight and grabbing my suitcase like she hadn’t just seen me a few months ago in Atlanta.
My aunt had told Doris I was coming, so she’d readied my old room.
Walking inside felt like stepping into the past. It looked untouched—preserved like a memory she didn’t dare disturb.
The four-poster bed still wore its pink, ruffled comforter.
Shelves above the desk displayed trophies and ribbons from piano recitals, debate competitions, and everything in between.
My high school diploma sat beside my valedictorian sash, front and center.
The room was a time capsule. Every corner whispered of who I used to be.
“I placed fresh linens on your bed, Miss Ella,” Doris said proudly
“Thank you, Doris.”
She hugged me, warm and trembling. “I’m so happy you’re home.”
I wished I felt the same. But I meant it when I squeezed her back and said, “I’m so happy to see you. Goodnight, Doris.”
As soon as Doris left, I slipped out of my clothes and into my old ensuite bathroom.
It had been the perfect bathroom for a teenage girl—spacious and elegant, with a large, well-lit vanity and stool, a claw-foot tub that gleamed even now, and a separate shower framed in polished brass.
I turned the water on and stepped under the spray, hoping the warmth would ease the tension gnawing at my shoulders. I wanted to relax. To forget the day. To stop thinking.
But the house had other plans.
Every corner pulled me backward. Even the vanity—glowing softly under the old sconces—brought Brady to mind.
How many nights had I sat there, curling my hair or applying mascara, waiting to see him? And how many times had fresh flowers waited there for me?
He’d never been allowed inside, but that hadn’t stopped him. The bouquets arrived like clockwork. Always with the sweetest notes tucked between the stems. Notes like, I love us enough for the both of us.
I was sorry I had ever believed that lie.
I stayed in the shower until my skin wrinkled, hoping the water could wash away the memories. When it couldn’t, I stepped out to find fresh towels and a silk robe waiting on the counter.
Doris had thought of everything. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have a housekeeper—the quiet kindness of being cared for in small, practical ways.
I sat down at the vanity and began my nightly beauty regimen, the one Aunt Lu had taught me years ago. Mask. Moisturize. Hydrate.
Her rituals were sacred. And over the decades, they’d served her well. I hoped her timeless genes had made their way into my own DNA.
Time would tell, I supposed.
After drying my hair, I climbed into my old bed and tried to settle in for the night. I was exhausted, but sleep didn’t want me.
An hour passed. Still restless, I gave up and clicked on the bedside lamp. I pulled out my phone. Checked email. Scrolled Instagram—mindless distractions to avoid what was tugging at me.
But I knew exactly what was bothering me. Across the room, the hope chest sat quietly. Unmoving. Taunting.
I’d sworn to myself, I wouldn’t open it—not tonight. But it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what was inside. Well, mostly .
Eventually, I gave in.
I threw off the covers, sat cross-legged on the floor, and let out a long breath.
Then I lifted the lid.
The scent of cedar wrapped around me—soft and familiar, like days long gone.
My white cap and gown rested on top. But the gown looked crinkled. Hastily replaced, as if someone had been searching.
That was odd.
Gently, I set them aside, my fingers already reaching for what lay beneath.
Next was Brady’s letterman jacket. I lifted it slowly, brought it to my face.
It still faintly smelled like him—musky, masculine, familiar in ways that made my chest tighten. I slipped it on. It was still far too big. Still made me feel small.
Then came the game ball—state championship. His handwriting stretched across the leather in thick black ink: With all my love, Brady.
And then . . . the box.
The thing that taunted me most.
Small.
Burgundy.
Velvet.
He left it on the sofa table the same Christmas he broke my heart.
I’d never opened it.
I’d unwrapped it once. And that was all I could manage. I tried—on more occasions than I care to count to peek at what was inside. Sat with it in my hands. Willed myself to lift the lid.
But I could never bring myself to do it.
I even tried to send everything back by courier once—the jacket, the ball, the unopened box.
But it came back.
With a single note: These don’t belong to me.
I held the little velvet box in my hand—the one that had tortured me for years—and stared at it. Tears slipped quietly down my cheeks as I wondered what was inside . . . too afraid to find out.
Bravely, I began to peek, but the hinge creaked.
I snapped it shut before I could look. This was stupid.