Page 127 of What Remains of Grace

A grin broke over his face, bright and unguarded. “They signed off?” he asked. “It’s done?”

“It’s done,” she said, the words tasting strange and wonderful. “The Judge approved the settlement. Once we cut the check and he signs the deed, it’s ours.”

Emmie crossed her arms. “He still walks away with a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, on top of the life insurance and the cars. It’s like the universe keeps handing him checks for ruining our lives.”

“We didn’t pay him because he deserved it,” Jenna said, surprising herself again with how clear it felt now that it was over. “We paid him to get out of our story. We bought quiet. We bought time. We bought a future without him in it.”

Emmie studied her face. Then, slowly, her shoulders dropped a fraction. “He’s still a parasite,” she muttered.

“Absolutely. He’s just a parasite who’s about to be removed from our property records.”

Cole barked a laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

He stepped closer, searching Jenna’s expression. “How do you feel? Really?”

She thought about it. Tired, certainly. Wrung out. There was sadness there too, sadness that money, law, and paperwork were the final words on her sister’s marriage.

But beneath that, there was something else.

“It feels like . . .” She groped for words. “Like . . . like we’ve been holding our breath for the last month, and I finally got to exhale.”

“Sounds like freedom.” He nodded slowly. “Worth every penny.”

Emmie eyed him. “Spoken like a man who isn’t the one actually writing the check.”

“Hey,” he said, hand over his heart. “I lifted a lot of tables. That has to be worth at least fifty bucks.”

She snorted, the first real laugh of the day. “Okay, fine. You get partial credit.”

They stood there for a moment on the courthouse steps, the three of them, contractor, aunt, niece, bathed in harsh Florida sunshine and the strange quiet after a battle.

“So,” Cole said, “what now?”

“Now,” Jenna said, feeling the answer settle in her bones, “we go home.”

30

Homecoming

Home turned out to be both places.

They stopped first at the house on Athens Street, a symbolic act as much as anything.

Jenna stared up at the familiar front porch, the crisp blue shutters, the curve of the live oak out front.

She had always loved this house. Today, it loved her back.

“Officially Hart S Cruz Estates, LLC,” Emmie said, trying out the pretend name. “Unauthorized entry by Baileys punishable by death.”

“Em,” Jenna said, but there was no heat in it.

“Too dark?” Emmie asked.

“Just dark enough,” Cole said.

They didn’t stay long. Just enough for Jenna to step inside, stand in the kitchen, and whisper a wobbly, “We did it, Gracie,” to the empty air.

Then they crossed Athens Street and headed toward the bakery.