by Jiffy Kate
Thankfully, Maggie is great at small talk and taking my mind off of things, so the hours pass swiftly and before I know it, my parents are home and I’m once again regretting not staying in a fucking hotel. We eat in relative silence, except for my mother, who talks incessantly about a woman she’d like me to take to dinner.
Such a nice girl.
She went to Rice.
The way she says Rice makes it sound exotic.
Her father owns the firm…
And that’s when I really tune her out. I don’t give two shits about who her father is or isn’t. I know exactly who she is without even knowing her damn name. A fucking Real Housewives of Dallas wannabe. She’s looking for a man her parents approve of and someone who can give her the life she’s accustomed to. It’s not about love or attraction. In twenty-five years, she’ll be my mother.
“Samuel Shepard Jones was a well-respected man,” the minister begins. The church is over-packed, full of people I don’t know or wish I didn’t. Except Maverick. He showed up this morning, against my wishes. Fucker never listens.
“The size of this congregation today shows how much,” he continues.
I slide my eyes down the pew toward my mother and father who are both sitting stoically in their seats. Typically, at a funeral, at least those closest to the deceased are crying, or at least wiping away a rogue tear. But every eye in the place is dry. I want to scoff at the words of the minister as he makes my grandfather out to be some kind of saint, but of course, I don’t. Instead, I fall in line and assume the same expression as my parents, pretending to listen as we wait for Samuel Shepard Jones’ final transaction.
After the funeral, everyone makes their way past the casket, offering us condolences as they pass. When a tall redhead walks up, I can tell by the slight smile on her ruby lips she’s not here for condolences.
“Shepard,” my mother says quietly, reaching out and clasping the hands of the woman, like they’re old friends. “This is Felicity Crawford, the one I was telling you about at dinner last night.”
“Hello, Shep,” Felicity says, stretching her slender, well-manicured hand in my direction. “I believe you were in the same fraternity as my brother, Foster.”
Trying to hide the disgust, I plaster on a fake smile. “Yeah, Foster,” I tell her, shaking her hand quickly and then dropping it, stopping myself before I can wipe my palm on the leg of my pants. Foster Crawford is one of the most pretentious assholes I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. He sexually assaulted a girl during our sophomore year in college and his daddy bought his way out of it. Just the thought of him makes my stomach roll.
“Daddy would love to meet you,” Felicity continues, oblivious to the fact I’d rather poke my own eyeballs out before I meet her daddy. “We’d love to have all of you over for dinner tomorrow night. It’s the least we can do in your time of need.”
My throat hurts from holding back my honest reactions. Fuck no, I don’t want to have dinner with her and her family. And our time of need? Are you fucking kidding me?
“I’m sorry,” I say, a smidge too abruptly if the side glare I get from my mother is any indication. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow to head back to New Orleans.”
When my mother speaks again, I can hear the eye-roll in her tone. “Shep has recently bought a bachelor pad in New Orleans…boys.” She and Felicity share a knowing laugh. “We’ll set something up soon.”
After air kisses and empty promises, Felicity walks away, but not before she brushes the sleeve of my suit jacket, gripping my wrist slightly to get my attention.
This time, I do wipe off her touch.
“Dinner,” my mother instructs. “Tomorrow night. You’ll be there.”
Smiling, I grit out, “No, I won’t.”
“You will,” she sing-songs. “The reading of the will is tomorrow at five. If you want your inheritance, you’ll be there.”
Fuck.
As we drive to the attorney’s office, I try not to think about the will.
Ever since my mother mentioned it at the funeral, a small ember has been burning—a taste of freedom. But I’m trying not to get my hopes up.
I’m sure he left me something. How much is the part I don’t know. We never discussed it. He always assumed I’d be groomed to take over the family business and that one day the Rhys-Jones empire would be mine, but since I parted ways recently, my future has been less predictable. I’m not sure what will happen today.
He could’ve completely written me out of everything for all I know.
That thought doesn’t scare me as much as it used to or as much as it probably should.
I’m not destitute by any means, but since putting the family business on the back burner to make a go of things with Maverick, I’ve been living off my savings. Most of the profit Maverick and I bring in goes back into our business. Give us another couple of years and we’ll be much more comfortable, but building a business from the ground up takes time and money.
The cash flow from an inheritance would help tremendously. A total fucking game changer. The best part is, I’d finally be able to completely separate myself from working for my father and live the life I choose, instead of the one I was born into.
Regardless of what Maverick thinks, blazing my own path is a lot more important to me these days than what kind of car I drive or how big my house is. He loves giving me a hard time about my expensive tastes, but just because I like nice things doesn’t mean I’m afraid of going after what I want.
Maybe one of these days, I’ll confide in him just how much his own escape from Dallas high society two years ago led to my own. He, also, had an inheritance to help him out but he’s made investments, not only in our business, but in Carys’s and he gets stretched thin at times. It’s my turn to pony up. We’re both equal partners in every way but a little extra money in the bank would be nice.
So, yeah, I’d fucking love to claim my inheritance.
The room the receptionist escorts us into is just as stifling as the company I’m keeping.
My father takes a seat at the far end of the large mahogany table and my mother sits to his left. I take the seat across from him. He doesn’t make eye contact, merely pulls out his phone and begins typing away furiously—answering emails, returning messages…who the fuck knows. He could be playing Candy Crush. Anything to keep from engaging with me these days.
I went against the grain…went my own way…turned down the chance at running the family business…which is all a big fuck you in his eyes. He can’t fathom why I wouldn’t want to be him one day.
My mother cuts her eyes to my father and then over to me. She probably wants to say something, anything to break the tension that’s settled over the room, but she won’t. That’s not her place. She’s there to look pretty and play the part. She’s there not because my father is madly in love with her, but because her last name is Rhys. Her family had something my father’s family wanted—real estate, properties.
When I was younger, I deluded myself into thinking we were a real family, but it didn’t take long to figure out that was only true in public. According to the world, the who’s who of Highland Park, we were Phillip, Jane, and Shepard Rhys-Jones. The perfect family. But in private, we were Phillip the business owner, who slept with countless women, and Jane the socialite, who screwed the pros at the country club. And Shepard, the son who saw everything.
Which is exactly why I’ll never marry.
It’s one business transaction I have no desire to complete.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Hall says, wiping back a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. He quickly takes a seat at the head of the table, between me and my father. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
“Yes,” my father says, pocketing his phone and clasping his hands in front of him on the sleek table. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, sir.” Even though Mr. Hall has at least twenty years on my father, he cowers down to him lik
e everyone else. Opening his briefcase, he extracts a stack of papers. “The three of you have been asked to come here today per Mr. Jones’ final requests.” He lays a set of papers in front of each of us. “Mr. Jones was very clear that he wanted you all here…together.”
I don’t miss my father’s annoyed expression. “Well, let’s get to it.” He checks the time on his watch before clasping his hands back together. I’m surprised he isn’t tapping his fingers on the table, which is what he usually does when he feels like someone is wasting his time. It’s like an audible reminder that his minutes count more than yours.
For the first time since my grandfather’s death, a wave of sadness washes over me. This is it. This is all that’s left of him—his legacy—the two of us sitting at this table. Well, three counting my mother…and four, I guess, if you count the money, which is an entity in itself and all anyone really cares about.
Mr. Hall begins to read through the will and I start to wonder why we couldn’t have just been sent copies to read in our own time? Why would my grandfather want us all together for this?
“I appoint Clarence M. Hall of Barrows, Morrell, and Hall to be Executor of this Will and Trustee of my Estate.”
When my father lets out a disgruntled sigh, Mr. Hall pauses and clears his throat, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
“Continue,” my father instructs briskly, waving a hand in the air as he reclines in his seat, apparently put out with the idea of his father leaving someone besides him in charge of his affairs.
“Yes, right,” Mr. Hall says, shifting the papers as he continues. “In the event that the said Clarence Hall should predecease me or die within a period of thirty days following my death, or without having proved this my Will, or be unwilling or unable to act for any reason whatsoever, I entrust his colleague, Donald Barrows, with said duties.”
I have to fight back the smirk that’s trying to force its way on my face. It’s not the time or place for feeling such mirth, but I do. Maybe it’s displaced sadness or some shit like that, but I’m taking entirely too much pleasure in seeing my father rebuffed from his own father’s will.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.
“Phillip,” my mother chastises. As much as I’m sure she’s unhappy my father is not in charge, she cares even more about public appearances. It’s one thing to show your true feelings in private, but never with an audience. If you’re a Rhys-Jones, you always save face.
Mr. Hall keeps reading and it’s as if he’s trying to get through the rest of the will as fast as possible, probably ready to be done with this and send us all on our merry way.
“I revoke all prior wills and codicils.”
At that statement, my father sits up a little straighter and leans over the table, resting on his elbows. I have to admit, I listen a little closer too. This could be it, the part where he disowns me for walking away. Briefly, I let my eyes flicker across to my father, wondering if I am written out, will he do the same? He’s one of those men who thinks everyone should make his own way in the world, unless you’re Phillip Jones, and in that case, you want your cake and eat it too.
“I give free of debts, testamentary, funeral expenses and liabilities of any kind to my Trustee on behalf of the named beneficiaries herein,” Mr. Hall pauses, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses once again, what I’m picking up as his nervous tick. “One hundred million dollars to my grandson, Shepard Rhys-Jones.”
My father grunts and shifts in his seat, but I don’t move an inch.
I’m still trying to register what Mr. Hall just said and I’d like him to repeat himself, but before I can say a word, he holds a finger up in the air to stop me. “There is one stipulation,” he says, making brief eye contact with me before turning his gaze back to the document. “Monies will be paid upon the one-year anniversary of his…marriage.”
What?
“Marriage,” Mr. Hall repeats.
I must have said that out loud, but seriously, what the fuck? “Marriage?” I ask again. The starched white shirt and navy-blue tie around my neck suddenly feel too tight. Running a finger between the material and the skin on my neck, I’m now the one clearing my throat.
“That’s correct,” Mr. Hall confirms.
Before I can ask any other questions, my father interrupts. “What about the rest?”
“The rest,” Mr. Hall says, turning back to the will. “After payment of my just debts, testamentary, funeral expenses and taxes or duties payable as a result of my death, I give my entire remaining estate not previously disposed of under any prior clause to my Trustee on behalf of Mercy House.”
“That can’t be right,” my father insists, the legs of his chair scraping the floor as he quickly stands, towering over Mr. Hall. “There’s no way in hell that senile old man left hundreds of millions of dollars to a fucking charity!”
Clearing his throat again, the older man squares his shoulders and faces my father. I have to give him props, most men would cower, but he stands his ground, backed by an official document. “That’s exactly what he did,” Mr. Hall says, flipping my father’s copy of the will to the page where the declarations are made. “You can read it here for yourself.”
My father continues to rant but I tune him out because all I can hear in my head is one word, playing over and over on repeat.
Marriage.
Chapter 4
CeCe
“Welcome to Neutral Grounds,” I call out over my shoulder, preoccupied with making a fresh pot of cold brew, trying to keep my mind off of the letter that’s been giving me nightmares for the past few days.
“Yes, I’d like a soy, non-fat, two-pump, sugar-free latte with half French vanilla and half cinnamon—”
I roll my eyes and hear Carys laugh behind me. “Would you like an extra shot of bullshit to go with that?” I know my customers, and customers who are also one of my best friends, I know them even better. Coffee says a lot about a person and Carys is definitely not high-maintenance. A hot mess? Yes. But not high-maintenance.
“Well, maybe just an iced coffee with cream for now…I’ll come back for the other later.”
Giving her a side-eye, I walk over and fill up a cup with ice and then coffee, before topping it off with half-and-half. The good stuff. Just like Carys. When I hand it to her, I can’t hold back the sigh as I lean against the counter. Her familiar face and warm smile are just what I needed.
“That’s a heavy sigh…what’s up?” she asks, matching my pose.
Carys is the one person I know I can talk to about this and she’ll totally get it. Our businesses are a huge part of us. They support our families and run thick in our veins. It’s all we know. She’ll get it, and yet, I hesitate to confide in her because I don’t want to even speak it out loud. It was bad enough telling Jules about it, but I had to. I needed legal counsel and he’s the only almost-lawyer I know. The best part is he’s free.
“Have you talked to Jules?” I ask, feeling her out to see if my current dilemma is the purpose of her visit. Maybe Jules has already spilled the tea.
She shrugs. “Yeah, he worked the overnight shift last night. I saw him this morning.”
The way she nonchalantly begins to pilfer through the baked goods on the counter lets me know he hasn’t mentioned the letter or Theodore Duval, Jr. If he had, her expression-filled face would be giving her away. When I don’t say anything for a few seconds, she holds me with her blue eyes. “What?”
Instead of saying anything, I reach under the counter and pull out the folded paper, handing it across the counter to her.
“What’s this?”
“Just read it.”
After she unfolds it, she quickly scans the letter. I watch as her brows furrow in confusion and then her eyes go wide in shock.
“What the hell?” she asks, reflecting my initial response. “Is this for real?”
“As a heart attack.”
We both grimace, because that’s how
my Uncle Teddy died. Even five years later, it’s still too soon.
“What are you going to do? He can’t do that, right? Take the shop…there’s got to be some sort of clause or stipulation…time constraint?” I can see the wheels in her head turning as she speaks, letting her thoughts tumble out. “What did Jules say? You called him, right?”
“Yes,” I say, groaning and massaging my temples. “I called him. He has a copy of the letter and he’s looking into it. He said we’d have to respond to the letter ASAP and in the meantime, he’s looking into the validity of the will and time limits on contesting it.”
“Validity? What do you mean?”
Biting down on my bottom lip, I cringe a little, hating this part. “Well, the will was handwritten, something Uncle Teddy wrote a few years before he died. It wasn’t notarized or anything, but it had his signature and was dated. Apparently, that’s good enough in the State of Louisiana, but there’s a chance if this guy—Theodore—knows that, he’ll use it against me…or my mother. Since she deeded everything over to me, I don’t even know what they’ll do with that. It feels messy and confusing and completely above my pay grade. I literally feel like crying at the drop of a hat and you know I’m not a crier.”
“What can I do?” she asks, reaching across the counter and gathering my hands in hers.
Bringing my head up, I open my eyes to see the sincerity on her face I knew would be there. Carys has always been such a great friend and I know she’d do anything in her power to help me and I’d do the same for her, but I’m not sure anyone can help me out of this one.
Except Uncle Teddy, but unless the court will accept Miss Betty channeling my dead uncle as a witness, I potentially could be screwed.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Jules is going to do what he can, but he’s not an actual lawyer…yet, so he can only get me so far. I don’t have the money to fight something like this.”