I force a light, teasing tone. “Actually—”
“No bullshit,” he says firmly. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you. Frankly, I don’t want to know. But whenever I mention one of you to the other, you both go quiet and broody. I’m sick of it. You guys need to hash your shit out.”
“There’s nothing to hash out,” I say tiredly. “Something… might have happened, but we decided not to go down that road. It’s too creepy. We’re basically brother and sister.”
“That’s ridiculous. You two are the furthest thing from siblings. And don’t think the rest of us didn’t notice that you guys have been eye-fucking each other since puberty.”
My stomach plummets. “What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever—”
“Oh, give it a rest,” he says on a small laugh. “You’re grown-ups now—or at least as close to it as you’ll ever be. For the record, it wouldn’t bother me.”
I almost choke. “What?”
“Sure, maybe ten years ago I would have flipped, but now… Well, I kind of think you and Sebastian are made for each other.”
I sink heavily onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “Who are you? Put Alex on the phone right now.”
He laughs, but it trails off swiftly. “I just want you to be happy, Candace. It would kill me to think you didn’t go after something you wanted because of fear of my reaction.”
I rub the frown lines etched on my forehead. “Alex Hughes, all mature and shit.” I sigh. “Look, Sebastian and I—whatever we might have been—is in the past. If you agree to never mention this conversation again, I’ll come to Thanksgiving.”
He pauses. “Sebastian who?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m hanging up now. I’ve had enough of this little heart-to-heart.”
“Coward,” he says lightly. “Love you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you too. Give Thea a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
I end the call and drop my phone on the counter beside me. For a long moment, I stare through the window over the sink at the scattered clouds. My thoughts are jumbled, clashing explosively.
Sebastian.
He’s back Stateside, according to the celebrity-news app on my phone. Over the last few weeks, he’s been photographed in New York and Los Angeles. Always with the same, waifish model on his arm. I wonder if he’s bringing her to Thanksgiving.
I wonder if I can handle it.
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter, and snatch up my phone.
Ten minutes later, I’ve booked a plane ticket from Los Angeles to the small, municipal airport in Belfast, Maine, for the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Then I hit the first name on my speed-dial.
Vera picks up on the second ring. “How’s my favorite apple-picker?”
“Since I know you aren’t doing shit for Thanksgiving, I booked you a plane ticket.”
She squeals. “Where are we going? Bermuda?”
“Not even close.”
She’s quiet for all of three seconds. “Oh my God,” she hisses, “does this mean what I think it means?”
I smile. “Yes, bitch. You’re coming home with me.”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up.” But my words are lost as she pulls the phone from her ear to squeal. Finally, she gets ahold of herself. “It’s not that exciting, V.”
“Yes, it is! This is a dream come true. The Hughes mansion? The siblings all in one place? Nona and Daddy Hughes!”
I grimace. “Please, never call him that.”
She sobers. “Yeah, that was gross. Never again.”
Chuckling, I glance out the kitchen window to see Jonah heading toward the back door. His tall, distinctive figure is even bulkier than usual thanks to a waterproof jacket and padded hat. I know Meghan made him put them on despite the fact it’s not raining anymore.
“I gotta run,” I tell Vera. “And to warn you—there’s some business I need to take care of in Boston on our drive down.”
“What kind of business?”
Watching Jonah remove his hat, then scowl at the sight of his dirt-caked hands, my lips form the first genuine smile in what feels like years. A smile unencumbered by irony. Few people in my life have given so much of their time, patience, and heart to me as Jonah and his wife.
Memories make my smile widen further. My first weeks on the farm, feeling like a fish out of water. Wearing the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes. Doing endless research about soil conditions and what would and wouldn’t grow in my personal garden.
A garden that’s thriving and has healed me on more levels than I can comprehend. All thanks to Jonah.
I tell Vera, “I need to see my lawyer.”
23
The second after I hang up the phone, Jonah knocks three times on the door before opening it and calling my name. I’m proud of him. It took weeks of daily badgering for him to accept that if I didn’t want company, I’d lock the door. Otherwise, he should come right in and find me.
A part of my insistence stemmed from the fact that one afternoon, I hadn’t answered the door when he knocked. After working himself into a snit over my apparent demise—and how upset his wife would be if he didn’t investigate—he’d broken a window. His frantic yells as he barged through the house had woken me from a nap.
The main reason I want the McAdams’ to feel comfortable in the home, however, stems from guilt. During the year in which Charles looked for buyers, Jonah and Meghan occupied the farmhouse at my brother’s behest. Essentially, my moving in booted them from their home.
Something I plan on remedying soon.
“Ms. Hughes?”
I smile at the gruff, annoyed voice, and call back, “Kitchen, Jonah. Want some tea?”
Heavy footsteps pound on the old boards, heralding his arrival a few moments later. His bushy mustache is twitching, signaling that he’s uncomfortable. Usually it’s because Meghan has sent him over here to invite me to their rented cottage for dinner.
“Tea?” I ask again.
“No, uh, thank you.” The cheeks above his beard redden and he won’t meet my eyes. “Meghan wants me to tell you something. And, well, I want to tell you something, too.”
His tone makes my ears perk. Not in a good way. I set the kettle on the stove and light the pilot, then lean against the counter by the sink. “What’s wrong, Jonah?”
“It’s not natural!” he blurts, then flushes to his receding hairline. He mutters something under his breath about meddling wives, then squares his shoulders and looks at me with resolve. “A young woman such as yourself, living all the way out here, staying cooped up every night, no friends, no boyfriend…” He clears his throat. “Meghan’s concerned.”
My tension releases on a laugh. “That’s sweet, Jonah, but I’m perfectly—”
“Don’t give me that I’m fine crap,” he interjects, surprising me silent. With a sigh that lifts the corners of his mustache, he continues more softly, “I saw you, the other day. On the slope out back.”
My mouth closes with a snap.
“You were crying so hard I thought I might need to call the doctor.” He shifts his weight. “I wasn’t spying. Meghan needed to borrow some pie dough.”
“It’s okay,” I say mutedly.
Inside, my gut is churning. Since that afternoon five days ago, I’ve done everything in my power to pretend the cause of my meltdown never happened. But denial is a slippery pet. He abandons you, often when you need him most.
“You’re not sick, are you?” asks Jonah softly.
I look up, giving him a smile perfected by years of fundraising. A smile that has reassured hopeless people, romanced money out of silk-lined pockets, and tricked everyone around me in to believing I was living my best life. Sometimes I even fooled myself.
“I’m perfectly all right,” I tell him calmly. My voice is steady, my eyes sparkling warmly. “You two are so sweet to worry about me.”
As I anticipated, he doesn’t let that slide. But I’m ready.
“Why were you crying, then?”
“I missed my mom,” I say simply.
His eyes cloud with compassion. “I’m sorry. Nothing quite like the pain of losing a parent. I still miss mine, and I’m a grandfather twice over.”
The kettle whistles its first high notes. Thank God. I glance at the stove, then back at Jonah. “Yeah, it’s tough. Thanks for checking on me. And thank Meghan for me, will you?”
He nods. “I’ll leave you to your tea. But can I give you a word of advice?”
“Of course.” I lift the kettle to the back burner, taking the excuse to divert my attention.
“Holing yourself away isn’t gonna help. Not in the long run. You’re young and full of life, Ms. Hughes, and if you’ll take the opinion of an old man, you have a lot to offer this world.”
I blink hard to clear a film of tears, but don’t turn around. “Thank you, Jonah,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply, and I listen to his footsteps receding, then the door opening and closing. After a few moments, I follow his path and lock the door.
I don’t want any more company.
After a long shower and a dinner of last night’s leftovers, I head upstairs to bed. It’s barely past seven o’clock, but my usual routine of enjoying a book and a glass of wine don’t appeal to me. Nothing appeals to me but sleep.
I wash my face and brush my teeth, then crawl into bed. For the first time, the stillness of the peaceful farm isn’t comforting. Loneliness claws inside me, shredding as it goes.
I didn’t lie to Jonah. Not exactly. On that particular afternoon, I was missing my mom. I wanted nothing more than to feel her arms around me, her voice assuring me that everything was going to be okay.
But there’s a chance it might not be okay. Not even a little bit. Not after the phone call I received. Not after the handful of voicemails left after, all from the same source, that I haven’t listened to yet.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the chorus of insects outside and the settling of the farmhouse. My loneliness doesn’t ebb, but something precious rises in equal measure. My brief months on the farm have given me something I can honestly say I’ve never had before.
Peace.
And I just want to keep it a little longer.
My final weeks in Maine are bittersweet. The first weekend of October, BlueBell Apples wins the local award for Best Harvest. Jonah and Meghan are ecstatic. I throw a party and invite the whole town to celebrate.
The night is textbook, rural magic. A barn dance, bobbing for apples and other activities for kids, and a huge, farm-to-table meal. I even dance with several handsome, single men that Meghan pushes my way. I do my best to feel something in their arms. Even the merest flicker of interest. But much to Meghan’s disappointment, I don’t.
With the first frost of the year coming soon, activity on the farm ramps up. We harvest the last of the apples and a small crop of sweet potatoes, then put the fields to bed for winter. I spend the majority of my free time in my small greenhouse tending to the cold-hardy vegetables I planted late summer. There are vibrant rows of spinach, lettuce, rainbow chard, carrots, and turnips. Early November, I do a walkthrough with Meghan and put the garden’s continued care in her capable hands.
Keeping my plans for the farm from Jonah and Meghan is an ongoing challenge. I almost spill the beans at least five times, resisting only by reminding myself how satisfying it will be to hand them the deed myself. In the interim, I convince them to make use of the house when I’m gone and even demand that they host their family’s Thanksgiving there.
The days grow ever shorter, and suddenly the day of my departure arrives. The many farewell handshakes and hugs are hardest on me, as everyone thinks I’m coming back in a few weeks. Jonah is the only one who suspects anything—last night he caught me loading my trunk with everything I brought with me. He didn’t say anything, only gave me a long, penetrating look before offering to help.
Meghan’s cheerful goodbye tells me that he’s keeping my secret for now. I hug him so tightly and for so long that he starts coughing and rubbing his eyes, muttering about allergies. I hop in my car before anyone can see my leaky eyes.
Then I drive away, leaving a piece of myself behind, but altogether more complete than I’ve been in a long, long time.
24
As Vera and I approach the colossal giant that has been in the Hughes family for five generations, she goes utterly silent, her mouth gaping and her nose pressed to the passenger-side window. I don’t make excuses or downplay the scene, but merely appreciate the sight through her eyes as I navigate up the long driveway.
Ethereal in the fading day, evergreens dot the mostly skeletal forest bordering the property. What leaves remain on the other trees shimmer orange and gold in the hazy light. The mansion itself is a beacon of warmth, lit up within and without. On the front veranda, luscious, fall-inspired garlands decorate the many columns, each of them illumined by carefully placed ground lights.
It’s a postcard-perfect tableau.
“Holy effing Rockefeller,” breathes Vera.
I bite my tongue on a trite rebuttal, like I’d give it all away if I could. Instead, I’m overcome by the sudden realization of how long I’ve felt… ashamed.
Ashamed of what my ancestors built. Ashamed that I’ve never known hunger, or been unable to make rent. And I’m ashamed, too, that a part of me has always believed the derogatory labels of strangers.
Spoiled heiress.
Rich bitch.
Socialite.
Airhead.
Party-girl.
Pulling to a stop behind an old, dented SUV that has Deacon written all over it, I put the car in park. Then I turn to Vera, still staring out the window like she’s waiting for the house to disappear.
“I know this is kind of out of the blue,” I begin hesitantly, “but how’s the Malibu house?”
She finally gives me her attention. “Amazing, as you well know. I can’t believe I turned down being your roommate all those years.” Her brow creases. “Why? Are you selling it?”
My palms, suddenly damp, curl around the steering wheel. “I’m not selling it. I’m donating it.”
Disappointment flashes on her face before she smiles. “Oh, well, that’s good then.” Another frown. “I doubt the neighbors will allow a halfway house or something. Who are you donating it to?”
Here goes nothing.
“You. And I’m giving the farm to Jonah and his wife. That’s what I was working out with the lawyer yesterday.”
Surprise, horror, and elation dance in Vera’s expressive eyes. She grabs my shoulder, fingernails digging through my bulky sweater.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Tears glisten in her eyes, and her free hand covers her mouth. “Are you dying?”
I laugh. Loudly. “Stop being dramatic. Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re giving away your worldly possessions!”
I scowl. “Can we go back to where you say, Ohmygosh, Candace, I love you, thank you! Et cetera.”
“I don’t want your house!”
“Too bad! It’s already been transferred into your name, and the property taxes are covered until you sell or die!”
Now we’re both yelling.
A knock on the driver’s window makes us both scream. I jerk around, my heart thundering, to see a dim figure standing outside. I almost don’t recognize Charles until he bends forward and I see his grin. The short, sharp haircut he’s maintained for years is gone, replaced by longish, messy brown locks. He’s also rocking a badass beard.
I roll down my window. “Hey there, cowboy.”
He chuckles, running a palm over his chin. “Yeah, trying a new look.”
I grin. “It suits you.”
“Thanks, sis.” He glances between Vera and me. “You two might as well come inside if you want to yell at each other. Deacon and Dad are going at it in the study, but the drawing room is free.”
I sigh. “Off to a good start thi
s holiday, are we?”
He snickers. “All we’re missing is you throwing a wreath at Sebastian’s head. Just don’t take the one on the front door. Nona made it.”
I cut a look at Vera, whose expression is twisted between mirth and horror.
“Yes,” I answer her unspoken question, “it’s always like this. Vera, Charles. Charles, Vera.”
Charles nods. “Nice to meet you, Vera.” He tugs a lock of my hair. “Welcome home, sis. Open the trunk, I’ll get your bags.”
I turn off the car.
“Welcome home,” I whisper.
After we freshen up in our rooms upstairs, I deposit Vera in the kitchen with Nona, who’s all too happy to welcome another female into the testosterone overloaded house. Swiping a cooling cookie from a rack, I tell them I’ll be back in a bit, then head down the hallway toward my father’s study.
As I approach, I hear Deacon and my father’s low tones. Whatever the argument was, it’s over. Stopping outside, I finish my cookie and wipe my palms on my jeans.
“I wouldn’t, Candy.”
Adrenaline floods my body as I spin toward the familiar, much-dreamed-of voice. Standing at the fork in the hallway leading to the garage and game rooms is Sebastian, one hip propped on the wall, arms crossed as he watches me.
Much to my disappointment, the visceral impact of his presence is undiluted by our time apart. My belly flutters alarmingly, my heart pounds, and my breathing goes shallow. In dark jeans and an olive-green sweater, he looks perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. His hair has grown out to its usual, tousled length, and he’s put back on the weight he lost for his role.
I want to run into his arms.
I want to run away screaming.
Flustered, I take comfort in old, combative patterns. “Why are you lurking?”
He doesn’t smile, his dark eyes narrowed as they dissect me. “What’s so important that you’re braving the lion’s den before dinner?”
My internal panic alarm starts wailing. “What? Nothing. I just wanted to say hello. I didn’t, uh, leave on great terms.”
The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 11