Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
The heavy weight of sorrow becomes too much, and the truth pours out of me. “I didn’t want to come here tonight. Not because I didn’t want to see any of you but because my heart hurts. But I couldn’t disappoint Margo, so I did. It wasn’t enough, though. I can’t shake my blue heart. You see, I came back to ask my mom for a loan and she said no.”
My word eruption seems to bounce around the room before settling between us. August blinks, mouth stern. “Why do you need a loan?”
My shoulders slump. The half-eaten sandwich in front of me no longer looks appetizing. “Pops and Pegs left me their house.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“It’s . . . great.” My voice breaks a little, and I clear my throat. “I love their house. It’s a second home. No, not even that. Mom and I moved around so much over the years, it’s my only home now.”
I risk a glance his way and find him watching me intently. It’s too much to take, and I turn back to staring at the plate in front of me. “Losing Pops and Pegs so soon was . . . hard.”
“Yeah.” It’s a soft affirmative that has the lump in my throat growing.
“Finding out they left the house to me was both painful and wonderful. I’d lost them but they left me a home. My home.” I trace a gray swirl in the granite counter. “Dad was, well, he was pissed.”
There’s a pause before understanding hits August. “They didn’t leave it to him.”
Shaking my head, I grimace. “He got nothing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him. He’d ditched his family and cut ties with his parents years ago.”
“Penelope—”
At his pitying tone, I hold up a hand. “No, no. I came to terms with who my dad is a while ago.” Okay, a few years ago, but progress is progress. I consider mine hard-won. It wasn’t an easy thing to learn that my dad had left not only my mom, but me in the process, in favor of my nanny. I was ten when they ran off to France to live it up in a villa—yes, a freaking villa—he’d purchased without Mom’s knowledge.
Thing is, I can accept what he did. But I still don’t like him very much for it. Or Nanny Cathy. Ugh. I can’t think of either of them without a bad taste filling my mouth. They never had kids. I still can’t decide if that makes it better or worse. Maybe, just maybe, if Cathy had been pregnant, then I could see how he’d leave Mom. And me. Because, in truth, from that moment on, my dad had zero interest in my life or seeing me. The one time I went to France to visit him during summer break had been a soul crushing disaster.
No. I will not spiral over him anymore.
“Anyway,” I force out. “He was clearly expecting the house when they died.”
“Asshole,” August mumbles. He catches my eye. “Sorry, it’s the first thing I think whenever anyone mentions him.”
“Me too.” We share a look, and then I shake my head. “The house is mine. No matter how much he complains.”
“So, the loan?” August lifts a hand in confusion. “Is he trying to contest the will or something? Is that why you need the funds?”
God. The mere thought has my stomach clenching. “No. That is, I don’t think so. I know he argued with the estate lawyer. But he was advised that the will, actually it’s a trust, was well drawn and he’d have a tough time contesting. Not to mention, he’d need a lot of money to continue down that road.” My nose wrinkles. “Dad is short on funds as well.”
“Then why the loan?”
For a moment, I’m lost in the ugly sludge of feeling Dad leaves on me. Then I blink and clear my head. “It’s the house.”
“The house?”
“August,” I say sadly. “My great-grandparents may have bought the house for ten thousand dollars way back in the 1940s, but it’s now worth about ten million.”
August spits out his lemonade and proceeds to cough violently.
“Sorry.” I pat him on the back and hand him a napkin.
“Jesus,” he says, still sputtering. He wipes his mouth and huffs out a laugh. “Holy shit!”
“Yeah.”
Silver eyes alight on me with shock. “No, really? Ten million?”
“The house is a Cliff May original, sitting on an acre in Brentwood. The land alone would be worth a ton, but the fact that it was designed by the man credited for inventing the California ranch house?” I shrug. “It’s highly desirable.”
To me it’s home. But I don’t underestimate its worth.
“The property tax would be a lot,” August says, finally understanding.
“To say the least.” My fingers clench. “Approximately one-hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars a year.”
August whistles low and long.