Page 103 of Not Just a Trick Play

Gran pulls me back. “I’m not able to do it by myself. And given your decision to remain in the United States, it seemed only logical. After all, he has a child to think about now. They need the security. It’s only right that one looks after one’s family.”

“When?” I can’t stop my voice from cracking.

“I’m signing the paperwork in a fortnight. They’d like me to turn it over in the new year.”

“That soon?” I ask faintly.

“Yes.”

But even with all that logic, the words burst out of me. “But, Gran, why?” My hurt spills out, unrestrained.

There’s a silence for a moment. “You said you wanted to stay in New York.”

She speaks again, though this time, she sounds marginally more uncertain. “You’ll also have to make arrangements. Not immediately, but soon, to retrieve your belongings and such that are here. They’ll be taking over yours for the wee one.”

So I’m losing my home too?

“But Ben?”

“He’s the dependable choice.”

I almost choke.

That’s it. I have to tell her. “He’s not…he’s not what you think, Gran.” Anger and disappointment swell within me. And it all comes pouring out. “We were together—Ben and me. It started off as a casual thing, and when it became more, we kept it quiet, because we both worked at the inn and knew youwouldn’t approve. But then, as you know, he showed up with Margo. Pregnant.”

My confession hangs between us, raw and exposed as I wait, laid bare before the one person who has been my closest to constant.

Then I hear a hitch in her voice, the smallest quiver as she processes my words. “That’s why you left.”

I make a noncommittal sound.

“I wish you would have told me.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I swallow hard. “Things over here are good.” No, they aren’t. “I have a meeting with an important company tomorrow, possible investors in the business. It will go well.” Please, please, let it go well.

“You know you always have a home with me. No matter where I end up.”

I nod, even though she can’t see. Words clog in my throat, refusing to emerge.

She’ll have to take me in all over again. And Sutton Bridge? What kind of life could I possibly build there? What tours could I offer? There’s hardly anything—just a swing bridge, two lighthouses, and the village church of St Matthew’s. Oh, and let’s not forget The Wash. Even Aunt Elizabeth’s husband used to call it the sticks before he passed. I’ll probably end up waitressing in the one restaurant.

“There’s a fortnight before I sign the paperwork,” she states abruptly. The words are a rope dangling before me that I’m too stubborn to seize. Wrapped in a mix of guilt and reluctance, I remain quiet, and the silence feels like a betrayal.

When we finally hang up with quietly murmured goodbyes, I’m drained. Thoughts of tomorrow’s tour, the looming meeting with potential investors, and the uncertain fate of the inn weigh heavily on me. The pressure of my situation has doubled, and the stakes are now sky high.

For the first time in days, the storm raging outside feels like a blessing. I welcome the excuse to bury myself under the covers, hidden away from the world that demands too much, too fast.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

AMELIA

Saturdayunfurlswith the kind of perfection that only happens in movies or to people with significantly less complicated lives than mine.

The weather? Flawless. My mood? Cautiously optimistic. Finally, finally Lady Luck is throwing me a crumb.

I’m primed to charm the knickers off Gotham Guides. I’ve planned today’s tour down to the last cobblestone. They are about to get a front-row seat to my dream, and I’m buzzing with enough nervous energy to power the city.

To dodge any straggling reporters, I’ve proposed an alternate meeting spot, a couple blocks away from St. Mark’s and am gratified to have the whole place to myself when I arrive early. This type of silence is rare. Just me and a duo of pigeons who size me up with beady eyes—a perfectly civilized audience, as far as I’m concerned.

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