Page 1110 of One More Kiss

Wicked Alchemy

Annie Anderson

Chapter1

“There are only somany ways we can go over this, Jasper,” my father complained in my ear. The phone was precariously balanced between my jaw and shoulder and in serious danger of falling into a tray of paint. “You barely knew her. She had no call to leave you that house, not to mention her estate or her art collection. Aunt Mercy was senile, and the courts will prove her Will was a complete joke. You don’t deserve that house.”

My father, ladies and gentlemen.

This was the tenth such discussion my father and I’d had in the three weeks since the reading of Great Aunt Mercy’s Will. It didn’t matter that Aunt Mercy had the Will drawn up the year I was born in front of three witnesses, or that her packet included a letter from a psychiatrist stating she was of sound mind. Or that my father had hated her since he was a boy and said he wouldn’t live in Whispering Waters, Georgia, even if someone held a gun to his head.

Luckily, Mercy anticipated my father’s antics, putting all her assets into a revocable trust, so contested or not, my father couldn’t do a damn thing but waste his own money in court.

Mercy—one. Dad—zero.

“Okay, Dad, I’m getting off the phone now,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over my father’s continued tirade. “Tell Mom I love her.” Then, I happily hit the “END CALL” button. I missed the days of being able to slam a receiver down. That little button didn’t give even a tenth of the satisfaction.

Slipping my phone in the back pocket of my paint-splattered boyfriend jeans, I studied my handiwork as I tried to get my father’s words out of my head. I was in the middle of painting the foyer of Aunt Mercy’s house, the deep indigo color offsetting the crisp white wainscoting beautifully.

My father was right about one thing: I barely knew Aunt Mercy. But the not knowing her part wasn’t exactly my fault. At least not at first.

Growing up, Dad had been adamant that this town was full of weirdos and hippies, and he’d rather eat shoe leather than visit. I actually remembered him saying that very thing to Aunt Mercy on the phone when she’d requested we come down. I’d been thirteen at the time, and the mystery of Mercy was a fascination of mine. I’d bugged him for weeks about coming here to visit my kooky great aunt, but he never relented.

As the years passed, I forgot.

Forgot about Aunt Mercy, with her abundance of charm and penchant for tasseled scarves. Forgot about my father’s whispers about the too-weird town of Whispering Waters. I forgot about the wonders of my childhood—as one does when they were as self-absorbed as I was.

I was too busy falling for the wrong man. Too busy marrying the bastard like the idiot I was. Too busy wasting away in a marriage to a pathological liar with a god complex to solve the epic mystery that was Great Aunt Mercy.

Regret filled me in a hot lash as I stared at the paint. I wondered if she would have liked the color or if she’d hate that I was sprucing up the place. I supposed it was mine now, but the spirit of her lived on in every single room. In the scent of the home, the little touches of her everywhere bringing back fond but blurry memories.

Mercy’s house hadn’t needed too much work. The moldings were beautiful, the hardwoods only needing a good polish. The walls were a bit discolored, but that happened with age. There were a couple of ’70s-style lamps that were just odd enough to be retro, but the inside wasn’t where the bulk of the work would need to be done. The house itself was fine, but the grounds were a hot mess. Under no circumstances would I be able to tackle it myself.

I was all for minor repairs and painting, but lawncare was out of my wheelhouse. There were a few landscaping businesses in town I would have to investigate before I got ready to tackle the garden. Until then, it was my life’s goal to spruce up the inside.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I groaned before fishing it out. My mother’s contact flashed across the screen, and I debated on whether or not I wanted to pick it up. If she was feeling generous, my mother could be the sweetest woman on the planet. If she was not, I was in for a passive-aggressive lecture veiled in backhanded compliments, wistful sighs, and carefully concealed disdain.

I tried to gauge if it was worth the hassle. I was not on Mom’s good side right now and hadn’t been since I told Mitchell to go fuck himself as I brandished divorce papers like a sword. My mother loved my ex. In fact, I was pretty sure there was an unwritten rider in our divorce decree that awarded him my parents, and me with damn near nothing. I didn’t get the house, or my car, or half of our bank account. Sure, my parents and all their stuffy, hoity-toity glory might as well have gone with him, too.

But if I didn’t answer, she would just keep calling until she filled my voicemail like an unhinged stalker. Girding my loins, I put down my paint roller and answered the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” I said with a sigh, unable to hide my reluctance. If she started in with the get-back-with-Mitchell schtick, I was going to hang up on her just like Dad.

“Jasper, when are you going to quit being a child and talk to your husband?”

Oh, here we go.

“Ex-husband. And never. I will be a child until the cows come home, Mom. Mitchell lied our entire marriage. He made me feel small and inferior while he fucked his way through his freshman lit class. Add that to the vasectomy incident, and he’s lucky I didn’t flay him alive. I went through three different fertility treatments, Mom. Three. While he knew he was shooting blanks. As far as I’m concerned, Mitchell MacMillan can fuck off and die.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t exactly wanted children—not with Mitchell and not with anyone else—and the fact that I wouldn’t have them with my now-ex-husband was a giant weight off my shoulders. I was just pissed I’d had to go through all those damn shots.

“Jasper St. James, I did not teach you to talk to me that way,” my mother huffed through the line, her Southern upbringing unable to process how I could use the F-word not once but twice in a single rant.

Well, too damn bad.

“I’m never getting back with that lying sack of shit. Ne-ver. He lied to me, betrayed me, cheated on me, got me fired from my job, stole my house, my money, and my car. If he stepped off a curb and got hit by a bus in the next five seconds, it would be a blessing to the universe and everyone in it. Now, was there something else you would like to talk about, or are you going to harangue me until I hang up on you, too?”

“Jasper, honestly. You aren’t getting any younger. You’re forty-four, and—”

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