Chapter 2
BECCA
His grandparents couldn’t manage it anymore.
The four brick steps to the front door were tough on his grandfather's knees.
Grammy also struggled to manage the property by herself.
So, the family struck a deal: Sam would rent-to-own the house—for the price it was worth twenty years ago. A gift, really.
To make it “even,” the payments Sam makes go straight to Holly. A little financial boost, supposedly, to help her get on her feet. Which in theory, I support. In practice, it is difficult to believe. She is only two years younger than Sam and six months older than I am.
Holly has also never lived away from her parents' house for more than nine months. Something always comes up, be it health flares, job stress, bad roommates. While she searches for her “passion,” she receives a generous monthly stipend. This stipend is funded by us.
Still, I love that house. It’s solid. Quiet. Honest. There's a separate shop in the back for Sam's gear. The gardens Grammy planted years ago still bloom each spring. I’ve started helping tend them and there’s something grounding about keeping her work alive.
So yes, this mansion feels like it belongs in a magazine. But I’ll take creaky floors and heirloom roses over polished granite and solar-powered fountains any day.
We step inside the party. I'm in a faded sundress and holding a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers from the garden. I arranged them myself this morning: lavender, wild roses, and cheerful zinnias. It’s simple, but it’s beautiful. At least, I think so.
“There’s my Samuel!” Sam’s mom calls from the patio, arms outstretched like she’s hosting a red carpet. She glides over in wedge heels and linen. Everything about her is deliberate—the necklace, the posture, the smile that arrives a half second too late. It’s all effortless elegance and warm charm.
Sam bends down to kiss her cheek, and she smooths a hand down his back. “Hey, Mom. Good to see you. I look forward to this party every year.”
“Oh, really?” Her voice is honeyed, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. “So much that you didn’t have time for a haircut? Or to wear something that doesn’t scream ‘walked off a job site’?”
“Hey, I wore a shirt with a collar,” Sam protests with a grin, smoothing a hand over it.
And he did. A light blue polo and khaki shorts. Somehow, he pulls off the retired golf pro look and still makes my heart stutter. Then her gaze slides to me.
“And Rebecca, you look lovely, as always, when you wear that dress.”
I feel the dig under the compliment, but I smile anyway. Wide, pleasant and practiced. “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I brought these for you.” I offer the bouquet.
She takes it with a pause that’s a beat too long.
“Oh … thank you. You shouldn’t have.” Her nose wrinkles, almost imperceptibly. “They don’t go with the theme, but maybe I can find a place for them in the back room.”
My jaw tenses, but before I can force out a polite reply, I hear the voice I’ve been waiting for.
“Is that my sweet Becca? And are those from my old garden?” Grammy sweeps in, a bright spark in soft cotton and silver curls.
She beams as she crosses the room, already reaching for the flowers.
“Oh, sweet pea, these scents take me back. Lavender and zinnias? Bring them out front; I want to show everyone what you’ve done.
You always make everything look so alive. ”
“Of course, Charlotte,” Sam’s mom says stiffly. “I was just saying how they might not fit the theme …”
Grammy raises an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law. “Flowers grown right here in Cascadia, during summer, don’t fit your summer kick-off theme?”
I could kiss this woman.
“Grammy, so good to see you,” I say as I lean in and kiss her cheek.
She’s the kind of woman I grew up with. Genuine, grounded, and completely allergic to bullshit. Her kindness has teeth. It’s why I made sure she and Grandad would be here. They’re the only reason these Hughes get-togethers don’t feel like a full-blown audition.
Grammy links her arm through mine and leads me toward the backyard.
We chat politely with some of Sam’s cousins. Then I spot Granddad sitting in the shade by the garden. He is weathered and unhurried, the kind of man who has nothing left to prove and knows it. His cane rests on one knee, and a glass of iced tea in his hand.
I veer off with a quick, “One second, honey.”
“Sure thing,” Sam says, already scanning the crowd. “I’m gonna try to find that property developer I told you about, Rick Saunders. He’s supposed to be here tonight.” He gives me a quick squeeze on the hip and disappears into the party.
“There’s my girl.” Granddad’s eyes twinkle as I lean in for a hug. His embrace is solid, warm. The kind of hug that makes you drop your shoulders without realizing they were tensed.
“How you holding up out here?” I ask, settling into the chair beside him.
He gives a small chuckle. “Oh, you know. Avoiding questions about politics and golf handicaps. I’m surviving.”
I laugh and look back at the house. Just then, I see Mrs. Hughes eyeing my bouquet as if it’s a weed she forgot to pull. My smile fades slightly, but Granddad notices.
“Pay no mind to her,” he says gently. “She forgets sometimes. Likes to pretend this family has always been polished. But her husband, my son, he didn’t come from money.
We worked for everything we had.” He turns, locking eyes with me.
“It took grit. And a woman strong enough to see the long game. You remind me of Grammy, you know that?”
My throat tightens. He is the only one in this family who came from nothing too, and somehow that makes him the only one who truly sees me.
“I’m proud of you. You and Sam both. But I’m especially proud Sam had the sense to marry a woman with her feet on the ground and her head looking toward the sky. That’s the winning combination, if you ask me.”
He squeezes my hand and gives me a wink.
“You’re the best kind of trouble, Becca. The kind that builds something real,” he insists.
I don’t trust my voice, so I squeeze back.
He lets out a little grunt as he stands, reaching for his cane. “Well, enough sitting around. Time to go find my good woman before she starts telling people I’ve wandered off again.”
I laugh. “Tell her I said thanks for saving me back there.”
“I’ll tell her,” he says, tapping the cane twice like a punctuation mark. “But she already knows. Plus, it’s one of her favorite pastimes.”
I watch Granddad walk off across the patio, his steps slow but sure, cane tapping with each stride. He finds Grammy near the lemonade station, and the way her face lights up when she sees him makes something ache in my chest.
I turn to head back into the crowd, needing a refill or maybe just a breather, but instead I see my favorite pair.
Holly and Mandy. Holly is soft and delicate—the kind of girl who has never had a bad photo taken.
Mandy looks expensive, which I’m sure is the point.
They’re glued at the hip like always, standing in the shade of a hydrangea bush.
As I’m walking over, a flash of movement catches my eye: Sam near the bar, laughing with a man in a cream blazer.
He has the easy confidence of a man who has never been told no and has mistaken that for charm.
The developer he mentioned earlier. I catch part of the man's voice over the music. “… That’s the problem with letting women into the numbers—too many feelings, not enough sense.”
Sam laughs. Not loud, not long, but enough.
I swallow it down, chalk it up to networking, then turn my focus to the walking brand collaboration in front of me.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile. “How’s the new job going?”
Holly lights up. “It’s amazing. Busy, but great.” She graduated from cosmetology school six months ago. The program was supposed to take ten months, but it took her three years; still, she finished. I celebrate and applaud her progress.
She got a job at the top salon in Cascadia. Her mother’s regular visits and kind referrals helped a lot. And surprise, surprise, Mandy works there too, conveniently installed behind the front desk.
“We’re already brainstorming ways to update the business,” Holly gushes like she owns it. “The whole place is stuck in 2009. I have a vision.”
I’ve heard the vision before. Organic, wellness-centered beauty, botanicals, all that. Honestly, she’s not wrong. Cascadia would eat that up. But she’s been in the industry for six months. Maybe learn the ropes before trying to reinvent the wheel?
Still, I smile. “They’re lucky to have you.”
I nod along to their conversation long enough to be polite. Then I excuse myself to the restroom. It’s massive, of course. The soap smells like bergamot and costs more than my skincare routine.
When I come back out, I run into Mr. Hughes near the wet bar. He’s nursing a neat scotch, standing like he’s conducting a quiet audit of the entire party. Crisp slacks, collared shirt, not a hair out of place.
“Rebecca,” he says with a nod, his version of a warm welcome. “Thank you for sending your business plan over. You know how much I enjoy reading these things.”
His dry tone doesn’t quite match the compliment, but I catch the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Classic Mr. Hughes: dry as toast and just as expressive. But business? Business I can get behind.
“No problem, Mr. Hughes. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“It was well done.” Short and simple. “Five-year plan with conservative projections based on comparable properties. Accounted for seasonal variables, outlined contingency plans for climate disruptions. I also appreciated your section on layered insurance needs. Most overlook that. Your overhead stays lean, and you’re minimizing debt. Sensible.”
“Thank you.” I feel heat prick at the corners of my eyes and redirect it fast. This man is not generous with his praise.
“I wish more people in this family had a head for business like you,” he adds flatly, before glancing past me. “Excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”
And with that, he walks off.
No hug. No smile. But I feel more affirmed by those four sentences than I have in years of trying to impress this family. I glance down at my unmanicured nails, and for a moment, I belong in this world of manicured perfection.
That warmth carries me into the backyard—right into the oncoming storm I never saw coming.
I spot Sam near the side garden, talking to Holly and Mandy.
His back is to me, so he doesn't see me approach. The property developer Sam was talking to earlier stands beside Holly. She laughs a bit too loudly at a man I presume is Rick Saunder’s, joke.
She brushes her hair back, wanting everyone to notice.
And then I hear her voice:
“Sammy, thank you again for the $75,000 startup loan. It’s going to make such a difference. Now that the lease is signed, I can’t wait for you to start remodeling the salon in two weeks!”
The world tilts.
$75,000
That’s our cabin fund. Our scraped-together, late-night side job, skipped vacations, save-every-damn-penny fund. And building her salon? Two weeks? I thought he said his Briarwood project was delaying cabin construction.
Before I can move, Sam responds.
“No problem, sis. I’m so proud of everything you’ve overcome. I’d do anything to help you make this dream happen. It’s only money. I would do anything for one of my favorite girls.”
Mandy giggles at that statement, sliding closer to Sam.
"I am up there as well, right?" she questions, leaning in too close.
"Of course, I should have said two of my favorite girls."
Only money? Two of his favorite girls?
Only my sore feet from catering events. My clipped coupons and thrifted sweaters. The honeymoon we postponed … The life we’ve been building, one sacrifice at a time. That money is my Xanax, my security blanket.
And he only gave my security away.
Mandy chimes in. “Is Becca okay with this?”
A small part of me wants to thank her. At least someone is thinking about me. But then I see her face, and I know she doesn’t mean it for my benefit. There's a flicker of something behind her eyes—calculation.
Sam laughs. “I haven’t talked to her yet. But it’s my money. I was able to make the transfer, wasn’t I? Besides, she gets it; she sends money to her family too.”
He. Did. Not.
Yes, I help my family sometimes. From my personal money. The five percent we each put aside into our personal accounts each paycheck to spend on whatever we want. I only send small amounts. Bridge-the-gap help when rent is tight.
Not seventy-five grand. And definitely not our shared future.
The man I don’t know, but suspect is Rick, chuckles. “Women always think they’re entitled to our money. Hope you got a prenup, man. Especially with the ones who come from … less.”
I freeze. The house I painted, the garden I kept alive, the mortgage payments I helped make. Suddenly, in one sentence, none of it feels like mine anymore.
Sam laughs. “Nah, not worried. The house and the business are in my name. If she left me, she’d have nowhere to go.”
Nowhere to go? Like I’m a guest in my own life.
Nowhere to go … Let’s test that theory.
I slide my phone from my clutch and flick off location sharing. I text Mack:
SOS: Can you grab me? Walking. Feet dying. Please.
She’s shared her love for my terrible footwear before; she’ll get it.
I don’t look back at Sam. I don’t trust what will come out of my mouth.
I breathe in. Focus. I need a plan.
And luckily for Sam, I’m very good with plans.