words trip out before I could stop them.
"Jesus Christ," Huck hissed as we stepped in front of the open gate, giving him a view of the house for the first time. "So you come from money money," he said, looking over at me.
"I mean, technically, no. Jones does," I said, shrugging.
"Are you related to the fucking Rockefellers?" he asked.
"No. I mean, well, a couple generations back, a distant Rockefeller married one of my great-great step-aunts, but it barely counts."
"Crib like this, babe, it counts. Do I even want to know what this is worth?" he asked as we walked up toward the three-story white stucco mansion that I couldn't see through Huck's rose-colored glasses since the ones I had to wear made this place look like a prison of sorts.
"Best guess? Thirty," I said, shrugging.
"Thirty million?"
"Yeah. I mean it has never been on the market, so it is hard to say. But it has to be around there. Twenty-thousand square feet. The best of everything. My grandparents were always the showy sort."
"Where are we going? "Huck asked as I led him away from the front path. "Do we have to enter through the help entrance?" he teased.
"It's a garden party," I told him, walking over toward the arbor, the sweet peas still in full bloom, delicate red, pink, purple, and white flowers draping the wooden frame romantically.
There wasn't much I liked about this estate, but the gardens were some of them. I felt justified in liking them, though, since they had absolutely nothing to do with my family, and everything to do with a sweet, gentle old gardener by the name of Harold who made the grounds positively magical.
He used to find me hiding from the family in little nooks, would bring me with him, pointing out plants and flowers along the way, making me commit them to memory.
Lantana with its purple outer flowers with paler pink ones in the center. Bright, happy yellow buttercups. Dramatic and stunning purple bougainvillea, my personal favorite.
I'd always hoped to one day have a place that was fully mine so I could have a garden like this one.
"This place is packed. I'd almost be surprised your family could find you in this crush," Huck said as we moved into the back, the sprawling grounds dotted with wrought iron bar tables without chairs, guests expected to spend most of their day standing, socializing.
These events were always more for connection-building than actual interest in one another, in close interpersonal relationships.
"Oh, they'll find me," I said, sucking in a deep breath. "But let's get a drink before they do," I added, pulling him over toward a bar under a dogwood that had long since dropped her white flowers. "Yep," I said, grabbing a set of the flutes set up there, "that'll do," I agreed, taking them.
"Are we supposed to tip?" Huck asked as I led him away, handing him a champagne flute.
"My grandmother would make sure they could never work in this town again if they accepted a tip from a guest."
"That's cold."
"You have no idea," I agreed, throwing back half my champagne in one sip.
Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I used to dream of a day when I could grow up and sip champagne like one of the elegant men and women around me.
Little did I know that the adult version of me would chug it like water in the hopes of making these dreadful events more tolerable.
"Oh, that was fast," I said, seeing my grandmother standing a few paces off, her hand resting on my grandfather's shoulder.
"That's your grandparents," Huck guessed.
"Yeah."
"What's wrong with your grandfather?"
"Stroke," I said, seeing the frozen half of his face, the wheelchair he'd been stuck in since I was twelve. "He's still alright in the head," I told Huck. "But he's trapped in a body that only half works."
"Let me guess," Huck said, seeming to start catching on. "That makes him mean."
"Yes, it does."
"What about your grandmother? What's her problem?"
I threw back the rest of my champagne, reaching to place it on a tray of a server as they passed. "They blame me for the stroke," I told him, yanking him forward with me, making a beeline for my family, wanting to get the most uncomfortable part over with.
"Harmon, so nice of you to make it," my grandmother said, standing there with her perfectly coiffed white-blond hair and understated makeup that never seemed to slip into the fine lines and wrinkles next to her eyes and