Page 1 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
1
HIDDEN TREASURE (CLEO)
As my car skids to a stop at the end of the long, winding driveway, that hole in my chest deepens.
Above me, PopPop’s vacant mansion stares down, the windows blank and empty as an unmarked grave.
Only, I know there’s someone up there today, waiting for me.
The lawyer.
Little comfort. My brain spins through a slideshow of black windows and death and ghosts whispering through legal documents.
Dread and anxiety in full control.But what else is new?
If I had a therapist, I’d fire her.
I sigh until my chest rattles.
It’s been a while since I was here.
A few years, actually.
PopPop died over a year ago, but old summers are fresh in my mind. It seems like just yesterday we were walking the rocky shores or laughing in the kitchen. Then I went off to college, time condensed, and I lost the plot.
Life rolled on without happy sunwashed days and smiles.
Life continued without the man who was so much more than a grandfather.
I fucking hate that he died alone.
Stubborn and brave to the bitter end, he hid his sickness from the whole family. He wanted to go out on his terms, surrounded by no one but dutiful nurses.
Dad says that’s what he got for being such a ‘miserly old bastard.’
Actually, it’s Dad’s fault that I’m the one showing up here today instead of him, collecting an inheritance I barely care about. It’s been delayed for over a year.
Everyone’s been so tight-lipped about it since the old man died, so I can’t imagine it’ll amount to much. A small piece of Gramps’ fortune he was wise enough not to leave to my father, maybe.
I should be so lucky if it’s that bland.
Nothing like the freaking arranged marriage fiasco or the lake house drama my cousins inherited.
I’m not bitter.
Unlike Dad, who hates the fact that he wasn’t given a few more parting freebies.
Gordon Blackthorn wore the black sheep badge proudly.
Bad with money, bad with relationships, meh at raising me, and awful at having his shit together.
Unfortunately, reputations rub off like lint. Too many people think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially after Dad left his nasty mark in the art world.
His sins cover me like a second shadow.
A chill wind sweeps in, too cold for April in Maine. It’s like we’ve skipped back to February, when the air tries to strip your bones clean.
I open the car door and step out gently.
