Chapter 4 Jude #2
Numbly, I do as I’m told, but when the glass is drained, I still haven’t accepted the incomprehensible fact that Nana left an essential piece of the estate to her wedding planner.
Why? My prejudices against the entire institution of marriage gather like an acrid film at the back of my throat, but my personal opinions don’t matter.
What matters is that the person willing to take on this behemoth money pit will not accept it if someone else is living on the grounds. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Talk to me, Judy.”
Henry looks about three seconds away from making me a stress lasagna, so I do my best to sit up and answer him. “I know Gracie Holland. Or at least, I’ve met her.”
“Okay, that’s a start,” he says, clapping and rubbing his hands together like my own personal positivity coach. “Was she a friend of your grandmother’s? If she’s elderly, she may not be up for moving. She might be willing to sell it to you.”
I think of Gracie storming away in her snug little dress, her glossy, dark hair a mess around her shoulders. Heat creeps up the back of my neck, and my hand jerks up to loosen my collar. “No, she’s definitely not elderly.”
Henry’s eyes narrow, assessing me. “You mean she’s hot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“And that’s not a denial,” he drawls with a shit-eating grin.
“Acknowledging whether or not she’s attractive has no relevance to this conversation or the issue of getting her to sell the cottage to me,” I snap.
Henry’s mouth turns down as he weighs this. “Not necessarily. You could always just seduce her for it.”
I know he’s only joking, but the thought spins images of touching her again in my mind like cotton candy, obscuring all reason and sense. Until I remember what happened. A bitter laugh spools out of me. “Not likely. I haven’t mentioned the best part of all this.”
“Which is?”
I pull a hand down my tired, scratchy face. “She can’t fucking stand me.”
Henry lets out a long-suffering exhale. “What did you do?”
So I tell him. Not about her bell-like laugh at the church, or how it made me feel like I wasn’t alone for the first time since Nana had passed.
I definitely don’t mention what pulling bobby pins from her hair did to me during my grandmother’s memorial luncheon, of all places.
Nope, I don’t tell him any of that. Instead, I tell him about her unique work and living situation, and how I’ve ruined any chance of getting the cottage by destroying her life and making myself less likable than an ingrown toenail.
“Christ on a bike,” Henry mutters, rubbing a dark eyebrow until the hairs are sticking out in every direction.
“Not helpful, Hen.”
“I’m not helpful? I beg to differ! I break bad news with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I don’t go full Terminator on innocent, grieving women who happen to be the key to all my future happiness.”
He makes a point. In my defense, I didn’t know she was the key at the time, but I somehow doubt Henry will give two shits.
He walks back around the island and begins aggressively shuffling papers back into his folio.
I rarely see him angry, but right now, the frustration rolling off him could kill grass.
“You’re right. I was a dick,” I say, hoping the admission might calm him. “I regretted what I did the second she walked away.”
“Then apologize. She lives on the grounds, right?”
At the thought of seeing Gracie again, even if it’s to beg for forgiveness, I feel like I’ve swallowed a lightning bolt. But no. I need time to—
“I’m going to see her,” Henry announces.
My head snaps up as he begins walking. I practically knock my stool over in my haste to follow. “No, wait. Stop.”
But he’s striding toward the kitchen door that leads to the garden, which isn’t far from the cottage.
“Henry, please,” I say as he opens it, letting in a swirl of rose-scented air and sunlight. “Let me apologize to her on my own.”
He finally turns to look at me. “Jude, as the probate lawyer on the case, I need to tell her about the will. Also, if you want any hope of selling Larkwood to Bono or whoever it is, you’re going to need that cottage. Just do yourself a favor and let me handle it.”
“I can handle it just fine,” I say through my teeth.
His gaze turns pitying. “Listen. I stopped expecting you to tell me why you hate this place so much a long time ago. It’s fine. Keep your secrets. But I do know you’re going to be seriously considering arson until it’s off your hands, and I want to keep you out of prison.”
“And how exactly are you going to convince her to sell the cottage to someone she’d love to push off a cliff?”
“Easy. Property taxes.”
He begins walking again, and I put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”
He stops, and I take a breath, trying to find the words to explain feelings I hardly understand myself. “I know I fucked up. She didn’t deserve to be let down so hard, and I want to make amends if I can. At the funeral luncheon, before I—”
“Gave her your divorce lawyer card to pass on to all her newlywed clients?” Henry says dryly.
I wince. “Yes. Before that, we… connected.” The word feels foreign in my mouth and mortifying when Henry’s eyebrows shoot up.
He knows I don’t typically connect with anyone unless it involves swiping right and sending them a photo of my driver’s license.
I push through. “Gracie knew Nana really well. I think telling her the news myself could help repair things. Maybe.”
Henry is eyeballing me doubtfully, but before he can come to a decision, we both spot someone on the far side of the garden. It’s Gracie.
“Shit, is that her?” Henry whispers, and suddenly I feel like we’re a couple of middle schoolers spying on a girl.
We watch as she walks along the sunlit garden path that winds through much of the grounds, pausing occasionally to stretch.
She’s wearing running shoes, faded blue yoga pants that show off every inch of her long legs, and a cropped white T-shirt that does almost nothing to conceal her hot-pink sports bra.
I try clearing my throat, but it’s gone so dry it makes no difference. “Yeah. That’s her.”
“Gracie!” Henry promptly calls out, and I have to physically restrain myself from pushing him into a bush and diving in after him.
Alarmed, Gracie’s head snaps toward us, her thick, dark ponytail swinging. Even from here, I can tell the moment she spots me. Her wide eyes narrow as she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Gracie, do you have a second?” Henry calls out again, already striding toward her. I have no choice but to follow.
When we reach her, she’s every bit as lovely as she was at the funeral, even in worn-out leggings with holes at the knees. Suddenly remembering the estate’s payroll I’ve been reviewing, and the pitiful salary my well-meaning but out-of-touch Nana paid Gracie, I frown. She frowns right back.
“Let me guess: you’re here to evict me,” she says, dark eyes flitting from me to Henry and back.
“No, of course not,” Henry answers with a smile. “Jude just wanted to say hi since we saw you passing. He said that you, ah, connected at Agatha’s funeral.”
I’ll murder him. It’s actually the perfect solution—I’ll go to prison for life and never have to deal with this clusterfuck again. Gracie shoots me a look that says she knows very well that I would have chosen a tax audit over saying hi.
“In a manner of speaking,” she mutters.
“I’m sorry, but we haven’t been introduced. I’m Henry Khan,” he says, holding out a hand.
Gracie takes it dubiously. “And you’re the person he’s selling Larkwood to?”