Page 5 of Free to Judge (Amaryllis Heritage #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

If I thought the events from the night before were a bad dream, then work the next morning proved me to be sleepwalking. I can’t seem to awaken from this nightmare that’s happening to my family.

“He did what?” My mother’s shriek outside my office cuts through the static of my phone call with a recalcitrant client.

Hunched over my cluttered desk, I’m trying to wrap up the conversation while my heart thuds against my ribs.

Through the window, the gloomy Friday the Thirteenth sky looks as if it’s holding its breath—a day we normally keep free at Amaryllis Events because even we’re not immune to human nature and its superstitions.

When I joined the company fresh out of Harvard, my early days were less about practicing law and passing the bar exam and more of a crash course in the corporation’s unspoken rules.

First, I learned to keep Uncle Phil far from anything with a power cord—if he touched anything electronic, disaster was inevitable.

Second lesson, never underestimate a bride on a budget who’s determined to see her vision come true.

And third, I realized my very existence depends on the meticulous drafting of a contract—a document only as strong as the words etched into it.

Still, that doesn’t mean a contract is always honored—much like a guilty verdict, or so I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours.

While Amaryllis Events has always stuck to our contractual terms, we’ve experienced more weddings than most, facing couples attempting to circumvent our ironclad clauses.

Now, a throbbing headache builds behind my eyes while I try to pacify the father of a bride over the phone.

His deep, grumbling voice buzzes with anger.

“I don’t care what the contract says. If the country club canceled, then find me another site.

My daughter isn’t getting married under some flimsy wood slats they happen to have cobbled together on their grounds. ”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, calculating in my head.

If I were a billable attorney, this call alone would earn a thousand dollars.

Mr. Jones, the bride’s father, is a maelstrom of fury and obstinacy, refusing to listen to a single word I’ve said even though the changes are in his favor.

“Mr. Jones, the contract you signed clearly states that in the event of unforeseen circumstances, the venue reserves the right to relocate the event to a comparable space.”

He cuts me off, voice rising like steam from a locomotive. “You don’t get it. My daughter’s in hysterics, my wife’s in tears, and you’re just hiding behind fancy legal words. I’m going to own your ass.”

My jaw tightens as I try to interject, “Mr. Jones—”

“Listen, sweetheart.” His tone drips condescension and disdain. My teeth grind together at the derogatory term. “I get this might be the only job a paralegal like you ever landed, but can you get a real fucking attorney on the phone?”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to fire off a snide email that flaunts my law degree and bar association number to this raging tyrant.

Through gritted teeth, I press on, “Would it help your wife and daughter if I let you know that the wait list for the rotunda and grotto is longer than that of the ballroom? It’s considered more exclusive. ”

A heavy silence falls before his voice wavers with uncertainty. “It is?”

At last, a breakthrough! “Yes. Additionally, due to the inconvenience to your daughter’s vision”—I add a mental note to thank Uncle Phil for pontificating about the bride’s questionable taste and flower choices so I can speak to it with ease—“the venue has arranged for additional decor enhancements for the rotunda and will contact you later today to upgrade your catering package at no extra charge.”

His anger deflates significantly, replaced by the pragmatic tone of vanity and fiscal logic of the man I initially dealt with. “Those are very reasonable terms. Why didn’t you just say so?”

I fight the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

We finally wrap up the call as I promise to send him the amended contract by the end of the day.

No sooner have I disconnected than my mother, dressed immaculately in a trim blue suit and towering heels, strides into my office.

As General Counsel and Chief Financial Officer for Amaryllis Events, she carries an air of command and grace.

“You deserve a medal for not verbally annihilating Mr. Jones.”

I lean back in my chair, admiring the way her light hair spills perfectly around her face, her peaches-and-cream skin glows, and her athletic runner’s build makes her look two decades younger than she actually is. “Barely earned it, but thanks,” I reply.

She chuckles knowingly. “When I was your age dealing with such imbeciles, I’d just let them sue us.”

“Did you win?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Most of the time,” she admits with a wry smile.

“Even then, I was obsessive about covering our proverbial asses with meticulous paperwork.” Her lips curl with amusement as she adds, “There was one bride who sued us because she’d forgotten she was actually getting married. It’s Cass’s favorite story to tell.”

My jaw falls open. “We send out like a million reminders and…”

Mama shrugs, her tone shifting to a playful chastisement. “Yet, we still can’t help people who don’t know what day of the week it is.” Her voice rises to taunt someone she knows is within hearing distance. “You know, like Phil.”

A faint, indiscernible mutter from just beyond my door makes me smile, and my mother laughs softly. With a come-hither gesture, she beckons me. “Come on. Meeting time.”

I rise from my chair and reach for my laptop. “What did Uncle Phil get into this time?” I ask, a note of apprehension creeping into my voice.

“You won’t need that,” she nods at my laptop.

“What’s this about?”

Her face, so usually animated, suddenly hardens into a mask of solemnity. “It’s better if we tell you all at once.”

Leaving my office with a sense of dread, I trail behind her to the conference room.

Normally, I love spending time in this room, which has borne witness to so many of our family’s celebrations and milestones.

From the deep, rich mahogany woodwork to the stained glass with its perfectly centered amaryllises, it embodies the vision my family had decades ago for the type of legacy they wanted to create—strong and enduring.

The moment I step inside, I realize this isn’t another issue related to Uncle Phil’s shenanigans with electronics, or even Amaryllis Events, for that matter.

Instead, my cousins are huddled together—Laura, with her ER doctor’s steady gaze, and Grace, an anaplastologist whose skilled hands speak of delicate precision—along with every member of our immediate family who calls this town and its surrounding areas home.

Before I can muster a question, my mother strides purposefully toward Aunt Cassidy.

It’s then I spot my father and Uncle Caleb standing at the head of the table, their presence as imposing as the reputation of their investigative agency.

Flanking them is Laura’s fiancé, his expression unreadable.

Suddenly, the explosive words I had heard while on the phone are far more ominous.

Quietly, I murmur to myself, “This is going to be bad,” and make my way toward my cousins, silently ready to offer my support.

An hour later, I find myself wishing I had been mistaken—wishing fervently that someone had pulled a Friday the Thirteenth prank.

But reality is far more grim.

My father and others, who are up to date on their Hudson bro code, have come into the office to explain the details regarding Declan Conian’s demand for the recent release of the Tiberi consigliere based on the technicality we heard about on the news last night.

Like I thought, there’s nothing we can do about it.

My nails bite into my palms as I make a fist, imagining what I would do if I had five uninterrupted minutes with Declan Conian.

Too bad they’re different from what I imagined doing to him at my college graduation.