3. Chapter Two #2
I tore off his dumb jacket, flung it—along with the football—back into the “hopeless” chest. Then I took the stupid box with me to bed and shoved it into the nightstand drawer like it might stop haunting me.
I turned off the light and cried myself to sleep.
I woke early and dressed carefully—for Aunt Lu’s sake.
It felt a little ridiculous, getting dressed up just to sit in a hospital room all day. But I was used to doing things that didn’t make sense for Aunt Lu. That was basically my life in a nutshell.
I’d packed a black Calvin Klein pantsuit that fit the bill perfectly. It hugged my curves, hinted at my slender figure, and carried just enough authority to pass muster with her fashion standards. I paired it with pointed black stiletto heels—non-negotiable in Aunt Lu’s book.
I even took the time to curl my now shoulder-length hair. If we were going to discuss lawyers and legacies, I might as well show up looking like a woman who could carry it all.
Doris was already waiting in the kitchen, breakfast prepared and plated, when I came downstairs. Bless her.
I usually grabbed a piece of fruit and called it good. I’d never really learned to cook—Aunt Lu hadn’t either. Why would we? We had Doris. And if Doris wasn’t around, we had takeout.
My culinary skills were limited to frequently burnt toast, semi-passable smoothies, and salads that rarely ventured beyond romaine and a few sad croutons. If I was feeling really adventurous, I’d throw in some baby carrots.
She placed the plate in front of me with practiced elegance: Blueberry pancakes, perfectly crisp bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I needed a Doris in Atlanta.
I made small talk with Doris while I ate. It was nice—comforting—to have someone to talk to in the morning. It reminded me just how lonely life was back in Atlanta.
Sure, I had business associates and employees, and even a few people I considered friends—like my agent, Olivia. But the truth was, I lived a pretty solitary existence. By choice.
I dated occasionally. No one seriously. A few of them would’ve liked to be more than passing chapters, but I always kept the story short.
Most of my spare time went to fan mail. I answered every letter personally. Olivia told me I was nuts for doing it, but I couldn’t imagine not replying—especially when a child had taken the time to write to me.
They told me how much they loved Aunt Calliope and Jane. How they wanted to visit the places I’d written about. Some wrote just to say someone believed in them.
A few shared stories I’ll never forget—little ones facing sickness or grief, kids just needing to know someone out there cared.
And so I wrote back.
I tried to help Doris clean up before I left, but she shooed me out the door with a warm fuss and a final clatter of dishes.
Driving through town again, everything looked the same. I couldn’t decide whether that comforted or disappointed me. Either way, I was relieved to hit the highway without catching anyone’s attention.
At the hospital, I walked into my aunt’s new room—no longer ICU. She was perched like royalty in her bed, giving beauty and fashion advice to a nurse who was taking it like an absolute champ.
As soon as she saw me, her face lit up.
“Now, look at my beautiful Ella Lu,” she announced. “This is how a proper Southern lady dresses and puts herself together. You’d do well to follow her example.”
I shook my head and smiled, directing my comment to the sweet nurse.
“Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll be here in jeans and a t-shirt.”
“You will do no such thing, Ella Lu Eaton,” she shot back, regal as ever.
I winked at the nurse.
She smiled and exited, clearly entertained.
I walked over to Aunt Lu’s bed and kissed her on the cheek.
“How’d you sleep last night?”
She gestured at her wires and tubes with dramatic disdain. “How can anyone sleep with these on? I told them they were unnecessary, but they refused to remove them.”
I didn’t even try to argue.
As soon as I sat down, she handed me a folded sheet of paper. I took it and began to read.
It was a list. Of course.
Everything from gifts to buy to decorating her Christmas trees. Even what ribbons went on which mantel garland.
I stared at it, confused. “Can’t all of this wait? We still have three weeks until Christmas, and you’ll be home well before then.”
“No, Ella Lu, I’m already behind. And you know what is expected.”
“What about Doris? Can’t she handle some of this? I want to spend my time with you, not running errands.”
“Ella Lu, you know I love Doris, but this is not her forte. I will not trust this to anyone else. Do you understand?”
I gave her a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do not sass and ma’am me, Ella Lu.”
“I love you, Aunt Lu.”
“I love you more than air, Ella Lu.”
We spent the rest of the morning enduring her horrible soap operas. I rarely watched TV, so I was stunned to see these shows were still alive and unraveling—bad plotlines and all.
Early in the afternoon, salvation arrived in the form of Mr. Howard, her lawyer. He came bearing enough paperwork to wallpaper a modest home. Page after page, signature after signature. By the time my hand gave out, I had become a very wealthy woman.
I had never truly understood how wealthy Aunt Lu was. She used to say people were kind to her because she had more money than the Queen of England.
Turns out . . . she wasn’t joking.
After what felt like a marathon of signatures and initials, Mr. Howard clapped his hands like we’d just finished a wedding rehearsal.
“All that’s left,” he said cheerfully, “is to take you over to Kaysville First National to sign their paperwork—adding you as a cosigner to your aunt’s accounts. And we’ll file the power of attorney there as well.”
My eyes shot to Aunt Lu. Kaysville First National. The bank Brady Jackson’s father owned—that wasn’t part of the deal.
I knew exactly why she kept her money there. It wasn’t convenience. It was symbolism—a reminder to the Jacksons of the power she held.
But I wanted no part of that particular pageant.
Aunt Lu met my gaze, sharp and unyielding.
“Don’t look at me like that, Ella Lu. They’re expecting you there this afternoon. I want this settled today. ”
“Can’t they just email me the paperwork?” I asked, knowing I was grasping.
“Not in this case,” Mr. Howard replied.
I knew Aunt Lu wouldn’t consent to any procedures until this was handled. And that meant one thing—going to that bank.
The last place in Kaysville I wanted to walk into.
Mr. Howard glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a four-p.m. appointment with Mrs. Gayle Wells. If we leave now, we’ll be right on time.”
I froze. Palms sweaty. Heart pounding.
Then Aunt Lu gave me the look . The one that meant this was non-negotiable.
I shook my head in quiet surrender. I didn’t like this one bit.
I leaned down and kissed her cheek, the gesture more for me than for her. She smiled, all honey and steel.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, sugar,” she called, her voice laced with sweetness.
The entire drive over, I kept praying Mr. Jackson wouldn’t be there.
I didn’t know much about Kaysville these days, but I knew he was still alive—because if he’d passed, Aunt Lu would’ve thrown a party and sent out engraved invitations.
Not only was I worried about who I would see, but I wasn’t ready to announce I was in town. Walking into that bank would do just that.
I pulled into the parking lot and checked my hair and makeup. Added a touch more lipstick. Took a deep breath. Then met Mr. Howard in the lobby.
Instantly, I felt the shift. All eyes on me.
I was an Eaton in Jackson territory. It was all an uncomfortable reminder of why I left. And why I never meant to come back.
With my head held high—and my nerves jangling beneath it—I walked to the receptionist desk alongside Mr. Howard.
“We have an appointment with Mrs. Wells,” he announced with practiced formality.
The young receptionist barely glanced at us before she asked us to have a seat.
I could still feel eyes on me—soft as whispers, sharp as judgment.
I knew they weren’t staring because they recognized my face from the back of my books. They were staring because I was Ella Lu Eaton. And years ago, I’d broken the granddaddy of the rules.
It made my skin crawl.
A few minutes later, the receptionist returned. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wells has left for the day—but Mr. Jackson is expecting you.”
My heart jumped. How could this be? I was sure Mr. Jackson didn’t want to see me as much as I didn’t want to see him.
This was my worst nightmare.
But I needed this done—today. Aunt Lu wouldn’t schedule her procedure otherwise. However, the thought of walking into the office of the man who broke her heart . . . the same man who made Brady break mine?
It made me feel ill. Sicker than ill, if that was a thing.
Though maybe that was just Brady’s excuse. Because he didn’t hesitate to fall into Amber Capshaw’s arms—not even a pause.
Not that any of that mattered now. What mattered was they hated me. And now, they’d see I was back.
Mr. Howard must not have been clued in to the Jackson-Eaton drama. He didn’t consult me, didn’t even glance my way.
“Perfect,” he said. “Lead the way.”
It wasn’t perfect. It was anything but.
As we walked toward the back, my heels clicking loudly against the gleaming wood floors, I repeated the same mantra over and over:
I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m successful. I have more money than the Queen of England.
I wouldn’t let Mr. Isaac Jackson intimidate me. Not today. Not ever again.
There was only one problem.
It wasn’t Mr. Isaac Jackson I was meeting with.