Mr. Winchester is seated in a straight back chair in the corner, his briefcase placed neatly in his lap and a rather flat yet displeased look on his face. I think it’s his why do I have to be in a strip club countenance.
“I haven’t seen my father in years.” My voice is thin, vibrating with emotion just under the surface. “A phone call would have been fine.”
He clears his throat and stares down at his briefcase, shuffling through some papers. “I’m the executor of Mr. Mitchell’s will. He’s left you a sum of money and I came here to let you know in person at his request. He left quite a few instructions and it’s my duty to carry them out.”
My heart rate doesn’t even kick up. “I don’t want his money.”
“Hush now. Don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth,” Mara hisses at me.
Mr. Winchester never bats an eye, just gives me another long look. “It would do you well to listen. In fact, I’m here today to give you plenty of notice. You’re required to attend the reading in April, along with his other beneficiaries—”
My stomach drops at the mere thought of going back to that small town. “His wife and real kids?” My lips flatten as my stomach drops.
He nods his head. “Yes, you have two half-siblings.”
Of course I do. I’ve briefly seen them in passing before. Nausea bubbles up inside me as a memory surfaces, one of seeing my father on the court square one Saturday afternoon, coming out of the historic Princess Theatre with his wife on his arm. His college sweetheart (from Vandy), she was coolly sophisticated in a way that screamed old money. I once imagined the rather hawkish-looking Mrs. Mitchell as the bad person who kept him from us, but really he was just a piece of shit. Two raven-haired twins, a boy and a girl, nearly the same age as me, tagged along behind them.
My hands tremble around the cup. “I want nothing from him.”
Mara blows out a breath and stands up to pace around the small office. She’s muttering to herself periodically, sending me pointed looks that practically scream, Are you nuts? “What in the blue blazes are you thinking, honey? This might be the way to pay for law school.” Her gaze implores me to listen. “You know I can’t help.”
“I don’t expect you to. I’ll borrow the money and pay it back later.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll be in debt for years. Vandy will be almost a hundred grand by the time you’re all done.”
Mr. Winchester pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses, studying me. “You have plans to be a lawyer?”
My chest tightens. “I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Mara lights up a cig, and the man physically recoils from the smoke. “Actually, Mr. Winchester, she was waitlisted by Vandy—and for no good reason.” Mara throws back her shoulders and sends a glare at the lawyer. “Personally, I think the Mitchell family might have had something to do with it since that’s where they went. I’m sure they’ve donated quite a tidy sum of money over the years, am I right?”
He stiffens. “I’m not at liberty to discuss things that are privileged to my clients.”
Mara pokes her cig at him. “And who is your client?”
“The late Mr. Mitchell.” His eyes are flared a bit, and I think he might be just a tiny bit intimidated by Mara.
“Well, he’s an asshole,” she says loudly then points at me. “He hasn’t given this girl one cent since the day she was born, and now she’s in his will? She should have sued his ass for paternity years ago!”
I exhale, getting myself under control as Mara lets her anger out.
His eyebrows shoot straight up. “I see. I’m not at liberty to discuss paternity with you, but Mr. Mitchell kept a tally of gifts and monetary donations he gave to Lily Ryan over the years, and it’s quite a lot of money. I feel there are no grounds for this to be an issue.”
Mara’s angry and fishes out another cigarette, lighting it up immediately.
He’s scribbling away in his notes and clears his throat. “However, on the issue of Vanderbilt, there is a small possibility I can help with that.”
“How so?” My tone is skeptical, and I stand up and walk over to the window.
He taps his pen against his briefcase, a mulling expression on his face. “Miss Ryan, your father—”
“Not my father. Sperm donor.”
He nods. “Right. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife and other two children, but there’s a sizable amount for you as well. You can attend any university you want.”
Curiosity gets to me. “How much?”
“You’ll have to attend the reading with the family to find out the final amount, along with the list of mementos he bequeathed to you, items that may be pertinent to your mother.”
My teeth grind together. “How fucking much?”
He’s unfazed by my profanity but thinks for a moment. “A million dollars.”
Shock slides over me and there’s a gasp from Mara. “Asshole must have gotten soft,” she mutters as she heads to the liquor cabinet and opens it. “Drink?” Her eyes rove from him to me, but it’s me she lingers on, and I guess she’s learned to read my face well enough to know when I’m about to lose my cookies.
“Bourbon,” I say. “Two fingers—and give me the good stuff.”
Her hands shake as she puts it in my grasp. She leans down to my level and gazes up at me. “Listen to me, Sugar, you could really use that money—hell, you could pay for law school somewhere up east, maybe Yale or Harvard. Get out of this town and live the life you deserve.”
I don’t want his regret money.
All I’ve ever wanted was a real family.
Mara reads my face. “A door has opened, Sugar. Now you gotta walk through it. See what happens. Don’t let the past dictate your future.”
I turn up my glass, and the hot fiery taste of whiskey slides down my throat. “I don’t care that he’s dead. I don’t care if he’s trying to make up for what he did. Go back and tell his family that.”
With trembling hands, I set the glass back down on her desk then stalk past them and out the door.
26
Sugar
On Sunday, the girl at the desk in the lobby of Ellington Hall has an awed expression on her face as she passes over the vase of deep creamy white gardenias to me—although it’s terribly inadequate to simply call it a vase of flowers. The word decadent comes to mind as I finger one of the huge, velvety blooms with a lush yellow center. The smell is intoxicating; it’s vibrant, rich, and reminiscent of the South. I attempt to pick up the wide crystal vase but have to put down my backpack just to hold it.
I look back up at the freckled, bouncy brunette who caught me as I came in the door after class, practically waving her hands at me to tell me I had another flower delivery.
“What does the card say? Who’s it from? Honestly, I’ve never seen flowers so pretty.” She leans over the desk conspiratorially, all chatty. “I mean, the delivery dude even had a hard time wrangling his way inside. These are gardenias, right? I mean, where do you ever get those in the winter?”
I give her a slight smile as I rip open the envelope, and suddenly the shitty day brightens.
Miss Ryan,
These remind me of you.
Z
My heart lifts and soars—until I remember I haven’t heard a peep from him since I walked him out of my dorm early Friday morning. Two damn days.
“Well?” Lobby Girl is beside herself. “Is it the guy with all the tattoos on his arms, the one who comes by to see you?”
She means Bennett. I shake my head. “Not him.”
“Then who?”
I tuck the card into my crossbody. “Just a friend.”
“Some friend.” She grins.
It felt wrong to say fuck buddy, but I don’t really know what we are.
“Would you mind if I left my book bag down here, took these to my room, and then came back? I can’t carry it all.”
She nods and dashes off to answer her phone, which is lying on the welcome desk.
Vase in hand, the gardenias nearly smothering me, I turn around just as a nasally voice calls my name. I have to peek around the huge arrangement to see who it is.
Veronica. Perfect. A long sigh slips through my lips.
“Well, well, well, looks like someone got the flowers.” A small tinkling laugh comes from her and an expression of extreme satisfaction settles on her carefully made-up face. “How lucky for me that I just happened to pop into Ellington to see a friend and I get to witness…” She waves her hands in my direction. “This.”
My body stiffens. “Excuse me?”
She leans on the counter. “The flowers—they’re from Z, right?”
“And if they are?” The weight of the vase makes my arms ache but I continue to stand there.
She brushes at a piece of lint on her black pea coat before looking back at me with piercing green eyes. “He sends them to all the girls, usually when he’s done.” She pauses, her brows raised. “I mean, for a moment, I thought he was seriously blindsided by you, but guess what—nope.”
My dad died and this is the comment that nearly brings me to my knees.
Is this why I haven’t heard from him?
She sniffs. “Hope you didn’t think you were special. Lots of girls do, you know. They think they’ll be the one to change him, but I’ve known him since prep school and this is the way he operates. Z is just looking for a good time.” She curls her lip. “Don’t take it personally, being the slut of the month.”