Chapter 14
BECCA
Mrs. Rothschild
Darling, the Amalfi coast, and some wonderful new friends we have met, have begged us to stay another two weeks. Please tell me that Bernard and the flowers can still count on you?
Ilaugh at Mrs. Rothschild’s text and reply eagerly that I am happy to oblige.
The cabin is close to finished, and I have just created the website and the short-term rental site listing.
I could use a couple more weeks of living in luxury.
I push all that aside to focus on my highest-dollar priority: my first big house sale.
I pull up real estate listings in the area and start scouring the open houses. I need to see the comparables and understand what buyers in this price range expect. I find one a few streets over starting in an hour. Perfect.
I stand in front of the Rothschilds’ guest room closet with my measly packed items from Sam’s house hung up for a long minute before pulling out a navy pencil skirt and a silk floral blouse. I curl my hair and slip on low pumps. I may not have the resume, but I can damn well look the part.
I park three blocks away from the open house. I love my car, mostly because it’s paid off, but a seven-year-old Subaru isn’t exactly the vehicle of choice for a million-dollar listing agent.
As I walk the well-kept streets, I start taking mental notes: manicured lawns, oversized garages, winding cul-de-sacs. Charles’s house stacks up well. Maybe even better than most.
I walk into the open house and immediately blink at the blinding orange entryway.
A neon hallway bleeds into a teal dining room and a lime-green kitchen.
Where are my sunglasses? Bold color choices.
That’s … one way to put it. Charles’s home, with its muted tans and warm wood, feels like a spa compared to this acid trip. But, to each their own, I suppose.
“Welcome,” a woman calls. She’s in her late sixties, elegant and poised, with flawless makeup. “I’m Carolyn Chase. Are you a local realtor? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
I straighten my spine. She’s clocked me, but not unkindly.
“Yes. Becca Hughes. I’ll be listing a property on Lily Drive soon.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly. “Impressive.”
I glance around. Carolyn’s staging is pristine. Fresh roses in the entry, a self-serve espresso station near the kitchen, and a subtle hint of citrus floating in the air.
“Do you have a diffuser somewhere? The scent’s lovely. Welcoming, but not overpowering.”
She smiles. “Hidden in each room. Guests think the house just smells this good naturally.”
Smart, I make a mental note to pick some up on my way home.
“Did you say Hughes?” she asks, reaching for a brochure. “Are you related to the Hughes family, the construction and legal practice one?”
I try not to flinch. “Yes. Sam Hughes is my … husband.” The word tastes strange in my mouth. They aren’t wrong but they feel foreign at the moment.
“Right. He’s working with Rick Saunders on that salon downtown, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Sam’s sister, Holly, is launching it on Fifth Street.”
Carolyn hesitates, then leans in slightly, voice lower. “It’s not my place, but … just be careful working with Rick.”
My eyebrows knit. “Why?”
“He’s had some big and flashy wins, sure. But too fast. He came down from Portland a couple of years ago and suddenly has his hands in half the city’s development projects. And not one of his so-called partners seems to come out ahead.”
My pulse ticks up. “That’s … interesting.”
“I saw him last week behind Le Jardin meeting with some people who, let’s just say, I wouldn’t want near my escrow paperwork.” She gives me a gentle squeeze on the arm. “Just—read every word before you sign anything.”
And with that, she walks away to greet another guest. I stand there, floored, my stomach twisting in unease. I finish viewing the home and taking notes, feeling confident in Charles’s listing.
I make it halfway down the block before I pull out my phone and open my banking app. I’m double-checking my balance before I purchase the remaining staging costs and start mentally budgeting each line item when I freeze.
There’s a deposit. $15,800.00
My stomach drops. For a second, I think it’s a mistake, a glitch. Someone fat-fingered a transfer. But then I see it.
From: Samuel Hughes
How? My grip tightens around my phone. Fifteen thousand eight hundred dollars. Not a small amount … not $75,000 either.
A slow, familiar anger builds in my chest, but there’s something else tangled in it now. Confusion.
Why my account? Why not our joint savings account?
I don’t head back to the Rothschilds’. I don’t text him. I don’t give myself time to think this through. I drive straight across town to his new job site. I know he was able to start it early because he finally started using our shared calendar, jerkface.
The job site is in its infancy. Framing is barely up, the skeletal outline of what will be a custom build sits exposed against the sky. No crew on-site this weekend. Just the sound of a saw and the steady thud of something being set into place.
I slam my door harder than necessary and step out, my heels crunching against gravel as I make my way toward the structure. Sam is beside a workbench, back to me, measuring something along a beam, pencil tucked behind his ear, shirt already damp with sweat.
For a second, just a second, I see him the way I used to. Focused, dedicated, and too damn attractive. I shove that thought down so fast it almost burns.
“Sam.”
He turns immediately, a smile beaming across his face like I am the sun and he has been living in the darkness.
“Becca.” His voice is steady, but I see the way his shoulders square, the way his eyes scan my face like he’s trying to read what kind of storm just walked in.
I don’t waste time. “What is this?” I hold up my phone with the open banking app.
“I sold some things.” He shrugs.
My laugh is sharp and disbelieving. “Some things? Should I have gotten all my belongings before leaving? Is there anything left?”
“No! Of course not, I would never. I deserve that, though. I uh … sold my cards.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “And some other stuff I made.”
“Your baseball cards?” I ask before I can stop myself. “All of them?”
A flicker crosses his face. “Most. The ones of any value.”
My chest tightens. “Even the Griffey?”
A pause. “… Yeah.”
God. I didn’t even like those stupid cards, but I know what they meant to him. I’ve seen the way he handled them. The way he cataloged them, as if they were history, as if they were treasured memories. Like they were part of his upbringing.
I force my expression to remain neutral. “So what … You liquidate your childhood, and suddenly we’re even?”
“No.” His answer is immediate. Firm. “Not even close.”
Good. At least he’s not delusional. “Then why,” I press, taking a step closer, “is this in my account? Why didn’t you just put it back in our savings?”
Silence stretches between us. Then he responds quieter, calmer. “Because I don’t get to touch that anymore.” He takes a breath, like he’s choosing each word before it leaves his mouth. “And I don’t get to decide what happens to your money.”
Something in my chest shifts. Not softens, but I feel a change. “That’s not how this works,” I retort, even though my voice isn’t as sharp now. “It was ours.”
“I know.” His eyes meet mine, with no defensiveness or arguing. “I already took from us. I’m not taking from you again.”
My throat tightens. I hate the part of me that understands exactly what he’s trying to do. And I hate even more that this is the first thing he’s done that doesn’t feel like he’s trying to smooth it over.
“I went to an open house today,” I say, almost like an afterthought. “The agent, Carolyn, she warned me about Rick.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “She said he moves fast. That people don’t always come out ahead.”
Sam goes still for a second, his face hardening. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.” He drags a hand over his jaw. “I know it looks … messy right now. Well, it is. But I’m working on it. I’ll handle it.”
“You think this fixes it?” I demand.
“No.” No hesitation. No hope in his voice, only the sad truth. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he says. “It’s not supposed to.” He reaches for his phone and types for a few seconds.
I get a ping on my phone. Sam had sent me a link; I pull it up and see it’s a spreadsheet.
“$59,200 is what I have left after this deposit. I’m tracking all my planned savings and expenditures here. Everything that doesn’t go to paying the crew or bills is going straight to your account, until I pay back the $75,000.”
I blink, unsure how to process this information. Sam … is the one tracking? He always supported me in my efforts to save, but he never fully understood the need to track every dollar. When you grew up never worrying how money was coming to you, it’s hard to imagine it leaving.
“It’s still not enough.”
“I know,” he sighs, “It only begins to address how I failed you financially. What I said … about you and the money—I was wrong. When I think about that ‘favorite girls’ thing … and what I said about you not having anywhere to go—” He exhales hard. “That was careless. Stupid, and it wasn’t true.”
God, I hate that he’s not fighting me on this.
I blatantly ignore his words and focus on the facts. “I didn’t ask you to do this. To pay it back, I mean. That’s what the postnup was for. Giving me the land.”
“I know, but I needed to.”
I look at him closer then. There’s no expectation on his face. No waiting for praise. No assumption that this earned him anything. Just regret.
“That was yours,” I say finally. “Those cards. They were gifts given, memories created. I never expected or wanted you to give those away; those were yours.”
His mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Not more than you were, or the life we were building,” he states, gaze boring into me.
I look away first because this is entering dangerous territory.
“Look, Sam … the postnup was just the first thing I could grab when everything blew up.” I swallow, forcing myself to hold his eyes this time.
“It wasn’t the end of it. It was just … the fastest way to protect myself.
” My fingers curl slightly at my sides. “Right now, I can’t even think past that.
I can’t think about us or what this is going to be.
I can only focus on making sure I’m okay on my own. ”
Because if I let myself think about anything beyond that—about us, about staying—I might break. And I don’t have time to break right now, damnit.
I take a breath. “So yeah. I’m separating everything. Business, personal accounts … all of it.”
Sam’s jaw drops slightly before he gathers himself.
“I … uh. Okay, whatever you need. All that matters to me is that you feel safe, even if that means it’s not with me right now.
And if tying yourself to me financially makes you feel that way, let me know what you need to get yourself out of that.
I will show up at whatever bank’s office I need and sign whatever you ask. ”
I didn’t expect him to agree so quickly. I dart my eyes around the site, trying to avoid his attention when I spot something. A small box of backsplash tile, way too early for this site.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the box.
Sam scratches his neck, avoiding eye contact. “It’s, uh, for the cabin. I remember a while back you pointed out some backsplash you liked while we were at the hardware store. I saw it was on sale and bought a box, which should be enough for the kitchen and bathroom.”
Not sure how to feel at that revelation, I grab the box Sam hands to me. Inside, there is a small note sticking out. I grab it, looking up at Sam briefly, arching my brow.
“I, uh, leave notes on job sites sometimes, build notes. Things I need to communicate to the next owner, or reminders on what I don’t want to mess up. Figured I should focus on building what I messed up.”
I push the note back in the box with a nod, not ready to read it yet. We walk to my car together. As I open my door, Sam pulls it wider, waiting for me to sit down.
“Thank you for stopping by, seeing you will always be the highlight of my day,” he says with a gentle smile.
And despite everything, I don’t doubt him. Love, attraction, and fun were never a problem in our relationship. I have never questioned our bond, just how we approached life.
“Uh, thank you for the radishes; they were picked at the right time. The carrots need to be pulled soon too—don't let them go too long or they'll split.”
“Of course, I am on it.” He buckles me in, kisses my forehead, and tells me I’m precious cargo, as always. And once again, it makes my stomach flip, and I make sure to tamp that down.
I get back to the Rothschilds’ and take Bernie for a walk around the block.
After we return and he gets his obligatory ten-minute ear scratch and cuddle, I open the tile box.
Of course, he remembered the tile I picked out offhandedly.
He was always great at picking up on these things.
I set the tile aside and read the build note.
Holly and Mandy aren’t you. They never were. I said “favorite girls” like an idiot. They’re kids to me. Loud, messy, still figuring it out. You’ve never been that. You’re my wife. I should have never called them my favorite anything. But to me, you are in a different category of your own.
I fold it carefully, more carefully than I mean to, and tuck it back into the box. My eyes sting. But I don’t let the tears fall, not yet.