Before she could lecture him, a knock on the door interrupted, and she got up to answer it.
“She’s going to kick your ass, you know,” I chuckled weakly.
“Logan’s here,” Mom called as she walked back in with him behind her.
Dad only just managed to grab Doyle by the collar, before he could even think about going toward him. I watched all of it out the corner of my eye, but my mind was on the way Mom made it sound like it happened every day instead of it being what it was—weird.
Seeing that I was up and about, a small smile grew on Logan’s mouth until Doyle growled at him, and he shot a glare down at the huge Irish Wolfhound. It was a good look on him, broody and fierce, but that wasn’t what made my heart start beating like a drum band. Oh no, that was the fact he was wearing his Police uniform, and the sleeves were short so I could see the tattoos on his arms.
I wasn’t sure if that was allowed, but who was I to question it when—even to me—it looked so good? I mean, I was the last person who should find the man attractive, but the look was working for me.
Grief—it warps the heart and mind of all who experience it.
“Good to see you in the land of the living,” he greeted, his eyes on me before shifting them to my dad. “How are you holding up, Kenton?”
Not getting up, Dad shook his hand. “My baby girl got up today, so I’m starting the road to healing. But now I’m thinking my dad’s dog has bad blood with you over something, and I’m amused for the first time in over a week. Thanks for that.”
Hearing that just made me feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. Pops was his dad, but instead of being able to mourn and heal, he’d been looking after and worrying about me. I needed to get my shit together and stop being a wussy.
Feeling tingles on the side of my face, I looked up and saw Logan watching me like he knew what I was thinking. That started a new riot of emotions off inside me.
On one hand, having someone know and understand what I was thinking and why was a nice feeling. It meant I didn’t feel like the head case other people would probably assume I was.
On the other hand, the hurt he’d caused me went so deep that I didn’t know if I found him being inside my head all that comforting. Add onto that the guilt I was feeling for my dad and the heartache for Pops…
See, grief totally warped your mind. Who could keep up with a hundred emotions and conflicting thoughts at once?
Turning away from him, I tuned in to what Dad was saying.
“…I didn’t want to do it so soon, but he insisted it be read as quickly as possible after he passed away.”
They were talking about the will.
“Why?” I mean, if I died, I’d want people to go about getting used to life without me and let them get their heads around it.
Death made people greedy, so why would you want them eagerly waiting for what they were getting?
Sighing, Dad said quietly, “Because of you.”
“Me?”
Nodding, he picked up his cup and mumbled into it, “You’ll understand when the lawyer reads it out to us later.”
Feeling slightly nauseous again, I got up and walked back upstairs to my room, intending to have a shower and look like a normal person for it.
All the while, I was stuck in a repetitive cycle of questions.
Why me?
Why so quickly?
And why was Logan here?
What was I going to do?
Three hours later…
Now I had the answer to two of my questions, the first two to be exact.
The will was being read so quickly because Pops had left me his house. The stipulation was that I couldn’t sell it until I was thirty—five years from now—and I had to live in it. If I didn’t do that, the property would remain empty, and no one could enter it apart from me. That would mean it would start to crumble and go to shit with a bow around it.
The house was old and had been one of the first to be built when Piersville was established. It was a large Victorian style property that stood out even now, but had done even more so when it was first completed.
The town was founded by settlers from all corners of the world, who set up homes and sold what they were skilled at making. In my family’s case, that’d been furniture and anything wooden. They were skilled carpenters and furniture makers, and had worked with the other settlers to utilize their trades, too.
Partnerships had been formed throughout the town, and the wares had been sold all over the country. Rumor had it that my family had helped build many of the original homes in the town, but I hadn’t ever checked to see which ones.
Pops’ house was beautiful, with long windows, wooden floors, intricately carved light fixtures, and details that were so intricately done, it was hard to believe they’d been made by hand. He’d modernized it over the years, and it was perfection.
He knew I loved the house and wouldn’t let anything happen to it, so he’d put me over a barrel to move back home instead of returning to my job as an English teacher in Boston.
My question was, why? No, my questions—plural—were all why.
Why would he put those stipulations in the will?
Why did he want me to move back here, knowing why I’d left?
Why had he died?
Why did it feel like life was never going to be the same again?
Why? Why? Why?
And most of all, why wasn’t I as upset about it as I should be?
“I know this all seems unusual, Miss Heath,” the lawyer murmured as he looked up from the papers on his desk. “And, if I’m honest, it
