Page 40 of Whiskey Kisses

A tiny, older woman with brown skin and blue eyes answers the door. She’s the epitome of a classy, breezy Southern lady, with her loose chignon and her cream linen tunic and pants. “Well, aren’t you the spitting image of a young Myrtle!”

“Me?” I squeak, hand to my chest. I’d been told I resembled Mama, but I could never see it.

“Yes, you. I certainly don’t mean your handsome beau, here.” She welcomes us inside with a tinkly laugh. “Pleased to meet you, dear.”

We shake hands. “And you, as well.”

She turns her attention to Tristan, eyes twinkling. “You must be the boyfriend.”

“Actually, I’m Tristan.” He extends a polite hand. “The husband. Nice to meet you, Ms. Bianchi.”

My heart skips a beat. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

“Now that’s nice,” she says, guiding us to a sunny sitting room where there’s a pair of plush, velvet armchairs. “You make a fine couple. Can I offer you all something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Water is fine, thank you.” I tuck my hair, which I wore loose today, behind my ear. My whole outfit was thrown together at the last minute as I was too curious to put off this meeting. I wanted to see Ms. Bianchi as soon as possible.

Once she’s brought us each a glass of water, Ms. Bianchi sits across from us with a leather portfolio. “As you know, it has been a few years since your aunt passed, but I remain the executrix of her estate and all her holdings. She asked me to give you this on your twenty-third birthday.” Reaching into the portfolio, she retrieves an envelope and hands it over to me.

I see Tristan’s head jerk up from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t know today’s my birthday because I didn’t tell him. Ignoring the tiny sliver of guilt I inexplicably feel at that, I carefully unseal the envelope.

“You must be wondering why she chose this specific birthday to leave you something,” Ms. Bianchi says with a small chuckle, fingering the edges of another paper.

“It does seem a little random,” I admit. Aunt Myrtle left me a small sum of money when she died, and even that was difficult to accept because I just wanted her back. I still feel that way, although extra cash would help right about now. Tristan’s said more than once that I’ll always be taken care of, but that doesn’t feel right. What happens if he wants to get married for real one day? I doubt his new wife would be cool with him funding hisex-wife’slife.

But when I pull the paper from the envelope and read its contents, I nearly faint. I keep reading the words over and over, thinking they’ll disappear or change.

“I was twenty-three when I inherited this home, and it is my hope that you will one day find joy here as well ...”

“Evie?” Tristan finally asks.

“She left me the estate.” I look up at him, biting my lip. “The house, the gardens, all of it.” Shaking my head, I glance over at Ms. Bianchi. “I don’t understand.”

Ms. Bianchi smiles warmly, her eyes gentle with empathy. “Myrtle was a woman of many surprises, as you well know. She wanted you to have it.”

“But why?” I ask, tears welling up in my eyes.This is surreal.Thehouse and garden I spent countless summers at as a child were all mine now.

“You must know how your aunt adored you, Evelyn,” Ms. Bianchi says softly. “She saw the same love for this place in your eyes that she herself had. She believed that you would cherish and protect it.”

“I absolutely will,” I breathe, holding the paper to my racing heart. I can’t believe it. “Can I move in, then?”

“You can do whatever you’d like,” Ms. Bianchi replies. “It would be a beautiful place to raise a family, I’d think.”

No, no, not another blush. Plucking my glass up from the coaster, I drain the rest of my water.

“Is that right?” Tristan angles an irresistible smile her way before shooting it at me, his dimples making an appearance. He shouldn’t be allowed to wield that smile all willy-nilly. It’s dangerous. “Sounds like we’d better get over there then, Evie. The sooner we start, the better.”

Ms. Bianchi giggles like a schoolgirl, clapping as I die inside. I give Tristan a dirty look, my face throbbing with heat as he grins back at me.

“How sweet,” Ms. Bianchi coos. “How long have you been married?”

“Just a few weeks,” I manage.

“My word!” She gasps. “Was your wedding announcement in the papers? I must’ve missed that.”

“No.” I twist my hands in my lap. “It’s—it’s complicated.”

“We didn’t publicize it,” Tristan says. “Her father doesn’t like me too much.”

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