Elvis chewed it over for a few moments. "I'd say, under the circumstances, there's nothing abnormal about it," he finally replied and his tone was businesslike, flat. "He constituted a genuine threat, sweetheart—to you and to Gracie. It's not like you're blowing off his death because he denied you some small favor after years of doting on you. There were unnatural aspects to this situation, all right, but they sure as hell weren't yours." And though she might not be consumed with remorse, neither was she as unaffected as she'd like him to believe. He had seen her startle at unexpected noises and assume a defensive position before she recollected that there was no need for it. All because of the violent turn Grant Woodard's unnatural affections had taken.
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and said softly, "He left me everything he owned."
"What?" Elvis tipped down his chin in order to see Emma's face.
"That was his lawyer on the phone just now. He read the will this mornin', and except for a few minor bequests I was Grant's sole beneficiary." She shuddered. "Oh, God, Elvis. It never even occurred to me. What am I goin' to do, cher? I don't want his filthy money."
Elvis propped his chin on the top of her head and tucked her in a little closer on his lap. He thought about it for a few moments. "Has anything occurred to you that you'd like to do with it?"
"No. My mind is just one great big blank. This whole thing just sorta hit me on my blind side, Elvis."
"But we're agreed that you don't want to keep any of it, am I right?"
"Absolutely. I thought for about thirty seconds of putting some in a college fund for Gracie, but the idea made my blood run cold. He would have discarded her like an old Kleenex, cher. We'll save our own education fund, thank you very much." She felt his nod against the crown of her head.
"What kind of money are we talking about anyway, Emma?" he inquired, and then whistled long and low when she told him. They sat quietly for a few more moments, the only sounds to disturb the stillness those of the refrigerator's motor as it kicked in and Gracie's occasional thumping in her bedroom.
"You know," Elvis finally said, "it occurs to me that there must be hundreds of ways you could put this money to good use." Feeling her stiffen slightly, he gave her a comforting squeeze. "Not for your own personal gain, doll. I'm talking about ways of spreading the money around so it would benefit a lot of people—and be kind of fun to disburse."
Emma pulled herself up to sit on the arm of the overstuffed chair. She pressed the arches of her feet into Elvis' hard thigh, wrapped her arms around her shins, and studied his face. "Give me a for instance."
"Well, hell, right here on the island we've got a food bank that's always in need of cash," he said. "And we could seriously use a community center that stayed open late." He smiled crookedly. "Okay, the truth is, we could use any kind of community center. If we gave the island kids something to do Friday and Saturday nights they probably wouldn't spend so much time racing at breakneck speeds up and down country roads, knocking back half-racks of beer and snortin' their allowances up their noses."
She considered him with interest. "The Edward Robescheaux Community Center," she said slowly, savoring the sound. Her eyes came alight at the idea. "Oh! Big Eddy would've liked that."
"Hell, yeah. And with the kind of money you're talking about, you could afford to buy the land, build the building, and pay staffing costs for the next thirty years."
"Or buy it, build it, and deed it over to the community with the stipulation that they make the center self-sufficient within, say, five years."
"Yeah. Better, yet. The point is, Em, there's always a lot of needy causes out there, and you can have fun with 'em if you take your time deciding who gets what. What you don't have to do is resolve everything right this minute."
She rocked his thigh with her feet. "You're so smart."
"Hell, yeah," he agreed smugly. "Smart enough to get you to marry me."
Emma made a rude noise. "That was a no-brainer, Donnelly." They grinned at each other, and then she sobered. "What about Gracie, cher?" she asked. "You think she's as well adjusted as she appears?"
"Yes." Elvis tugged her back down onto his lap, looked her in the eye, and stated uncategorically, "I do."
"I don't want to see her on some talk show twenty years down the road with a caption on her chest that reads Early Trauma Ignored by Mother."
Elvis snorted. "Em, she had one nightmare. And it seems to me you talked her through that one pretty easily."
"I didn't tell her the complete truth, though."
"Hell, no, and a damn good thing, too, if you ask me. A three-year-old's not gonna understand a grandfather who takes a walk off a cliff and tries to take her momma along with him. All she knows is a man who used to dote on her suddenly turned up and started scaring the shit out of her. You told her that her grandpapa did some bad things, and he's gone away forever. You promised he's never going to come back to be mean to her again. You did good, doll. Give it a rest."
"Oui; I suppose." Then, more firmly, "No, I know you're right." Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she pulled his head down to touch foreheads. "I'll tell her the whole story when she's old enough to understand." She sighed, content to simply appreciate for a moment the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, the cool thickness of his hair between her fingers.
Then she said, "It's sure nice to have someone to share these problems with. It's a luxury I've never had before. Heck," she confessed, "I'd given up believing in happily-ever-after, period."
He made a funny sound in his throat. "Yeah, me, too." He'd never believed in it in the first place.
"But, you know, cher—"
"When it comes to you, me, and Beans," he interrupted.
"—I think it just may be possible, after all," she concluded.
"Damn straight," he agreed.
"Oui." She looped her arms over his shoulders, rolled her forehead back and forth against his, and smiled. She loved this man. His strength, his honesty, his good sense.
"Damn straight."
--The End--
About The Author
Susan Andersen lives in Emerald City with her husband, Steve, their college age son Christopher, and a cat named Styx. The inhabitants of her little piece of the world are weird and wonderful, and she credits the attempt to stay one step ahead of them with keeping her young.Susan very much enjoys hearing from her readers. If you would like to write her, please send your letters to P. O. Box 4788, Seattle, WA 98104. Those desiring a reply please enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope and she will respond as quickly as possible.
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