Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A fter the wedding and Nancy’s funeral, I waited for the other shoe to drop, and on the following Wednesday, a full week after Nancy passed, it finally did.
I sat on the counter in Nancy’s kitchen, kicking my legs softly against the cupboard while I watched Sumner rummage through the fridge. He’d gone to the grocery store on Monday, bought a few ingredients, and we’d both been making lunches and dinners there. Or, well, I attempt the first two times—after that, Sumner declared myself cooking-illiterate and banned me from making dinner. “It makes sense,” he’d said. “When was the last time you cooked your own meal?”
Outside of preparing a cold-cut sandwich, the answer had been never. I’d always relied on room service or a private chef.
“Are you sure you want to try avocado toast?” I asked him now, watching as he pulled out a carton of eggs and a sealed container of leftover salmon we’d had the night prior.
“How hard can it be?” he asked, setting the ingredients on the counter. “Besides, the avocado is getting questionable.”
A knock at the door interrupted our perfectly mundane moment, and while it might’ve been a simple thing, it caused the both of us to still as our heads turned toward the sound.
No one, besides Destelle and Sumner, had showed up at Nancy’s besides Sunday when Ms. Jennings brought Aaron over. I’d been waiting for it, though. Waiting for my parents to come and harass me, waiting for whoever got Nancy’s house in the will to come and kick me out. Heck, I’d even been waiting for Yvette to storm in with a bill for her daughter’s wedding cake. I was surprised that hadn’t happened yet.
“Do you want me to get it?” Sumner asked me.
I hopped off the counter. “No, I’ve got it.”
Despite my assurance, he still followed behind me as I made my way to the front of the house. It was a little funny, the way we were both tensed over a knock. When I undid the lock and drew open the door, a man I didn’t recognize greeted me. He was tall, so much so that the top of his head nearly reached the top of the jamb. Despite how imposing was, some of the weight eased off my shoulders at the sight of him. “May I help you?” I asked him through the screen door.
“My name is Jeffrey Franz,” he said with a deep voice, one that didn’t quite match his face. He lifted his briefcase a little. “I was Ms. Du Ponte’s lawyer.”
And just like that, the weight returned. “Oh… hello.”
“Are you Margot Massey?”
I could feel Sumner behind me, a silent supporter. “Possibly.”
“May I come in?”
I unlatched the screen door before taking a step back. Mr. Franz instinctively ducked his head as he came in, the scent of his expensive cologne filling the air. He proceeded into the house easily, clearly having been here before to navigate his way to the small table Nancy had in her kitchen. “You’re a bit difficult to track down,” he murmured as he deposited his briefcase onto the surface. “I went by Massey Suites, but everyone I spoke with acted as if they didn’t know who Margot Massey was.”
That was unsurprising. “Did you tell them you were Nancy’s lawyer?”
“I did keep that part to myself.”
“You might’ve gotten more interest had you shared it.”
He seemed to understand my meaning. “That’s why I didn’t share. I did come across a very helpful Ms. Jennings, though, and she pointed me in this direction.”
Sumner, a silent shadow until that moment, shifted so he stood beside me. “Why are you looking for Margot?”
The locks on his briefcase clicked as Mr. Franz opened it, shuffling through papers within. “Because she is listed as the executor of Ms. Nancy Du Ponte’s will.”
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s common practice to inform the executor of a will before the passing, of course,” Mr. Franz said, and he pulled out a stack of papers now. He peered at them, thumbing through. “It’s a lot of work, and it’s better if the executor knows what they’re going into before things get too busy. Ms. Du Ponte, though, asked to keep it a secret until her passing.”
I wasn’t sure there’d been another time I’d felt so thoroughly confused. “I—I can’t be an executor,” I said with a shake of my head. “I don’t even know what that all entails.”
“I’m here to walk you through it all.” When he finally found the stapled stack he wanted, he placed the rest back into his briefcase and laid the stack on the table. “It’s not going to be as messy as you might think, given that you’re the only beneficiary Ms. Du Ponte named.”
Nancy Du Ponte – Last Will and Testament . I didn’t read beyond that. “Nancy… Nancy left everything in her name to charity.”
“That may have been what she told you, but if you see here—” Mr. Franz reached over, flipped a page in the stapled stack, and pointed at the bolded subline. “On this page, it clearly states otherwise.”
I will and bequeath all of my personal and household effects, such as furniture, artworks, clothing, and personal items to Margot Massey.
I leave any real estate property I own, whether residential, commercial, or undeveloped land, to Margot Massey.
I will and bequeath my interests in any businesses, including shares, partnership interests, or other equity interests, to Margot Massey.
My chest had begun rising and falling quickly as I read over everything, and Sumner curved his hand over my shoulder as if to steady me.
“Probate court takes time,” Mr. Franz went on. “And it takes time for the funds to be released, but when it does, it will be yours. Given Ms. Du Ponte had no living relatives, it all should move smoothly. It’s been signed over to you for a while now, so no one can argue the decision was made in a poor state of mind. Ms. Du Ponte also had a No-Contest clause, which works in our favor.”
He continued on with more legal jargon, more explanations of the paperwork in front of me, and it was a good thing Sumner was there, because he absorbed everything that went through one of my ears and out the other. I just reread the lines over and over, gripping the back of the kitchen chair so tightly that my knuckles ached.
This was the other shoe, and it finally dropped. It just wasn’t nearly as devastating as I thought it’d be.
“These are what need signatures now,” Mr. Franz said, pulling out a different stack of papers. “And if you have a seat, we can go over this together and begin the process. If… ahem, that is, if this is a good time.”
“We were actually just about to have some lunch,” Sumner said with all the politeness in the world. I could feel his eyes on me, and his hand hadn’t moved from its gentle curve over my shoulder. “Is it possible you could come back later? Or… or we could schedule a meeting at your office, perhaps.”
Mr. Franz agreed that would work for him, and he pulled a business card from his interior breast pocket and offered it out to me. When I didn’t take it, Sumner did. “Ms. Du Ponte did leave a letter, and before I go, I’d like to give it to you.”
A letter. It was the next thing he withdrew from his briefcase, and I wished he hadn’t. As soon as my eyes locked onto it, a new, sickening feeling weighed down on my stomach. It wasn’t a normal letter. Inside the envelope would be the final words Nancy wanted me to hear.
He laid it on top of the will, and I couldn’t look away.
Mr. Franz showed himself out, which worked, because I was immobile behind the kitchen chair. I should’ve sat down. I definitely should’ve sat down. Sumner reached out and touched the stack of papers Mr. Franz had left me to read in its entirety, gazing at it. “She left you everything.”
I was immediately aware of the walls around me. “This house.”
Sumner nodded, equally stunned. “The country club.”
It dawned on me then, slowly, and then all at once. “The land Massey Suites is on.”
We were both silent as we stared at each other, absorbing what it all meant. It was hard to wrap my head around it all—that I went from rich, to broke, to having more assets than I could’ve imagined. It never occurred to me Nancy had lied about leaving everything to charity—though, in hindsight, that was totally something she’d lie about. Morally gray, she was. It shouldn’t have been a surprise… but it was.
“I’ll start the avocado toast,” Sumner murmured, giving my shoulder a squeeze before leaning in to press a kiss into my forehead. “Why don’t you take a look at what Nancy said?”
I wanted to grab his hand, to hold him hostage, but I forced myself to nod. A part of me wanted him to stay beside me as I read it, but the bigger part wanted the privacy in case I bawled like a baby.
I went outside, and though the mid-June heat had become sweltering, it was comforting in that moment. Even the sweat that immediately prickling my skin felt comforting, in a way. I was cold, and the envelope in my hand was cold. The summer sun was like a hug, thawing some of the ice.
Nancy touched this envelope. The contents of the letter… she wrote them. She’d never written me a letter before, I didn’t think. She’d written on pre-made birthday cards, maybe passed me a note or two at a fundraiser event, but never a letter. Never anything as serious as the bob in my hands now.
Slowly, I eased the paper from the envelope, the pressure in my chest making me feel like I was going to be sick. It’s just something from Nancy , I told myself, swallowing hard. It’s not scary.
But it was. These were her last words she intended for me to read. Her final goodbye.
I unfolded the paper, my hands trembling so badly that I almost couldn’t read it. Or maybe it was her scratch of calligraphy. Whatever the case, I had to take several deep breaths before I could focus.
Margot,
Hopefully, you can read my horrible handwriting. I’d have Ally transcribe it for me, but I can just hear her yammering now—best to do it myself.
If you’re reading this, Jeffery’s come to give you my will. I’m dead, huh? Finally. Took God long enough to take me home, didn’t it? You’re probably bawling like a baby while I’m over here, free from drowning in BENGAY every day.
I’m not going to spend this letter yapping on about sentimentalities. You know I never was much for a sappy story. I’m old. My hand’s already cramping.
I left you everything. I bet you’re shocked, like the thick-headed dullard you are. But on one condition—you go back to fashion school, and you get out from underneath your parents’ thumb. I was going to make it on the condition that you don’t marry that Aaron boy, but apparently that’s only something people do in movies. So go to that fancy fashion school, get your degree, and when you graduate, everything is yours. Until then, I’ve a fund in place to help carry you along.
Be happy. That’s my other requirement. In everything that you do, be happy.
Yes, you’re welcome. Stop crying, now. I lived til 90 for you, and have left you everything. Be grateful. I don’t want you staying in Addison. You’ve lived this whole time for your parents. Live for yourself for a change, and leave this world and its champagne problems behind.
God, who writes by hand anymore? I wouldn’t be surprised if the cramp is what kills me.
I love you
It was great seeing you grow up, now go live your own life.
Fondly (I was listening, even if you thought I wasn’t),
Nancy Du Ponte
I swiped the back of my hand under my chin, wiping away the tears that had fallen and pooled there. I traced the crossed-out words, because even though she’d written a line through them, they were still legible. I love you . Words we never, ever said to each other. They were her final goodbye.
I left you everything. “I never wanted anything,” I whispered, rereading her sentences over and over.
And I could hear her response in my head. And that’s exactly why I gave it to you .
Everyone around Nancy clawed at her for her money, for her estates, for everything she was worth. They were polite to her face, grumbled about her behind her back. They thought they were sneaky, that Nancy wouldn’t be the wiser. None of them received a single penny in the end, but Nancy didn’t give it to charity the way she said she would.
I had it all now—or at least I would when I graduated from fashion school. Even though Mr. Franz went over it with me, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the amount. The estates, the main shareholdings of Alderton-Du Ponte, the land my parents’ hotel sat on.
Of course she’d require me to go to fashion school, the one thing she knew I wanted in the world, and she gave me more than enough to reach for it. In everything that you do, be happy.
That’d even been one of the last things she said to me, too. Choose to be happy. You deserve it.
I ran my hand across my cheek again, sniffing like a child, before I folded the letter back up.
The back door slid open noisily, announcing Sumner’s presence. I turned to face him, not caring if there was still the shine of my shed tears, not caring if my nose was red. There was no stress of making sure I maintained my perfect image anymore, no need to shield my emotions away. I didn’t want to hide them from him ever again.
“The toast is done,” he said hesitantly, as if also adding I can give you more time if you need it .
I tucked Nancy’s letter back into the envelope before turning fully away from the pond. “I’m not sure it’ll be as good as Pierre’s,” I told him, starting up the hill. “But we’ll find out.”
“Hey, I never claimed it would be.”
“You offered to make a sacred dish. I assumed it was because you were confident in it.”
The closer I came, the more I could see anxiety crease his brow. “I wouldn’t say confident , but?—”
“I’m sure you couldn’t have botched it too bad.” I stretched my hand out to Sumner as I approached him, and he mimicked me, reaching until his fingers could slide underneath my own. The grip was warm and comforting, just as the sun, just as the letter. Just what I needed. “But we’ll find out, hmm?”
Instead of leading me inside, with his grip on my hand, Sumner drew me against his chest. His lips found their way to my forehead immediately, the tender touch enough to make me shiver. “If it’s terrible,” he murmured against my skin, “I’ll let you make me beans on toast.”
“You know, it never specified what kind of beans. I could use kidney beans.”
Sumner’s face screwed up. “Never mind, let me remake your toast. I need to improve my chances.”
“Too late.” I pulled back just enough to peer up into his face. “You already offered.”
He started to argue further, but before he could, I surged forward and pressed my lips to his, ceasing his words. His free hand slid its way up my arm to touch the side of my throat, a glancing sort of touch that felt like a whisper itself. I could taste the salt of my leftover tears, and Sumner must’ve as well, but neither of us cared.
I pulled back and smiled up at him. “Let’s not keep my avocado toast waiting.”
His eyes traced it, as they always did, as if my smile itself lit something within him. “Let’s.”
And with that, I tightened my grip on his hand and led him into the house.