Chapter 3
chapter three
Summer
The executor’s office is in Coconut Beach, thankfully, so we don’t have to fly anywhere for our appointment.
Coconut Beach is an island located off the southern tip of Florida. It’s a hot spot for wealthy visitors to have their second or third homes that they come to three to four times a year. The plane ride down from New York City is just over four hours, plus a twenty-minute puddle jump in a seaplane.
The shiny, impersonal interior probably makes Dayton feel right at home. I’m starting to regret my leather sandals and the two little braids in the front of my hair when I get to the door and see the receptionist in a pencil skirt.
“Right this way, Miss Sullivan. Mr. Walsh is ready for you.” She leads me to an office door, knocking briefly before opening it.
Of course, Dayton was early. He probably helped them open the place up. He’s dressed slightly more casual today, in brown slacks and a tan linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is still slicked back, like old-school Superman.
Maybe it’s not too short.
I’m not one hundred percent sure where we stand.
After the visitation, where he never left my side, I wasn’t sure what to expect at the funeral.
He did the exact same thing, but even when I was sobbing my eyes out as they lowered the caskets into the ground, he never offered a shoulder or a tissue.
And I still haven’t seen him shed one tear.
The executor smiles at me, standing from behind the mahogany desk. He reaches out his hand. I grasp it before taking the seat he gestures toward.
“It’s nice to meet you, although, of course, not under the best circumstances. However, I do believe you and your brother will be pleased to hear what I have to say about your parents’ estate.”
“Stepbrother.”
“Stepsister.”
We speak in unison.
Mr. Walsh looks from my face to his, his brow furrowed as he nods. “Yes, of course.”
He takes his seat and flips through the pages on his desk.
“Your parents, Russell and Clara, recently updated their will in the last year. They declared you both as beneficiaries to their entire estate, split fifty-fifty, right down the middle. Their personal belongings are to be given to each of their respective blood children.”
He clears his throat, interlacing his fingers and leaning his elbows on the desk as he meets my eyes, then Dayton’s.
“The next part is a little tricky and unusual. You have to agree on what to do with the house itself, which is by far the most valuable. Your parents sold the home they had owned for many years—recently, in fact—and they purchased a beach bungalow, right on the water down at Sunrise Beach. Bungalow is a modest term. It’s a pretty large house with excellent land value on the coveted Sunrise Beach.
You have one year to decide on liquidating all assets, or keeping it and using it as a rental property and splitting the profits.
“Or if you choose, using it as you each see fit as long as you agree. For example, one of you could live in it and pay some amount of rent to the other one. You could agree to each having access to it for six months out of the year, et cetera. They seemed to think there was a chance you might not come to an agreement, so after one year, if no agreement has been made, you will be obligated to sell it and split the profits from the sale fifty-fifty.”
“We’ll sell it,” Dayton says.
I turn, gaping at the way he just announced what would happen without even asking me if I had an opinion.
“Excuse me? Just like that, you want to sell their home without even looking at it or discussing it?”
He’s manspreading in his chair, his thighs open as he leans back in a relaxed stance, like we’re discussing our favorite ice cream flavors and not every single possession our parents owned before their tragic deaths.
He tilts his head to look at me. “Yes, I want to sell. No, there’s nothing to discuss.” He turns back to Mr. Walsh.
What the actual fuck? He has no feelings about anything. Does he even have a soul?
I stop glaring at Dayton and turn to face Mr. Walsh. My stomach clenches.
“It’s in pretty severe disrepair, but they already renovated the studio at the back of the property and were planning to live in it while construction went on at the main house.
It could bring in a substantial amount of income as a rental property.
Billionaires from New York vacation here all the time, and they’d pay a pretty penny to rent that place out, possibly even for long-term stays.
The land value will only accumulate as the years go on. ”
I flip back to look at Dayton. “Did you know about this?”
He ignores my question. “I don’t see what this changes. We’ll still sell.”
Mr. Walsh glances between us. He leans back in his leather office chair, running a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“I will assist in whatever you two decide, but I would have to advise against selling the house in its current state. The Copelands purchased it through a short sale. They waited over a year for all the permits to come through, set aside the money for the renovation, and hired a team with a well-known builder and a highly sought-after architect. If you sell now, you’re forfeiting on potentially millions in profit.
At least talk to the realtor before you decide on anything.
Either way, you must agree, as both of your names will be on the deed. ”
The potential money on the table causes Dayton to pause. Nothing motivates him more than hard cash.
I can’t believe I’m being forced to make this kind of decision with someone as heartless as him.
“What realtor did they use?” he asks.
I cross my arms over my stomach.
Mr. Walsh scribbles a name and number on the back of his business card and hands it over. “Good luck to you both. Keep me updated as you make your decisions. I need your signatures here.”
Raindrops start falling from the gray clouds above as we walk out onto the street. Dayton presses his phone up to his ear, walking down the sidewalk without a word. Seething anger boils under my skin. I march after him.
“This is Dayton Copeland. You worked with my father, Russell Copeland.”
My much shorter legs struggle to keep up with his long strides.
“What’s the address?” His tone is eternally cold and unmoving, like every conversation he has is a budget meeting in a windowless conference room.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him offer a simple hello, how are you or any type of pleasantry. It’s like he’s allergic to small talk. And being nice. And joy, happiness, the things that make life worth living.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone.
“Where are we going? Was that the realtor?”
“Yes.”
“So, where are we going?”
“I’m going to meet the realtor at the house. There is no we in this situation, Cupcake.”
I roll my eyes at the old nickname. Growing up, Dayton always called me Cupcake because he knew he couldn’t get away with the much meaner nicknames he wanted to use in front of our parents.
I don’t know exactly where he got it, but I suspect it was because I was a little on the chubby side when I met him at fifteen.
He always said it like it was an insult.
And I know for a fact that he hates cupcakes—all sugar in general, actually.
Psychopath.
“Listen, dickwad, I’m in this just as much as you. You heard the man—we’re splitting it fifty-fifty. We have to agree to sell it or keep it.”
That earns me a glare. He stops walking by an all-black 1961 Aston Martin convertible.
He must store it somewhere on the island.
I recognize it immediately as the car Russell gifted to him at eighteen before he moved to New Haven to attend Yale University.
My mom told me it’d belonged to Dayton’s grandfather and apologized that I wouldn’t be getting such a rare gift for my eighteenth birthday.
I was still happy to receive the white Lexus.
“I thought you’d sold it.”
He spins the key ring on his forefinger. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?”
I shake my head, lifting my chin stubbornly. “Not that easy.”
He sighs, like I’m the one being impossibly difficult. He walks around to the passenger door, opening it up without a word.
Seventeen-year-old me has butterflies. Dayton’s car was legendary at Coconut Beach High School. He only drove it for the summer before leaving for Yale, but every girl in town wanted a chance to ride in that car—some of the guys too.
I try to tame my features to seem indifferent, refusing to let him see my eyes light up or a smile on my face. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing how hot this car is. I climb inside, and he shuts the door.
We ride in silence. The top is up because of the rain. I see now why he told the realtor it would only take us twenty minutes to get to Sunrise Beach. Dayton doesn’t think speed limit signs apply to him.
I refuse to look at him. The subtle scent of his cologne fills the small car—something manly and expensive, like sandalwood and the blood of a Swiss monk, that cost a ridiculous sum.
Once we pass the faded blue wooden sign for the Sunrise Beach area, the homes turn into something out of a movie set in a wealthy coastal town.
After a few miles, he turns down an older street—Daybreak Place.
Many of the homes are beautifully maintained, but there are a few that should be torn down.
The street is walkable, with sidewalks and palm trees lining it like a postcard.
I’ve always been in awe of the picturesque beauty of this island.