The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Read online

  I smack his arm, but gently. Looking into his eyes, my own well again. “Jesus, I’m a weeping fool tonight.”

  He kisses my nose, then pulls me closer, tucking my head beneath his chin. “You know, I’m still waiting for an explanation for that shit you pulled in L.A.”

  I snuggle closer, kissing his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He huffs into my hair. “It’s actually a relief to know I wasn’t the only one who was afraid.”

  Inhaling a decadent mix of our scents, I admit, “I was terrified. You’ve always been my Achilles’ heel. The secret shadow in my heart. Honestly, I’m still terrified. Of a lot of things.”

  “Seems like we’ve both spent years playing the part we thought was expected. What do you say we drop the act?”

  “What does that mean?” I ask through a yawn.

  “It means we finally let go of the idea that we don’t deserve to be happy.”

  The words hang in the air, trembling with rightness. I think of the years I wasted trying to prove to the world I was a good person to make up for my family’s wealth. And the deeper issue of my worth—the one woven into my psyche since the death of my mother, since overhearing that phone call in my father’s office. The question of love’s validity.

  Allowing my thoughts to ramble out my mouth, I murmur, “Remember when I told you that I don’t believe a love like my parents shared is possible for most of us?” He nods. “I’ve been angry for a long time, Bast. Bitter that my definition of love was a lie—if my father could betray my mother while she was dying, their love was bullshit. I guess what I’m finally realizing is that even if he didn’t break Mom’s heart—even if she never knew—I allowed it to break mine.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I feel his focus, his acceptance and love. So I conclude, “I’m going to talk to him about it.”

  His arms tighten. “Are you sure?”

  I nod, then sniffle out a laugh. “I need to know. If I can forgive you for being a dick and breaking my heart in college, maybe I can find a way to forgive him, too.”

  “No more breaking hearts,” he whispers. “No matter what, Candace, I’ll never leave you again.”

  No matter what.

  I choke out, “Even if—”

  “Even if,” he interrupts. “You’re stuck with me. Deal with it.”

  I relax against him, my fears melting away. “Gladly.”

  27

  Thanksgiving morning, I wake up to an empty bed. The guesthouse is quiet, no signs or sounds of life. For a few moments, I hang suspended in amorphous dread—last night was a terrible, beautiful fantasy.

  Then I remember that for the last twenty years, all the men in the house have congregated at eight a.m. Thanksgiving Day for a five-mile run. Because they’re collectively insane. Sebastian most of all, as I know he only got a few hours of sleep. Shaking my head in amusement, I pull a pillow over my face and roll over, hoping for another hour or two.

  A few seconds later, pounding on the front door hijacks my aspirations. My head is foggy, my body sluggish as I swing my feet to the floor.

  “Coming!” I yell hoarsely, while wondering who the hell would knock instead of walking right in. We didn’t lock the door, did we?

  “Get your pasty-ass down here!” Vera’s voice is loud enough to penetrate the walls.

  “Oh, shit!” I yelp, lurching to my feet as much-needed adrenaline explodes through my limbs. I grab the closest clothing—Sebastian’s discarded Henley—yank on a pair of thick socks, and race downstairs to open the door. “I’m so freaking sorry, V!”

  Scowling, Vera’s sharp gaze catalogues my dishevelment, from bedhead to mismatched socks. Finally, her eyes find mine and a slow grin spreads across her face.

  “You are tore up!”

  I wince. “Yeah, um—” I begin lamely, but her raised hand stops me.

  “Say no more.” She cackles. “I saw Sebastian, and he looks almost as bad as you. You should have heard the heckling from DAC.”

  I blink. “What? Who the hell is Dack?”

  She shrugs. “Deacon-Alex-Charles. DAC. They’re like a three-headed monster, so I nicknamed them.”

  It’s so… Vera that I dissolve into giggles, leaning on the doorframe for support. “So you’re not mad at me?” I ask when I can breathe again.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “I’m super fucking mad at you, actually. Did you forget the calendars on our phones are linked?”

  I frown in confusion. Then it hits me. “Oh, God. The appointment.”

  “Yes, dummy, the appointment you made a week ago. And I quote, ‘Boob Biopsy. FML.’ Seriously? Why would you keep that from me?” She shakes her head before I can fumble for an answer. “You know what? I get it. And it doesn’t matter. But FYI, I’m going to be painting my nails in the waiting room. DAC and your Italian Stallion are coming. Your dad and Nona, too. Basically, you’re fucked on the privacy front from here until eternity.”

  I stare blankly at her for so long that she tilts her head, frowning. “Are you stroking out or something?”

  My laugh is shrill, well across the border of hysteria. But as Vera grabs me into a hug, mumbling that I stink of sex but she still loves me, I realize the news hasn’t brought any panic or fear with it.

  I’m okay. Relieved, actually. Accepting and grateful for the support of my family.

  Oddly—unreservedly—at peace.

  Nona’s Thanksgiving spread is the stuff dreams are made of. Besides the ginormous, sage-brined turkey that Martha Stewart would cream over, there are platters and bowls galore. All homemade and boasting super-secret-recipe status. Among them are her signature gravy, sweet potato purée, and parmesan-crusted Brussels sprouts. There are three different salads. Fresh-baked rosemary and butter rolls, ciabatta and sausage stuffing, and an apple-cranberry relish. The dessert offerings, displayed behind us on a side table, are a whole other ballgame.

  “This is insane,” murmurs Vera as she pours gravy over a mountain of perfectly creamy mashed potatoes. “I might quit modeling and ask Nona if I can be her food taster for life. She should be famous. Have a cooking show called Nona’s Nom Noms.”

  I choke on a sip of champagne, almost spraying my crowded plate. Conversation flows around me, each voice beloved. Though there are only nine of us, the table is set for ten. At the final setting—facing my father’s at the head of the table—instead of a plate there’s a portrait of Mom. Every year, we direct our toast to her empty spot.

  As my gaze wanders around the table, my eyes grow misty. Thea, seated across from me, smiles softly when our gazes intersect. Ever sensitive and deeply perceptive, she gives me a little nod of acknowledgement. She feels it, too. The deep love and solidarity of our family.

  I’m moments from full-blown sobs when my brother’s voices override the sentimental moment.

  “Pass the beans, dickhead.”

  “Take them if you want them so bad.”

  “Your gigantic ego is in the way.”

  “Children!”

  “We’re grown men, Nona.”

  “Then act like it.”

  “Hopeless.”

  “Where’s the salt and pepper?”

  “Over there.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Next to the dude boning our sister.”

  Seated on my left, Vera whispers, “Oh, snap.”

  There’s a clatter of silverware. The table goes silent. Along with my racing heartbeat, the soft background music of piano and violin seems suddenly deafening. Sebastian’s fingers tighten on my knee, concealed by the tablecloth, and I look erratically around the room, searching for escape despite its impracticality.

  Charles’ strained chuckle breaks the silence. “Just kidding. Ha ha.” He jerks in his seat, face scrunched in pain from whatever punishment Nona just administered beneath the table. Knowing her, it was a pinch.

  With deceptive mildness, Benedict Hughes says, “Interesting choice of joke, Charles.” My fa
ther’s gaze veers to me, then to Sebastian. “Is there something I need to know?”

  I’m paralyzed, mind completely blank. Thank God Sebastian has a black belt in improv, because he’s the picture of calm when he answers. “Yes, sir. I’m in love with your daughter and as soon as I’m sure she won’t throw the ring in my face, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  “What?” I blurt, gaping at him, while the dining room erupts with cheers of congratulations—Nona, Vera, and Thea—and shouted expletives from Deacon and Charles. Alex just grins, smug and satisfied that he predicted this moment.

  My father calmly wipes his mouth with a napkin, then places the linen carefully beside his plate. “Candace, are you in love with Sebastian?”

  “Yes,” I say artlessly. “I have been for the last fifteen years, give or take.”

  His face melts in shock. “Then why on earth have you waited this long?”

  28

  Much later, after obligatory, food-coma naps, the entire family descends on the kitchen. We work for an hour packaging up a stunning amount of secondary dishes for a local charitable organization, then haul it all outside when the van arrives.

  Nona greets the driver with uncharacteristic stammers and blushing. The jaws of the Hughes children collectively unhinge with glee as the man embraces Nona and kisses her cheek. I recognize him from Nona’s surprise party—a distinguished-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard named Adam Cartwright. He teaches sociology and African American history at the nearby, private high school.

  I whisper-squeal at Sebastian, “Nona has a beau? How did I not know this?”

  He grins, lips grazing my ear as he whispers, “It’s relatively new. And it means the guesthouse is ours tonight.”

  When the van is loaded, Nona hops into the passenger seat. We all wave, grinning stupidly, as they drive away. When the taillights have faded into the distance, Deacon and Charles announce intentions for their usual bout of bloodthirsty poker. Vera rises to the challenge, vowing to wipe the floor with them. Alex and Thea, sharing a private smile, make excuses and disappear inside.

  “Sebastian, you in?” asks Deacon, then frowns at the arm around my shoulders. “It’s gonna take a second to get used to this… situation.”

  Sebastian chuckles, gazing down at me. I can see the eagerness—and question—in his eyes. I press my lips to the stubble on his chin. “Go play. It’s tradition.”

  “You don’t want to join?” he asks quietly.

  “I’ll come in a bit.” I look at Vera. “You okay on your own with these jackasses?”

  Vera arches a brow. “Child’s play,” she affirms.

  Charles rolls his eyes, while Deacon growls through a grin, “Bring it on, Barbie.”

  Vera hisses. Literally. “Oh, you’re going down, Jockstrap!”

  Given the amount of time Vera’s been spending with my single brothers—and how well they’re getting along—I’m suddenly very glad she’s still attached to her model boyfriend. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen either of my brothers this relaxed and natural around a woman who isn’t family. The fact that Vera’s not hunting for a rich husband is no doubt a contributing factor. That, and she’s just as foul-mouthed as they are.

  Still lobbing insults at each other, Deacon, Vera, and Charles disappear into the house. Sebastian and I follow more slowly. As we reach the front door, he pauses, lifting my chin with a cold fingertip.

  “Time to clear the air?” he asks gently

  I smile half-heartedly. “I swear to God, you and Thea are siblings switched at birth or something. She cornered me after dinner and suggested it might be—and I quote—‘time to clear the air.’” I sigh. “I thought I was doing a good job at pretending everything was fine, but apparently not.”

  His lips quirk. “Although Thea and I share a tendency to watch and listen more than participate—”

  “Voyeurs!” I interject.

  He ignores me. “—you’re about as subtle as a bulldozer, Candy. You’ve barely looked at or spoken to Benedict since you got here.”

  I groan. “You’re right. I know, I suck at acting.” I study his dark eyes. “I’m not good at being honest about my feelings, am I?”

  His fingertips graze my jaw. “You’ve recently gotten better at it.”

  Grabbing his fingers, I kiss the cold skin. “I love you, Bast. Let’s go inside. I don’t want your balls to fall off. I like them right where they are.”

  Chortling, he plants an all-too swift kiss on my lips, then draws me into the warm house. We say goodbye outside the game room, shouts already ringing out behind the heavy door.

  “Wish me luck, Candy.”

  I laugh past the rising anxiety in my chest. “You won’t need it. You always win.”

  He winks and disappears inside.

  My feet drag as I head down the hallway to the other wing of the house. As much as Thanksgiving-night poker is a tradition, so is my father spending a few hours alone in his study. No one bothers him—not since the year Charles found him passed out drunk in an armchair, an old VHS with home movies on the television. The video had been paused on our mom’s young, smiling face. Since then, we’ve left him alone.

  Until now.

  As I stare at the wood grain of the study’s door, the two halves of me do battle. Why can’t I just let this go, let the past stay in the past? It’s none of my business. But isn’t it my business? Don’t I deserve to know the truth? What does it matter now, anyway?

  I yelp as the door opens. My father blinks at me in surprise, then smiles. “I knew someone was out here,” he says, waving me inside, “but I figured it was Sebastian with some well-rehearsed defense of your relationship.” He resumes his seat in one of two armchairs before the sleek flat screen. Pointing toward the other chair, he continues, “He’d be wasting his time, of course. I already approve, as I said at dinner.”

  I sit across from him and stare at my knees. My mind is a pinwheel of flashing contradictions.

  “Okay,” he sighs, “out with it. You’ve been stewing since Nona’s birthday. I assume it’s about Abagail?”

  He sounds tired. Resigned. It blows the lid off my lingering resentment. Anger courses through me, bringing singular clarity to my thoughts. Lifting my gaze, I don’t bother hiding my pain.

  “Why?” I ask tightly.

  He looks at the dark television screen. “I’ve been waiting quite a few years for this conversation, ever since I realized you were outside my office that night.” At my obvious startlement, he smiles slightly. “Remember those mints your mom loved? Your pockets must have been full of them because I found three on the floor just outside the door. That, and I’m smart for an old guy.”

  Though I’m surprised by this revelation, it doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t dim my need to know—to understand.

  “Then explain it to me,” I demand. “I’ve spent my adult life since that moment believing true love is a fucking lie. If there’s a way to make your cheating on Mom while she was dying anything other than a massive, unforgivable betrayal, then tell me now.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “I can’t, Candace. Not to the extent that would appease you.”

  “Try.”

  His eyelashes flutter closed. He’s silent for close to a minute, then sighs. “Your mom and Abigail had been best friends since college. And before you ask—no, nothing ever happened between Abigail and me over the years. I never once looked at her as anything but a friend. In the ways that matter, that never changed. Yes, I betrayed Delilah with my body, but despite what you heard that night, I never betrayed her with my heart.”

  “Goddamnit, Dad!” I explode. “Tell me why!”

  “Delilah wanted us to.”

  The whole universe stops.

  29

  “What?” I choke out.

  At long last, he looks at me, the grief in his eyes so deep and wide it’s like staring into the origin of heartache. It makes my own eyes well. I blink, my vision clearing in time to watch a tea
r roll down my father’s face.

  “To this day, your mother is the most generous, selfless person I’ve ever met. She planted the seed, separately, in both Abigail and me. Then she watered it and watched it grow. It made her happy to see us learning to care for each other. I think it gave her hope that we’d be okay when she was gone. There’s no way I can explain it, justify it… but that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  I wipe my eyes roughly. “I don’t believe you,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No way. She loved you too much.”

  His smile, so broken and sad, shows me clearly the unhealed crack in his heart. “Perhaps that was the problem. We loved each other too much. Initially, I did it because she wanted me to. I was insane with grief, waiting for the bomb that would end my world.”

  He rubs his eyes; when they lift, they’re red and… old. I’ve never seen him look so old. “For the briefest time, Abigail helped soften my pain. But she was a Band-Aid, not a cure. Giving in to the request was the biggest mistake of my life, and the betrayal destroyed me. There were times after Delilah passed that the only reason I kept living was for you kids.”

  I fall back in the chair, my hands over my face. A sob tries to wiggle up my throat but I force it down. “This is unreal. I can’t even process this.”

  “Let me ask you something, Candace—given what I’ve just told you, does it seem out of character for your mother?”

  I see her so clearly in my mind’s eye. Long, unbound hair, tinkling bracelets, and paint-smeared t-shirts. She’d been a hippie in her youth, exceedingly liberal on all fronts. My refined, businessman father and his free-spirited, artistic wife had been Opposites Attract personified.

  But regardless of their differences, there’s no doubt in my mind—when I pause and look past the confusion and pain of her final years—that what they had was wholly remarkable. Their love for each other and for their children permeated my young life. It was the main reason the perceived betrayal was so devastating for me.