Page 72 of More With You

“Is that everything?” Ben’s voice distracts me.

His father nods. “That’s everything.”

“I can agree to that.” Ben gestures for his father to sign on the dotted line. The nib of his Montblanc fountain pen hovers at the bottom of the page, poised yet hesitating. A man like Mr. DuCate knows the authority of a contract. By signing this, he’s signing away any leverage he might still have.

A nervous couple of minutes pass, and the silver tip finally touches the paper, scraping his signature up every vertebra of my spine. It shouldn’t have come to this. I know that. I can see the disappointment in Ben’s expression as he takes the contract and waves it, to dry the ink. Of course, he’ll be pleased to have an insurance policy, but these are his parents, and they’ve turned their family into nothing more than a business transaction. Empty and perfunctory, a son now just a go-between for when his parents want to see their granddaughter.

“If that’s all, you can go,” Mr. DuCate says stiffly, clearly annoyed that he’s been forced into such a low position.

Ben puts on a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “A pleasure doing business with you.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob and sense the hurt in him. “I’ll take Grace with me, but you can see her before I take her back to her mom.”

“I thought Lyndsey was coming to get her?” Cybil pipes up: her voice as peeved as her husband looks.

Ben shakes his head. “Change of plans.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but I’m aware of the secret. As we’ll hopefully be moving to New Orleans in less than two weeks, we’ll be able to drop Grace off while we’re there. That means more time with my stepdaughter. I’m already looking forward to it, knowing she can take the spiny burrs off all of this unpleasantness.

“Well, you ought to let us know of that instead of just dropping it on us now,” Cybil protests, getting up off the chaise lounge.

Ben sighs. “I’m letting you know as soon as I could. It’s a recent change of plans.” He catches my eye and there’s a faint smile on his lips. “Unless you don’t want to see Grace before she goes home?”

“No!” Cybil clasps her hands to her chest, rattling her bracelets. “Of course we want to see her. If you let us know when that weekend is, we’ll be delighted to spend time with her.” Evidently, she’s also beginning to realize that they don’t hold the top spot anymore. If they go against the decree of the contract, they’ll lose their rights to see their granddaughter.

Ben beckons to me. “Come on. We should swing by Lucky’s on the way home, for dinner.”

“Sounds good to me.” I offer my brightest smile, hoping to cheer him up, and go to him. I slip my hand into his and, unified in taking the DuCates down a peg or two, we give cursory goodbyes and head out of the door. Even the oppressive gallery is like a breath of fresh air after the intensity of the drawing room.

Finding Grace in the sunroom, which is just a huge conservatory at the back of the house, Ben tells her it’s time to go.

“We’re having us some crawfish for dinner,” he says, putting on a thick accent.

Grace howls with laughter, all hyped up on chocolate chip cookies and a dose of chocolate milk. “Will you make them dance?”

“Oh yes, I’ll get them to do the Macarena for you,” he promises, scooping her up into his arms. “Thanks for looking after her, Mae.”

The older woman gives Grace’s cheek a sweet kiss. “Don’t you be causing any trouble, now.”

“I won’t,” Grace swears, snuggling into her dad’s shoulder.

Mae turns her attention to me and Ben. “How did it go?”

“Better than I expected,” he says, with a smile. “Just don’t be too surprised if you hear the sound of heirlooms smashing for a while.”

Mae waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’m used to that. Now, get yourselves out of here before they start throwing things in your direction.”

Heeding her warning, we depart, retracing our steps through the labyrinth of the DuCate Mansion until we get to the front door. As Ben’s hands are full, I open the door and breathe in the metallic scent of the coming storm. Fat droplets are already beginning to spit from the angry clouds overhead, so crawfish might have to wait until another day. Still, I get the sense that the rain is coming to wash away any remaining bitterness, cleansing us for our fresh start in New Orleans.

We’re halfway to my car, parked in the circular driveway, when a figure darts down the front steps, covering her sleekly coiffed hair with her hands. Why did I think we could get away without one of the DuCates having the last word?

“You’re not leaving this property unless you take that rusty old motorcycle with you!” Cybil barks, wincing in the warning drip of rain. “If you don’t take it now, it will be scrap metal by tomorrow!”

Ben halts: his forehead creasing into a scowl. “Seriously, Mother?”

“I’m deadly serious. I will have it towed first thing tomorrow morning if you don’t take the unsightly thing off my drive, right this minute!” she reiterates, flashing a fierce glare at Ben’s beloved “Indian.” It’s parked down the side of the house, out of the way, but apparently not far enough out of sight.

With a groan, Ben rolls his eyes and hands Grace to me. “I’ll follow you to the cottage, then we can go to Lucky’s.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, holding tight to Grace. She doesn’t protest or complain, she just nuzzles right into my shoulder, letting me know I’m part of her family now.

---