The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(35)

He pauses. “Sebastian who?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m hanging up now. I’ve had enough of this little heart-to-heart.”

“Coward,” he says lightly. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too. Give Thea a hug for me.”

“Will do.”

I end the call and drop my phone on the counter beside me. For a long moment, I stare through the window over the sink at the scattered clouds. My thoughts are jumbled, clashing explosively.

Sebastian.

He’s back Stateside, according to the celebrity-news app on my phone. Over the last few weeks, he’s been photographed in New York and Los Angeles. Always with the same, waifish model on his arm. I wonder if he’s bringing her to Thanksgiving.

I wonder if I can handle it.

“Only one way to find out,” I mutter, and snatch up my phone.

Ten minutes later, I’ve booked a plane ticket from Los Angeles to the small, municipal airport in Belfast, Maine, for the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Then I hit the first name on my speed-dial.

Vera picks up on the second ring. “How’s my favorite apple-picker?”

“Since I know you aren’t doing shit for Thanksgiving, I booked you a plane ticket.”

She squeals. “Where are we going? Bermuda?”

“Not even close.”

She’s quiet for all of three seconds. “Oh my God,” she hisses, “does this mean what I think it means?”

I smile. “Yes, bitch. You’re coming home with me.”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up.” But my words are lost as she pulls the phone from her ear to squeal. Finally, she gets ahold of herself. “It’s not that exciting, V.”

“Yes, it is! This is a dream come true. The Hughes mansion? The siblings all in one place? Nona and Daddy Hughes!”

I grimace. “Please, never call him that.”

She sobers. “Yeah, that was gross. Never again.”

Chuckling, I glance out the kitchen window to see Jonah heading toward the back door. His tall, distinctive figure is even bulkier than usual thanks to a waterproof jacket and padded hat. I know Meghan made him put them on despite the fact it’s not raining anymore.

“I gotta run,” I tell Vera. “And to warn you—there’s some business I need to take care of in Boston on our drive down.”

“What kind of business?”

Watching Jonah remove his hat, then scowl at the sight of his dirt-caked hands, my lips form the first genuine smile in what feels like years. A smile unencumbered by irony. Few people in my life have given so much of their time, patience, and heart to me as Jonah and his wife.

Memories make my smile widen further. My first weeks on the farm, feeling like a fish out of water. Wearing the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes. Doing endless research about soil conditions and what would and wouldn’t grow in my personal garden.

A garden that’s thriving and has healed me on more levels than I can comprehend. All thanks to Jonah.

I tell Vera, “I need to see my lawyer.”





23





The second after I hang up the phone, Jonah knocks three times on the door before opening it and calling my name. I’m proud of him. It took weeks of daily badgering for him to accept that if I didn’t want company, I’d lock the door. Otherwise, he should come right in and find me.

A part of my insistence stemmed from the fact that one afternoon, I hadn’t answered the door when he knocked. After working himself into a snit over my apparent demise—and how upset his wife would be if he didn’t investigate—he’d broken a window. His frantic yells as he barged through the house had woken me from a nap.

The main reason I want the McAdams’ to feel comfortable in the home, however, stems from guilt. During the year in which Charles looked for buyers, Jonah and Meghan occupied the farmhouse at my brother’s behest. Essentially, my moving in booted them from their home.

Something I plan on remedying soon.

“Ms. Hughes?”

I smile at the gruff, annoyed voice, and call back, “Kitchen, Jonah. Want some tea?”

Heavy footsteps pound on the old boards, heralding his arrival a few moments later. His bushy mustache is twitching, signaling that he’s uncomfortable. Usually it’s because Meghan has sent him over here to invite me to their rented cottage for dinner.

“Tea?” I ask again.

“No, uh, thank you.” The cheeks above his beard redden and he won’t meet my eyes. “Meghan wants me to tell you something. And, well, I want to tell you something, too.”

His tone makes my ears perk. Not in a good way. I set the kettle on the stove and light the pilot, then lean against the counter by the sink. “What’s wrong, Jonah?”

“It’s not natural!” he blurts, then flushes to his receding hairline. He mutters something under his breath about meddling wives, then squares his shoulders and looks at me with resolve. “A young woman such as yourself, living all the way out here, staying cooped up every night, no friends, no boyfriend…” He clears his throat. “Meghan’s concerned.”

My tension releases on a laugh. “That’s sweet, Jonah, but I’m perfectly—”

“Don’t give me that I’m fine crap,” he interjects, surprising me silent. With a sigh that lifts the corners of his mustache, he continues more softly, “I saw you, the other day. On the slope out back.”