That’s exactly how I’d like it to remain.
Finally at the car, my hand reaches for the door handle as my mind calculates the driving time back to the airport. Jerry Perry, Gran’s long-standing attorney, asked me to swing by his office on my way out of town. I’m hoping whatever he wants to discuss won’t take too long — my flight back to Boston is scheduled to depart in six hours. If I miss it, I’ll be stuck here until morning.
My fingers go still on the door handle when I hear the unmistakable sound of shoes crunching against the gravel path as someone steps out from behind the tree line and comes around the trunk of my car. A shadow falls across my back. Every hair on my body stands on end as my mind tumbles with all the possibilities of who might be standing there…
“Felicity?”
Heart in my throat, I whirl around. My fingers are already curled around my keys, preparing for a swift strike to the eyes or a metal-laced punch to the gut. I freeze when I see it’s not a paparazzo with a camera shoved in my face or an equally unpleasant alternative. There’s a stranger standing there in a navy blue suit — early thirties, slim build, wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes are laser-sharp as they scan my face, my hair, my eyes hidden behind the huge dark sunglasses.
“Felicity Wilde?”
I don’t respond — I’m frozen, feeling totally exposed. He takes my silence for some sort of unspoken confirmation because the next thing I know, a large white legal envelope is being whipped from his briefcase and shoved into my hands.
“You’ve been served,” he says bluntly, turning on a heel before the words are fully out of his mouth. He makes it a few steps before he stops, glances back, and scans me head to toe, taking in my little black dress and tear-stained cheeks.
“And… sorry for your loss,” he tacks on halfheartedly, as though it’s only just occurred to him that serving someone papers in a cemetery might be a tad off-color.
Lawyers. What a classy bunch.
Without another word of explanation, he disappears down the dusty stretch of road toward the wrought-iron gates, where a black town car is half-concealed in the lengthening late-afternoon shadows. Numb with disbelief, I look down at the envelope in my hands. I instantly recognize the logo embossed on the corner, as well as the name scribed on the return address label.
Francesca Foster
Senior Partner
Route 66 Records
I’m being sued by my record label.
And here I was, thinking this day couldn’t get any worse…
Chapter Two
ryder
My arms cut through the water with practiced strokes, carrying me beyond the break. Out here, the white sandy shore is almost out of sight and the swells crest high overhead. Ten feet, maybe more if the wind picks up.
I catch a few waves and paddle back out, farther and farther after each ride, half-hoping for a current to grab me in its clutches and drag me under. My eyes move over the horizon, that endless stretch of Pacific Ocean I’ve spent the past six months staring at with bleak eyes. The sun is a ball of fire, sinking ever lower in the sky, turning the sea into a gleaming orange-pink mirror. Behind me, mist-shrouded cliffs jut up into the sky like jagged green knives.
Arguably the prettiest time of day to surf — and also the most dangerous. On more than one occasion, I’ve spotted sleek gray fins cutting a lethal path along the reef as I wait for waves in the twilight.
Feeding time.
Most of the other surfers were smart enough to head in already, but I make no move to follow. Maybe there’s a part of me that likes it: the thought of death swimming slow circles around me as I bob here on the surface. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes me feel anything at all, these days. Because despite the eighty degree water, despite the sunshine-drenched days and hot-as-hell nights… the block of ice that’s been sitting inside my chest for nearly two years hasn’t thawed. Not a single fucking drop.
There’s a splash in the water behind me — a pod of dolphins breaching. I don’t bother turning to look. The bottle-nosed little fuckers are never far away, their happy faces and playful air-flips a glaring contrast to the goddamned misery eating its way through me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they enjoy rubbing their glee in my face, trilling and squeaking as they swim in mated pairs, their babies shooting after them like streaks of gray lightning.
I’ve been out here for so many hours, my fingers are prunes, my lips cracked with dehydration. I know I should paddle back toward the beach, but I can’t. Not until I’m so exhausted, I’ll collapse into my bed in dreamless sleep, so deep even memories can’t stir me awake. Until I’m so drained of energy, my mind can’t conjure the ghost that visits me every night — her face beside mine on the pillow, her hair spilling out in the moonlight. Flashing gold eyes and a careful half-smile.
Asleep or awake, there is no respite. I see her beauty in every sunrise, hear her voice in the wind that stirs the trees. I am haunted by a dream I’ll never possess again.
I am living a nightmare I’ll never escape.
When my arms are deadweight at my sides, burning from hours of paddling, I catch one final wave, a perfect pipeline that surrounds me in an aqua tunnel as I ride it all the way into the shallows. The sun has nearly set by the time I hit the sand, unstrapping the velcro leash from my ankle and tucking my board beneath one arm.
I’m surprised to see another car pulled off on the dirt shoulder next to the jacked-up Jeep Wrangler that came with the house I’ve been staying at. This bay is off the beaten track, an unspoiled haven for locals looking to escape from the beach chairs and sand castles, the beer coolers and boom boxes blaring bad music that have ruined the more popular sandy stretches of coastline.
As I approach, two teenage girls pile out of their blue hatchback and start snapping pictures of the sunset over the water while their mother waits behind the wheel, enjoying the crisp air-conditioning and a respite from the constant chatter spewing from her daughters. Tourists on a Hawaiian vacation, judging by their thick midwestern accents and sun-scorched skin. I wonder how they found this beach; most visitors stick to the bustling hub of Waikiki, never wandering into the more authentic corners of Oahu.
I’ll have to find a new spot, if this one starts getting popular.
Damn tourists.
I don’t make eye contact as I toss my board into the back of the open-sided Jeep and grab a faded t-shirt from the bottom of the trunk. It smells like salt and sweat, but I tug it over my damp torso anyway, shaking water droplets from my overgrown hair like a dog after a bath. It’s been half a year since I bothered cutting it — the ends stir against my shoulders in the breeze off the ocean.
I look nothing like myself. Nothing like the man I used to be, when my face dominated every tabloid magazine and my drunken antics filled every police blotter. Which is why I’m so surprised to find the two teenage girls suddenly standing in my path, their bright eyes locked on my heavily-bearded face with curiosity and excitement.
“Oh my god,” the one on the right breathes. “You’re… Are you…”
A flicker of annoyance moves through me. I sidestep the fangirls and swing myself up into the doorless driver’s seat with one hand on the overhead bar. Fishing the keys from the glove compartment, I shove them into the ignition with haste.
“Hey! Aren’t you that guy from—”
“No.” I turn over the engine with a rumble, cutting off their question as it roars to life. “I’m no one.”
“Wait! You’re—”
The car is barely in gear when I pull off the dusty shoulder onto the narrow roadway, leaving them behind with baffled looks on their still-innocent faces. My own words haunt me the whole ride across the island, back to the cliff-perched villa where I’ve spent the past six months hiding out from my life in the vain hope that if I stay away long enough, I might disappear entirely.
I’m no one.
Not anymore.
Chapter Three
felicity
Jerry
Perry sits at a massive mahogany desk in an office that smells strongly of pipe tobacco and leather. Still dressed from the funeral, he’s the picture of old southern charm with his fading blond mustache, dark gray checkered blazer, and bright red bowtie. He stands when his secretary leads me into his office, his round, jovial features spreading into a broad grin.
“Felicity!” His hand clasps mine in a warm, reassuring grip. “I’m so sorry, honey. Your Gran…” He shakes his head. “They don’t make ‘em quite like Bethany, anymore. She was a class act. The world is a lesser place without her in it.”
“Thank you, Jerry.” My eyes are pricking. This man has been around my family for as long as I can remember. Gran trusted him above all others to manage her financial affairs — even after she got sick.
“Sit, sit.” He gestures at the plush armchair across from him as he settles back behind his desk. “I appreciate you stopping by. I know you said on the phone you’re only in town for a few hours.”
“My flight leaves at eight.”
“I’ll cut right to the chase, then.” His pale blue eyes gleam in the low light. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here.”
“If it’s about the funeral costs—” My cheeks blaze with sudden heat. “I don’t have a lot in savings, but I’ll help in any way I can. Maybe pay in installments, or—”
He shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that! That’s all handled. Your grandmother and I set aside assets to cover those expenses years ago.”
“Oh,” I breathe, relief coursing through me. These days, I barely earn enough to scrape together grocery money. The nest egg I had when I left LA — the initial advance I received from Route 66 — is all but gone, used to purchase my cottage in cash when I first arrived on the Cape. The part-time job I landed sorting books at the local library three times a week helps me get by, but it’s not exactly going to land me on Forbes’ 30 Under 30 list anytime soon.
But something else might, a nagging voice chimes in from the back of my mind. All those Wildwood royalties are just sitting there waiting for you in an account at Route 66… if you’d only call them… let them know where to send a check…
I shake my head to clear the thought. That money comes with undeniable strings attached. And, based on the inflammatory legal envelope currently burning a hole through my purse, I’m guessing the label isn’t just going to hand over the money and let me walk away scot-free.
Jerry clears his throat and shuffles a few papers on his desk. “Anyway… as you’re no doubt aware, your grandmother lost the majority of her mansion’s physical assets during the fire ten years ago.”
I nod.
“Thankfully, her bank accounts never suffered such a blow.” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bethany hardly spent a penny of her royalty money, except to cover her medical care. That’s why, as I’m sure you know, there’s been some infighting within your family ranks these past few years over who’ll get to control her estate in the event of her death.”
A grimace contorts my face. Infighting. That’s certainly a polite way to describe the all-out blood war that’s been waged since Gran’s diagnosis — my parents on the front lines, my aunt and her husband in the opposite trenches. And me, shielding my head from the worst of the mortar fire, smack dab in the center of a battle I never wanted any part in.
Jerry sighs. “Unfortunately, scenarios like this are not all that unusual when there’s a celebrity relative involved. People become…”
Greedy, money-hungry vultures.
“…overly invested,” he says tactfully.
I stare at him. “Mr. Perry, I’m sorry, I just don’t see what this has to do with me. Aunt Kim was granted controlling interest over Gran’s estate several years ago… If there’s a problem, I think it would be best to speak with her about—”
“Felicity, dear girl. There’s no problem.” He laughs. “You’re correct that the courts awarded your aunt authority over your grandmother’s medical decisions and care. But the remainder of her estate — her significant assets — were set aside in trust.”
My brows lift.
“Despite the illness that stole her memory, your grandmother was not entirely unaware of the, shall we say, frosty climate between her two daughters. Which is why she asked me to keep the contents of her will sealed until she passed on.” His thick southern twang mellows to a murmur. “If I may, I’d like to share those contents with you now.”
My pulse kicks into gear at the thought of hearing words Gran wrote — even if it’s just legal jargon. Not trusting myself to speak, I give a small nod.
Jerry slides a pair of thick-framed reading glasses onto his nose and lifts a piece of paper from his desk. His voice is warm as he begins to read.
I, Bethany Hayes, a resident of the state of Tennessee, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament.
To my granddaughter Devyn Hayes, I leave a sum of fifty-thousand dollars to be used as funds for higher education, which she so sorely needs, because blogging is not a career no matter what she tries to tell me.
To my daughters, Kim Hayes and Kandace Wilde, I leave the most fervent wish that one day, you will be able to forgive me for my failures — and love each other, in spite of your own.
To my son-in-law, Terence Wilde, I leave nothing at all, for he has already taken far too much from my family.
Finally, to my granddaughter, Felicity Wilde, I leave the full remaining value of my estate including any future royalties as well as the sum of my bank accounts, in addition to the forty acres of land upon which my house once stood and all remaining personal effects still gathering dust in storage — contingent on the agreement that she throws out that old guitar she’s always dragging around and gets herself a proper instrument to play. My blue Gibson should do fine, I think.
Keep singing, Felicity. You’re a light in the dark.
Hereby singed and dated, with all my love,
Bethany Hayes
Jerry sets down the paper and peers at me over the rim of his glasses, a bemused grin making his mustache twitch. I sit stock-still, hardly processing the words he’s just read.
“Your Gran always did have a flair for the dramatic.” He shrugs lightly. “Any questions for me?”
A choked sound slides out of my mouth. The breath is frozen in my lungs.
“Mary!” Jerry yells to his secretary. “Can you please bring Miss Wilde a glass of water? She looks like she’s about to keel over.”
He’s not wrong.
A few moments later, after I’ve taken a sip of water and gathered my bearings, I’m finally able to formulate a proper sentence.
“She left me everything?”
He nods. “Except the college fund for Devyn, which hardly touches the balance in her accounts. And speaking of that balance…” His eyes light up as he looks down at a bank statement. When he reads the eight digits proceeding the decimal point, the glass slips through my fingers and bounces against his carpet, spilling water across my too-tight pumps.
Holy fudge.
Jerry spends the next half hour laying out the specifics of my inheritance — a never-ending stream of bank accounts and routing numbers and inventory lists and land acreages. I try to pay attention, but my mind feels sluggish as it processes this surprising turn of events.
I’m rich.
Beyond rich — I’m extravagantly, obnoxiously wealthy.
And all those vultures circling over Gran’s head for the past ten years, praying for her to take her last breath so they could finally swoop down and claim their piece of the carrion…
They get nothing.
Nothing.
Despite all their screaming matches and court battles, their manipulations and barbed words… my parents, my aunt, all those other relatives who oozed out of the woodwork like toxic mold when they saw an opportunity to take advantage of an ailing old woman…
Cut out.
Crossed off.
I wonder if they were ever in the will to begin with.
“Oh, they were,” Jerry says, startling me. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “Your grandmother had them removed right around the time she was placed into the nursing home. She knew her health was failing and, though her daughters attempted to hide the worst of their fighting from her, Bethany was perfectly aware of the hell they were putting each other through.” He pauses. “And the hell they put you through, as a result.”
My eyes are suddenly stinging.
“For what it’s worth, Felicity, your grandmother was one of my dearest clients. A friend. And I know how much it pained her to leave you unprotected in that house. I think, maybe… this is her way of making it up to you, the only way she could.”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip and I focus on the pain, struggling to keep my emotions in check. Later, I’ll fall apart. In private. When there’s no one around to witness the acute agony raging inside me.
Jerry clears his throat. “I hope you know, I’m always here — whether it’s for legal matters or anything else you might need.”
His kindness is almost enough to shatter me. I turn my gaze away from his face, clinging desperately to my last shred of composure. My glossy eyes lock on my purse — and the white legal envelope protruding out the top.
“Actually…” My fingers shake as they close around the Route 66 papers. “There is one thing I might need help with…”
Jerry spends a long time looking over the thick dossier. As he scans through the pages, the concerned indentation between his brows grows more and more pronounced. I shift restlessly in my seat as I wait for the verdict, tenser with each passing moment.
When he finally reaches the last page, he lets out a sigh and sits back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he feels a migraine coming on.
“Well?” I ask softly, unable to contain myself another moment. “How bad is it?”
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