Mara pokes her cig at him. “And who is your client?”
“The late Mr. Mitchell.” His eyes are flared a bit, and I think he might be just a tiny bit intimidated by Mara.
“Well, he’s an asshole,” she says loudly then points at me. “He hasn’t given this girl one cent since the day she was born, and now she’s in his will? She should have sued his ass for paternity years ago!”
I exhale, getting myself under control as Mara lets her anger out.
His eyebrows shoot straight up. “I see. I’m not at liberty to discuss paternity with you, but Mr. Mitchell kept a tally of gifts and monetary donations he gave to Lily Ryan over the years, and it’s quite a lot of money. I feel there are no grounds for this to be an issue.”
Mara’s angry and fishes out another cigarette, lighting it up immediately.
He’s scribbling away in his notes and clears his throat. “However, on the issue of Vanderbilt, there is a small possibility I can help with that.”
“How so?” My tone is skeptical, and I stand up and walk over to the window.
He taps his pen against his briefcase, a mulling expression on his face. “Miss Ryan, your father—”
“Not my father. Sperm donor.”
He nods. “Right. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife and other two children, but there’s a sizable amount for you as well. You can attend any university you want.”
Curiosity gets to me. “How much?”
“You’ll have to attend the reading with the family to find out the final amount, along with the list of mementos he bequeathed to you, items that may be pertinent to your mother.”
My teeth grind together. “How fucking much?”
He’s unfazed by my profanity but thinks for a moment. “A million dollars.”
Shock slides over me and there’s a gasp from Mara. “Asshole must have gotten soft,” she mutters as she heads to the liquor cabinet and opens it. “Drink?” Her eyes rove from him to me, but it’s me she lingers on, and I guess she’s learned to read my face well enough to know when I’m about to lose my cookies.
“Bourbon,” I say. “Two fingers—and give me the good stuff.”
Her hands shake as she puts it in my grasp. She leans down to my level and gazes up at me. “Listen to me, Sugar, you could really use that money—hell, you could pay for law school somewhere up east, maybe Yale or Harvard. Get out of this town and live the life you deserve.”
I don’t want his regret money.
All I’ve ever wanted was a real family.
Mara reads my face. “A door has opened, Sugar. Now you gotta walk through it. See what happens. Don’t let the past dictate your future.”
I turn up my glass, and the hot fiery taste of whiskey slides down my throat. “I don’t care that he’s dead. I don’t care if he’s trying to make up for what he did. Go back and tell his family that.”
With trembling hands, I set the glass back down on her desk then stalk past them and out the door.
26
Sugar
On Sunday, the girl at the desk in the lobby of Ellington Hall has an awed expression on her face as she passes over the vase of deep creamy white gardenias to me—although it’s terribly inadequate to simply call it a vase of flowers. The word decadent comes to mind as I finger one of the huge, velvety blooms with a lush yellow center. The smell is intoxicating; it’s vibrant, rich, and reminiscent of the South. I attempt to pick up the wide crystal vase but have to put down my backpack just to hold it.
I look back up at the freckled, bouncy brunette who caught me as I came in the door after class, practically waving her hands at me to tell me I had another flower delivery.
“What does the card say? Who’s it from? Honestly, I’ve never seen flowers so pretty.” She leans over the desk conspiratorially, all chatty. “I mean, the delivery dude even had a hard time wrangling his way inside. These are gardenias, right? I mean, where do you ever get those in the winter?”
I give her a slight smile as I rip open the envelope, and suddenly the shitty day brightens.
Miss Ryan,
These remind me of you.
Z
My heart lifts and soars—until I remember I haven’t heard a peep from him since I walked him out of my dorm early Friday morning. Two damn days.