The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(24)

“Did you ever see a therapist, like we talked about?”

I close my eyes. “You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh, bro?”

He sighs. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but if you haven’t processed the grief yet, maybe talking to someone—”

“Stop,” I interject weakly. I look at him, taking in his handsome, weary face, his worried eyes. “I grieved Mom, Alex. This is… something else. Growing up, maybe. Or I just need a damn vacation.”

“What you need is to go home.”

My eyes narrow. “You’ve been talking to Sebastian.”

He frowns. “What? Why would I talk to Sebastian about this?”

“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head.

Alex drags his free hand through his hair. “You need to relax. For the first time in your life. Maybe take up painting again. You loved it, remember? You and Mom used to spend hours in her studio.”

I blink hard against a sting in my eyes. “I don’t…” I trail off, biting my lip.

Alex continues mutedly, “All of us—we’ve torn through life with our heads down. Fucking battering rams. Always with something to prove. Deacon with his resorts, Charles with his hotels, me with restaurants—”

“And what have I done, Alex?” I ask scathingly. “Plan parties.”

He squeezes my fingers hard. “Don’t do that. You’ve raised millions, Candace. Millions for causes you believe in. You’ve changed people’s lives in a way that’s more meaningful and profound than any of us.”

The tears spill over, rolling down my temples into my hair. “I’m so tired, Alex.”

“I know. That’s why it’s time to go home.”

Home.

“Okay,” I whisper.





16





Cool air with the barest hint of summer warmth tickles my face through the open window. I watch the moving scenery, resisting nostalgia as we pass through Weston, Massachusetts. Idyllic streets, quaint shops, old-world charm, and not a Starbucks in sight.

It only takes a few minutes to pass through and before long, Alex navigates down a treelined drive toward the sprawling colonial giant we once called home. Slowing, he pulls around the central fountain, coming to a stop outside the stately, portico-shaded entrance.

The doors are open, my father standing on the threshold. Straight-backed, strong and tall at sixty-eight, he smiles and lifts a hand in welcome. As I gather my purse from the floor, Alex exits the car and rounds the hood. Father and son embrace tightly.

As I open my door, Alex says, “More and more grey up top, eh, Dad?”

Benedict—Bennie to his friends—chuckles. “Nona expressly forbid me from dying it. She says it looks distinguished.”

I walk toward the men. “She’s right. Hey, Dad.”

My father’s brown eyes scan my face, his expression a mixture of worry and relief. “Candace,” he says, opening his arms. I walk into them, awash in comfort and love. And yes, an old flare of resentment. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your room is ready for you.” Leaning back to hold me at arm’s length, he scans my face again. “How are you feeling?”

I roll my eyes. “Just tell me I look tired and get it over with.”

A soft smile lifts his lips. “You look tired.”

“Candace!” exclaims a delighted, accented voice. I look past my dad’s shoulder to see Nona Bellizzi rushing through the foyer. This time, the surge of warmth and love I feel is untainted. “Come, come, tesoro mio, give me love!”

I meet her halfway, letting her fold me into soft arms. She smells the way she always has, of French lavender, powder, and herbs. When she takes me by the face, her dark eyes roaming mine, I see white streaking her black hair and deeper creases fanning her eyes and mouth. She’s still—has always been—so beautiful to me.

“Ah, child,” she murmurs, eyes clouding with sadness. “It’s time to stop fighting.”

I shake my head in her gentle embrace. “I’m not… there’s no…” It’s pointless—I lose it, collapsing into her arms with great, heaving sobs.

“There, there,” she whispers, stroking my hair and back. Over my shoulder, she says, “Candace needs her nana. Alex, it’s wonderful to see you. Please take her bags to her room. Benedict, dinner is at six. Forgive Candace for not attending.”

Her firm, soft voice brooks no argument. I hear murmured assent from the men, then Nona leads me through the house, out the back door, and along a gravel pathway to the secondary residence that’s been hers for thirty years.

By the time she ushers me inside to the kitchen, my sobs have quieted to sniffles. She deposits me in a chair at the circular table and I drop my head onto my arms, breathing the familiar aromas of fresh sourdough and thyme.

A thunk on the table brings my head up to see a small shot glass brimming with clear liquid.

“Drink,” she orders.

I throw back the vodka, coughing a little, then smirk. “I guess this means you finally think I’m an adult?”

She smiles. “You’ll always be my little treasure. Now up you go, it’s time for bed.”

I frown at her. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”