Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
The chickens roam contently, a mundane backdrop to my frantic pulse as I park, get out, and walk to the gate.
I don’t have her phone number, so I couldn’t call to let her know I was coming.
This might be a very unpleasant surprise.
I scrub my hands against my thighs and step up the walk to knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” a woman calls ahead of footsteps pattering toward me to answer.
As the door opens, I’m struck by a memory.
The same face, petite with silvery red hair in the same braid.
Only, back then she was younger.
Dinner over Aunt Clara’s sketches.
Me, organizing her colored pencils, and this friendly face helping Clara in the kitchen. Deb underfoot wanting to help, too, but just banging giant spoons everywhere.
Me, thinking they were so noisy, but it was the kind of noise I loved, and when this woman laughed, Aunt Clara laughed too.
They looked at each other so warmly—warmer than Mom and Dad ever did before the accident.
Their secret smiles made everything feel like home.
I stare at her with my heart stalling.
“I remember you,” I say weakly.
Yvette Sullivan shakes her head, smoothing her hands over her flower-patterned blue cotton dress. “I’m sorry, who?” She stops, her eyes widening. She looks at me hard, her fingers fluttering to her mouth. “August? Little August Marshall? Is that you, all grown up?”
How had I forgotten?
Back then, I’d been too young to understand.
I just thought she was another old friend of Aunt Clara’s who came over to help.
“Miss Yvette.” I find myself smiling. “It’s been a long damned time, hasn’t it?”
“Too long!” she says, then steps back. “Come in, come in, please. It’s so good to see you.” She casts me a nervous look, licking her lips as she leads me into a cozy home decorated with paintings and sketches, some of which have a distinctively familiar hand. She looks back again uncertainly. “Wow! I never expected—wait, Clara’s not—is she?”
I suck in a breath as I realize what she must think.
That I’ve come to tell her Aunt Clara has passed away after a deathbed confession, or something equally terrible.
“No, no,” I assure her. “Aunt Clara’s still alive and making trouble. That’s why I’m here. I need your help—and frankly, I think your daughter needs it too.”
She stops cold at the entrance to her living room, decorated in soft earth tones and plush cushioning. Hurt flashes in her eyes.
“Marissa? How do you know her? I never brought her over when—well . . .”
“She’s suing me, for one,” I say dryly. “And Aunt Clara too. Marissa wants Little Key, and ownership of the Inky intellectual property.”
Shock flashes across her face.
“What? Why?”
“Because she claims that her father—your late husband—came up with the idea first. She thinks Clara stole it and ran with it, and that’s why he drank himself into an early grave. Because she took everything from him.”
“Oh, my . . .” Yvette clenches her fingers in her skirt, frowning, trying to understand. “But that’s an outright lie. Inky was always Clara’s. Lester never could duplicate her work, though he tried like mad.”
I didn’t realize how tense I was until I hear those words.
Even though I wasn’t invited, I sink down in the closest chair, burying my face in my hands with a heavy sigh that turns into a crazed laugh.
“Oh shit. Thank God,” I say. “No, thank you, Yvette.”
I get it now.
I understand everything.
I know why Aunt Clara gave in. Why she lied.
The secrets she was keeping, that she’s been keeping bottled up for an eternity.
What she was running from and trying to protect.
Apparently, I’m not the only idiot Marshall who does stupid shit to run away from love.
But I might be the only idiot Marshall who can fix it.
I pull my hands down from my face and look up at Yvette, who watches me with confusion.
I can’t blame her.
For the first time in a long time, there’s hope.
“Please,” I whisper. “Clara needs you. Marissa needs you. I need you. Will you come back to Seattle with me? To save Clara’s legacy? You’re the only one who can help me set many wrongs right.”
XXV
ONE LAST RAY
(ELLE)
August’s pocket square.
I forgot I still had this.
I’ve been sorting through my things. He left me in such a tizzy that I’ve less unpacked and more just lived out of boxes, with stuff flung everywhere and falling out of the cardboard.
August’s pocket square from weeks ago was one of those things.
I found it when I went digging around for one of my older sketchbooks, hoping to recover some of my ancient ideas from high school. No matter what happens to Little Key, I’d like to round out Kiki’s friends with an owl named Gruffykins before I try to do something with these characters instead of just flailing around.
The pocket square goes tumbling to the floor.
Just like that, I’m demolished all over again.