Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  Presley blew her a kiss. She air-caught it and placed it on her cheek. He gave her a wink.

  Presley’s being here, out of the hospital at last and getting to see the Called Shot Ball was perfect. Just perfect.

  Pansy hadn’t left yet. Her raised eyebrow probed for gossip. “You and Rockwell didn’t waste any time dating once he won your baseball case.”

  “Yeah, he’s a man of action.” The ring glinted in the autumn sun.

  “I’ll just bet he’s a man of action.” Pansy gave a little growl, eyeing him where he stood on the pitcher’s mound. “Well, anyway. You might have yanked Dane Rockwell off the market, but you left Ames Crosby open for the rest of us girls to dream about, so I can’t be that upset with you.” Pansy sighed. “I gave him my number, you know.”

  “Go for him,” Brooke replied. “He needs someone.”

  Pansy spotted someone in the crowd, probably someone she could go share this juicy news with, and left.

  Aunt Ruth, Mr. Koen, and J.B. Rivershire— the new investor Brooke could trust and who loved the Yankees even more than Aunt Ruth did— joined them on the mound. Reporters held out microphones or recorders. The crowd hushed.

  An emcee came over the loudspeaker. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, baseball lovers of all ages— put your hands together and welcome the owner and creator of Left Field, the region’s most impressive baseball museum, home of the legendary Babe Ruth Called Shot Ball, and a lovely person all around, Ruth Chadwick.”

  Instead, Rivershire took the microphone. “Hi, folks. I’m Jim-Bob Rivershire. And as Left Field’s number one fan, I’m proud to present to you the woman whose dream is coming true this day, Ruth Chadwick.”

  Nice. Now that was how successful people did things. They shared the credit, not hogged it. Brooke half laughed and gripped Dane’s hand, all through Aunt Ruth’s speech about dreams and fulfillment and legacies and George Herman Ruth’s brash candor.

  “And now,” Aunt Ruth said, winding up her thanks, her extolling of Babe Ruth, and her honor of her father all after only about two minutes, “I want to give everyone a very personal surprise to go along with the opening of Left Field. I proudly announce the engagement of my niece, Brooke Chadwick, to Dane Rockwell.”

  The crowd gasped. “Hey!” someone from the stands yelled. “Rockwell. You’re not going to run off and marry some politician’s daughter tomorrow, are ya?”

  Aunt Ruth fielded this one. “Can’t. Tomorrow he and my niece are tying the knot. And her father would be very happy.”

  The words sent a warm rush of love from Brooke’s head to her feet, like her dad and her mom and her grandpa were there with her, sharing in her happy announcement.

  Rivershire snagged the microphone back from Aunt Ruth. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, kids and baseball fans everywhere, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” From within the black lacquer box, he pulled out the prize and held it aloft. “Babe Ruth’s Called Shot Ball!”

  The crowd went crazy. The organ player broke into a victory tune. Cameras flashed, temporarily blinding Brooke. J.B. then waxed eloquent about the lengths he’d gone to so his adoring public could view the long-hidden ball at last. After his speech everyone headed to Left Field itself for peanuts and Cracker Jack and a closer look at Grandpa Thunder’s lifelong pursuit.

  And, of course, Harvey Jarman’s bequest.

  Brooke’s eyes stretched across the park to the quarter-mile walk to the museum. Dane elbowed her, reaching into a bag he’d been holding.

  “Here.” He held out a pair of shoes he must have dug out of the boxes she’d packed to move into his apartment in Naughton after their honeymoon.

  “Flats!” Her feet sang an angelic song of deliverance. “You really do know me. And love me.” For more than just what the outside world saw when she wore her pageant dress.

  “I’m a Brooke Chadwick expert.”

  First she took off her high heels and slid her happy feet into the dreamy shoes. Then she planted a tender kiss on Dane’s mouth, forgetting the crowd melting toward the museum. Only she and her soon-to-be-husband existed in this big, empty field of grass, with the sky stretching for millennia above them, like their future together, and their children’s children’s futures and beyond.

  “Besides,” Dane whispered, his nose nuzzling through her hair, “even if we can’t begin until tomorrow, I’m going to celebrate a new generation of Rockwells.” His hand slid to her stomach. “If we get a running start, there’s a chance we could field a whole team.”

  “Eleven!”

  “I know. It doesn’t seem like enough. We’d need some relief pitchers, and stuff.” The long dimple in his cheek deepened, and his eyes got that seductive, heavy-lidded gaze. Brooke’s skin tingled with electric anticipation. “We’ll call our team,” he whispered, close to her face, “the Golden Thunder Chadwick Monkeys. After your grandpa.”

  She burst out laughing. “How about the Yankees? He’d like that more.”

  “That’ll do.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth. “We’ll get started on it tomorrow night.”

  __________

  Jennifer hopes you enjoyed this escape. If you liked this book, please leave a review either on Amazon or Goodreads. Even a single line helps. Authors appreciate reviews because they make a writing career possible. Thank you!

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  Further Reading

  Other Legally in Love books available on Amazon (and free on KU):

  Asked & Answered: He asked, she answered— no. Now Becca and Carson are facing off in court. Will the sparks reignite as they fly?

  Legally Wedded: Morgan and Josh are each desperate for financial aid to finish college, but are they desperate enough to get legally wedded?

  Coming Soon:

  Mergers & Acquisitions: Jillian needs a way out of her vacuum of a job as attorney to the stars and may have found it via a long lost painting that surfaces. So why won’t the gorgeous banker, Aero, quit standing in her way? *Keep reading for a preview of this book to follow.

  Attractive Nuisance: Camilla is desperate for the promotion to assistant prosecutor. Will new-hire and attractive nuisance Matt ruin her chances?

  Illegally Wedded: Piper is a top chef in San Antonio, but just as she’s eligible for her Texas Star, she gets notice she’s being deported. Zach needs a wife to move up his deeply traditional law firm’s ladder. Can getting hitched save them both, or will it just get them both into deeper trouble?

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  Makeover Romance books available on Amazon (also free on KU):

  The Lost Art: Dowdy art curator Ava gives herself a makeover just in time for an art theft to bring both a quirky billionaire and a handsome FBI agent in to solve the cozy mystery.

  Immersed: Gorgeous multi-lingual language coach Lisette gives herself a hideous make-under to keep interested clients at bay, but dropping her disguise when the man of her dreams hires her might sink her business. How will she show him the real Lisette?

  Coming Soon:

  My Fair Aussie: Gender-flipped My Fair Lady! As nanny for a horrid woman, Eliza needs to give her snobby, gold-digging boss a comeuppance— by tricking her into falling for an Australian-accented bus station hobo Eliza makes over. But the vagabond has more charm than Eliza bargained for.

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  Acknowledgments

  The writing of a book might seem like a solitary effort, but sometimes it takes a whole team of psychologists to bring one to fruition. Case in point, Wills & Trust. The fourth book in this collection took more time, sweat, and tears than the previous three (or the subsequent three) combined, due to a huge number of factors, and it wouldn’t be words on the page today if it weren’t for a supportive, amazing bunch of people who brought the book (and its author) through.

  Gary, of course, isn’t just my beta-reader, he’s my alpha-reader (his own invented term). The Called Shot Ball idea came from him, too. Cindy Anaya and Donna Hatch, great authors, gave valuable guidance. Paula Bothwell and Bri
ttany Gardner offered proofreading expertise. Steven Novak designed a beautiful cover.

  Credit goes to Lisa Bingham for her perfect title of the gossipy hair salon “Bob and Weave.” The Facebook hive-mind gave so many hilarious suggestions. I wanted to use them all. I have cool friends.

  I owe my kids for their encouragement— and their prayers. I honestly feel like they called down the powers of heaven to get this book into print. They are ceaselessly wonderful, and I love them fiercely.

  Finally, and probably I should have put this first, a big thanks to readers of clean fiction like mine. You make this worth doing. It’s because of you I pushed forward, didn’t let this project drop. I hope you enjoyed it, for it was one of my most thorny efforts, after Big in Japan. Many happy page-turns to you all.

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  Author’s Note

  While this book is about a court case, and many of the legal details are accurate, I’ll admit I wasn’t painstaking or a slave to legal accuracy. If you happen to get notice of a huge inheritance, such as the world’s most famous baseball, from a complete stranger, please do hire your own trusted legal counsel. This book as a perfect guide? Not so much.

  Also, while the Called Shot is a famous moment in World Series history, there’s still dispute as to whether Babe Ruth really did call his shot. Theory videos abound online, in case you’re interested in watching them. And as far as anyone knows, the ball itself has never surfaced. Bummer, right? But according to historical records, Franklin D. Roosevelt did attend the game.

  In the unlikely event that my dad reads this book, he will possibly be disappointed in me. All my life I’d assumed he must be the Yankees’ biggest fan, since as a boy he had the incredible opportunity to serve as batboy for the 1953 World Series championship team while they were on an exhibition tour in Japan, where my grandpa was serving on assignment in the Air Force. Turns out, no. My dad hated the Yankees all his life. From what I can tell as a more passive, less passionate observer, there are only two types of baseball fans in this world— those who adore the Yankees and those who can’t stand them.

  Sorry, Dad.

  __________

  About the Author

  Jennifer Griffith is the author of over a dozen books of romantic comedy. She and her husband live in rural Arizona where he’s a judge and they’re raising their five brilliant kids through their own version of romantic comedy that they call life.

  Contact her via her website at authorjennifergriffith.com.

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  Even Further Reading

  Mergers & Acquisitions, Book 4 in the Legally in Love Collection, Jillian & Aero’s story— battling for a priceless painting, and love. Releasing August 2017.

  Preview of Mergers & Acquisitions

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Oh, my stars.” All the breath suctioned out of my body into the warm California air. I stepped closer to see whether my eyes were playing a trick on me, if it was just the morning sun, or whether the signature on this painting leaning up against a table covered with old glass ashtrays and broken cookie jars from the 1950s could actually be a Mars Yuber.

  “You like it? It’s priced to sell.” A guy strolled over. His ratty Iron Maiden concert t-shirt didn’t quite cover his beer belly. “One hundred percent of this stuff has got to go.”

  I bent down and inspected the canvas. Sure, the subject matter didn’t match the topics Yuber was best known for, stark trees against snowscapes, but it was arresting, this intense energy coming from the portrait of— I bent to inspect the placard on the ornate wooden frame— Woman Draped in Red.

  “How much?” I didn’t look up.

  “My wife says it’s obscene and thinks I should pay someone to take it.”

  “Obscene?” I finally dragged my eyes away from the eyes on the face to notice the rest of the portrait— ebony hair piled high on the head, the swanlike neck on creamy skin, the oddly shaped red mark, maybe a birthmark, just at her collarbone. Sure, the drape didn’t cover everything it should, but obscene? Hardly.

  Unless you counted her gaze. The focus of the painting led the eyes to meet the woman’s level gaze, frank and like she knew your secret. It reminded me of the Mona Lisa in that way. No question this was done by a master’s hand. Perhaps if you worried she knew something unsavory about you, then it was obscene.

  “You ever hear of the artist?” I kept my tone nonchalant. Maybe the owner was going to hit me with a huge price tag after all that lead-up. Chances were, he knew he had me like a marlin on his hook. Probably saw me drive up in the firm’s company car, a Mercedes, since I was on my way to meet with a client, and planned to milk me for all I was worth for these swaths of oil and pigment I couldn’t tear my eyes from.

  Frankly, the longer I looked at this painting, the more likely I was to be a pawn in Iron Maiden Fan’s hands.

  “Never even looked who painted it.” He snorted. “Don’t really care. Who wants a woman with a paint splotch on her neck?”

  Seriously?

  My purse got heavier, alerting me I had both cash and check inside.

  Woman Draped in Red, though. Be real. For one, I’d never seen myself the type to buy a painting, let alone one entitled Woman Draped in Red. Did the title sound sordid? Possibly. But this— I gazed, unable to tear myself from it.

  I walked to the right, to the left, examining its lines. I leaned in. Looking closer, I knew that paint splotch was no mistaken brushstroke. It was careful, precise, and intricate. Undoubtedly copied from reality, it had the unmistakable shape of that Egyptian symbol on the dollar bill— the Eye of Horus.

  Yeah, entertainment law was my specialty and a lot of the firm’s clients were Hollywood actors who dabbled in other art on the side. Some of them had talked art with me, and a few had even shown me their stuff; once they found out about my undergrad studies, they offered me fire sale prices until I couldn’t refuse. But realistically, until about three months ago when I finally got one big paycheck and closed out my law school loans, I never dreamed of buying anything more than macaroni and cheese or Diet Coke to keep me awake at my grindstone.

  Make that serious grindstone. As in, so many hours at the office I forgot how green trees and blue sky looked, or a sunset or an ocean wave. And this was California, for heaven’s sake.

  Being a young female lawyer in a firm as intense as BGG took its toll. Hard core.

  If there were any way out at this point, I’d make a break for it. Run for the Beverly Hills.

  I stared at Woman Draped in Red, and she gazed back at me like she knew my flight instinct was dialed to high— and as if she held the solution. I leaned closer, as if she could whisper to me from her frozen silence. Nothing. But she knew…and now that I’d seen her, I had to have her, so she’d tell me. No matter the cost. A Mars Yuber could run thousands, tens of thousands, more.

  I’d sleep on the beach and take the bus in to work for six months, forage for nuts and berries. This painting held my answer, and—

  “How’s forty bucks?” Iron Maiden Fan Man coughed up a number.

  “Forty!”

  “Fine, make it thirty-five. But I only take cash.”

  If there were a world speed record for opening a purse and finding thirty-five dollars in exact change, I would have won it.

  If there were another world speed record for racing with a possibly valuable painting and escaping a yard sale before the seller could change his mind, I would have won that too.

  Within a couple of minutes, I’d torn through Old Town Pasadena and was back on the freeway, and hands-free dialing Tyanne.

  “You know anybody who does art authentication?”

  “Sure.” She sounded like she was on the treadmill. BGG had a workout room and a shower so their attorneys almost never had to leave the office in Hollywood. “Grady Ingliss. Why? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Ryker right now? It’s almost ten. Your meeting at Thrillsville is in thirty seconds.”

  Ryker loved amusement parks and only met with
his lawyers there. I tried to be patient, even though I got motion sickness. But former kid-stars had quirks, since no one had ever told them they were wrong, ever, and according to BGG I wasn’t allowed to be the first one to break the news of Ryker’s lack of infallibility.

  “I was early, so I was killing time at a yard sale in Pasadena and came across something. Shoot me Grady’s number.”

  “Okay, but don’t make Ryker wait. He’s liable to bolt, and BGG needs him, even if he’s bent on destroying his waning career.” That had been evident the last six months. Oh, Ryker wasn’t taking the usual drugs-alcohol-roadie-abuse route to shame. Instead, he was picking up chintzy endorsement deals. Stuff his talent agent— not a BGG employee— should have been protecting him from. Like hemorrhoid cream. The kid was fifteen. What the heck, right?

  That agent, I could smack her. She was a friend of his aunt’s and she had too many other clients in advertising, and she was cross-pollinating with Ryker and one or two other celebs she repped. It was tanking all her businesses.

  Ryker needed new representation. But not me. I was ready to get away from this squirrel cage— and quit driving on these insane freeways every stupid day.

  Six minutes late, I pulled into Thrillsville, wheeled the Mercedes into a too narrow parking spot, prayed that the twelve-passenger van beside me had a family that planned to stay all day in the park and not come out and door-ding Myrtle here’s red sparkly paint job.

  But before grabbing my briefcase and my Dramamine patch, I checked the number from Tyanne and shot Grady Ingliss a message. He got back to me instantly—

  Bring it by. Can you be here by one?

  — and provided an address in the San Fernando Valley. Great. More freeways.

  ___________

  “Ryker. How are you?” I reached to shake his hand, but he gave me a fist bump instead. His other hand was balancing both a caramel apple and a wand of cotton candy. Wasn’t it a little early in the day for that much sugar?