Which is why, when he died five years ago and left everything to my mother, it didn’t feel strange in the least. She deeded everything over to me and I send her money every month and help pay for my younger sister’s college tuition. It’s how this family works.
“What are we going to do?” This time, when my mama speaks, it sounds too small and too timid.
I straighten my back and take a deep breath, wiping back the stray strands of hair off my face. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” I have to. That’s my job in the Calhoun family. I take one for the team—like skipping college to work and help support my mother and sister. After my dad left when I was ten, my mama worked two jobs, leaving Rory and me home by ourselves a lot. When I graduated, I didn’t want Rory to be alone while I was off at college and Mama was at work, so I decided to get a job. Mama quit her nighttime cleaning job and started working at the school cafeteria. It wasn’t much, but between what she made and what I sent home, it was enough to pay the mortgage and get Rory through school.
“We’re going to be okay,” I assure her.
When the door chimes, I wipe an unexpected tear off my cheek. I don’t cry. Cecilia Louise Calhoun holds her shit together. “Gotta go, Mama. I’ve got a customer.”
She quickly says bye and hangs up, but I can tell she’s worried.
That makes two of us.
Chapter 3
Shep
As my driver pulls up in front of my family’s estate, I already feel the air around me change, and it’s not just the climate. The small sense of ease I’d started to feel after being in New Orleans for only a short period of time is gone and in its place is the rigidness of formality.
There’s no warm greeting.
No mourning family gathered.
When I step inside the large foyer, I’m met with silence.
If I had to guess, my mother is playing bridge with the ladies. It is Tuesday, after all. And my father is at the office. Business doesn’t even pause for death. If anything, it’s moving at a faster rate, as everyone makes sure every “i” is dotted and every “t” is crossed.
“Mr. Shepard,” a familiar voice greets.
Glancing up, I smile. “Maggie.”
“We were expecting you later today. Dinner won’t be served until six.”
“I got an earlier flight.”
She immediately goes into action. “Let me take your bag.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, hoisting my duffle higher on my shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
“Can I get you something? A drink, perhaps?”
Sighing, I actually think about turning around and calling my driver, asking him to come back. Staying at my empty house would be better than being here. Shit, a hotel would even be better. But it’s only for a couple of days. “A drink would be great,” I say, smiling a genuine smile.
After I put my bag in my old room, in the west wing—yeah, the house has fucking wings—I make my way back down the stairs and partake of the drink Maggie offered, knowing I’ll need the amber liquid to make it through the next forty-eight hours.
Thankfully, Maggie is great at small talk and taking my mind off of things, so the hours pass swiftly and before I know it, my parents are home and I’m once again regretting not staying in a fucking hotel. We eat in relative silence, except for my mother, who talks incessantly about a woman she’d like me to take to dinner.
Such a nice girl.
She went to Rice.
The way she says Rice makes it sound exotic.
Her father owns the firm…
And that’s when I really tune her out. I don’t give two shits about who her father is or isn’t. I know exactly who she is without even knowing her damn name. A fucking Real Housewives of Dallas wannabe. She’s looking for a man her parents approve of and someone who can give her the life she’s accustomed to. It’s not about love or attraction. In twenty-five years, she’ll be my mother.
“Samuel Shepard Jones was a well-respected man,” the minister begins. The church is over-packed, full of people I don’t know or wish I didn’t. Except Maverick. He showed up this morning, against my wishes. Fucker never listens.
“The size of this congregation today shows how much,” he continues.
I slide my eyes down the pew toward my mother and father who are both sitting stoically in their seats. Typically, at a funeral, at least those closest to the deceased are crying, or at least wiping away a rogue tear. But every eye in the place is dry. I want to scoff at the words of the minister as he makes my grandfather out to be some kind of saint, but of course, I don’t. Instead, I fall in line and assume the same expression as my parents, pretending to listen as we wait for Samuel Shepard Jones’ final transaction.
After the funeral, everyone makes their way past the casket, offering us condolences as they pass. When a tall redhead walks up, I can tell by the slight smile on her ruby lips she’s not here for condolences.
“Shepard,” my mother says quietly, reaching out and clasping the hands of the woman, like they’re old friends. “This is Felicity Crawford, the one I was telling you about at dinner last night.”
“Hello, Shep,” Felicity says, stretching her slender, well-manicured hand in my direction. “I believe you were in the same fraternity as my brother, Foster.”
Trying to hide the disgust, I plaster on a fake smile. “Yeah, Foster,” I tell her, shaking her hand quickly and then dropping it, stopping myself before I can wipe my palm on the leg of my pants. Foster Crawford is one of the most pretentious assholes I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. He sexually assaulted a girl during our sophomore year in college and his daddy bought his way out of it. Just the thought of him makes my stomach roll.
“Daddy would love to meet you,” Felicity continues, oblivious to the fact I’d rather poke my own eyeballs out before I meet her daddy. “We’d love to have all of you over for dinner tomorrow night. It’s the least we can do in your time of need.”
My throat hurts from holding back my honest reactions. Fuck no, I don’t want to have dinner with her and her family. And our time of need? Are you fucking kidding me?
“I’m sorry,” I say, a smidge too abruptly if the side glare I get from my mother is any indication. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow to head back to New Orleans.”
When my mother speaks again, I can hear the eye-roll in her tone. “Shep has recently bought a bachelor pad in New Orleans…boys.” She and Felicity share a knowing laugh. “We’ll set something up soon.”
After air kisses and empty promises, Felicity walks away, but not before she brushes the sleeve of my suit jacket, gripping my wrist slightly to get my attention.
This time, I do wipe off her touch.
“Dinner,” my mother instructs. “Tomorrow night. You’ll be there.”
Smiling, I grit out, “No, I won’t.”
“You will,” she sing-songs. “The reading of the will is tomorrow at five. If you want your inheritance, you’ll be there.”
Fuck.
As we drive to the attorney’s office, I try not to think about the will.
Ever since my mother mentioned it at the funeral, a small ember has been burning—a taste of freedom. But I’m trying not to get my hopes up.