Page 151 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

HUNTER

E ventually, a few weeks after my mother’s death, there is a formal reading of the will.

There are no surprises there. I’m an only child, and aside from the generous bequests she’s made to three local charities, I’ve inherited everything she owned.

Her house, her small retirement account, and the remainder of her investments.

The representatives of the charities linger after the reading to talk to me. Sonia Marsh heads up a no-kill pet shelter. “Breanna volunteered with us often,” she says. “She loved animals, and they loved her. They sensed a friend in her, I think.”

Sonia Marsh is a lovely woman, and if she doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to tear up. So many times, I told my mom to get another dog, but she hadn’t been willing to. “After Butterscotch died, I made myself a promise,” she’d said. “No more. I can’t take the heartbreak, Hunter.”

My mom could be stubborn, but I genuinely thought I’d have time to convince her otherwise.

Amana Kuti is next. She’s the director of the first domestic violence shelter in the area and a long-time family friend. “Hunter,” she says, enveloping me in a warm hug. “How are you doing?”

“I’m hanging in there. Thank you for the flowers.”

“It was nothing.” She looks sad. “I still can’t believe Breanna is gone. I want to wake up and have this all be a horrible nightmare.”

Oh God, I can’t take very much of this. I extricate myself from the conversation as quickly as I can without offending Amana. I shake hands with the third woman, who introduces herself as Sophia Thorsen, accept her condolences, and flee the room.

Brian Holland, my mother’s lawyer, catches up with me at the exit. “Couldn’t take it anymore?” he guesses astutely.

“How could you tell?”

“For starters, you look terrible,” he replies frankly. “But also, I’ve been in your shoes. My wife died six years ago. I remember how overwhelming everything was. For the first six months, I couldn’t even open her closet. It hurt too much. It took me a long time to make my peace with it.”

“I haven’t been in my mother’s bedroom. Not since I found…” The body. My mother’s dead body. I don’t know why I’m telling Holland this. It isn’t as if I know the man.

“I’m so sorry, Hunter. I know it seems like a mindless platitude right now, but it does get better.” He clears his throat. “On a different note, I wanted to bring something to your attention. My office has received almost a dozen calls from Mitch Donahue.”

“The real estate developer?” I stare at Holland. “Why the hell is he calling you?”

“He wanted to know if the estate had been settled. My assistant told him that we are not in a position to comment on the private affairs of our clients, but the message didn’t seem to sink in.” He shakes his head. “Typical of the man.”

“You know him?”

“We belong to the same golf club.”

From his tone, Donahue is no friend of his. “He showed up at my mother’s funeral,” I tell the other man. “He made a verbal offer for my mother’s house. A generous one.”

“Did he tell you what he wants to do?” Holland shakes his head. “I don’t want to gossip, but?—”

When people say they don't want to gossip, what they really mean is that they want to be persuaded into imparting the information. I paste a neutral yet encouraging expression on my face. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but?—”

Holland doesn’t need much persuasion. “This is an open secret,” he says.

“Donahue is trying to get into the high-end market. It’s my understanding that he’s planning to build a luxury subdivision.

Very exclusive. Only six homes, each more than ten thousand square feet.

He wants to install a helipad and pitch it as a neighborhood that’s commuting distance to Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and even Pittsburgh. ”

“Surely he’s not going to be able to get anything like that through the town council.”

“You’ll be surprised,” Holland says gloomily. “Donahue wants to buy your mother’s house because it’s sitting on acreage. He’ll tear the house down and build his subdivision in its place.”

My shoulders stiffen. My grandparents left my mother the house when they died.

It used to be a farm. Once upon a time, when my mother was a teenager, it was one of many in the neighborhood, but in the last fifty or so years, most of them have been sold, green fields giving way to cookie-cutter subdivisions.

My grandfather had been too stubborn to sell. My mother wasn’t as obstinate, but she was sentimental. This was the house she’d grown up in, and she wanted to stay where she was. Here, she felt in touch with her roots.

“He offered me six million dollars.”

“Hmm. That is a lot of money, but if I were you, I’d tread carefully.”

Brian Holland is the soul of caution. He rarely volunteers his opinion on anything. This is as explicit as he’s going to get.

A luxury subdivision. Donahue’s offer makes more sense now. He’s not paying six million dollars for an old, drafty farmhouse. He’s planning on splitting the property into half-a-dozen lots, and he’s going to put six obnoxiously oversized McMansions on it. And a helipad, for fuck’s sake.

“Thank you for your help,” I tell the lawyer. “I really appreciate it.”

I make my way to my car. I roll down the windows and turn on my phone, and wince at the dozens of notifications.

So many emails. So many text messages and voicemails. From my friends. From Eric. From Xavier. From Annette Reeves, repeating the offer of lunch. So many people reaching out to me. I should feel lucky.

The phone rings. It’s Mitch Donahue again. The man has called me four times in the last four days. I’ve swiped each and every one of his calls to voicemail, and he refuses to get the message.

Everything is overwhelming, and I want to hide from it all. I’m not ready to deal with the world, not when I’m still struggling to accept that my mother is gone. I feel unfocused and out of control.

At some point, I know I have to sort out the house.

I can’t keep avoiding Donahue forever. I can’t keep ignoring the emails, voicemails, and text messages.

My friends are concerned. My mother’s friends are grieving in their own right, and I must respond to their heartfelt messages with something equally thoughtful.

I just don’t have the emotional wherewithal for it.

It’s so tempting to delete everything instead.

Will that make you feel better?

Stupid voice of reason. Sometimes, it sucks to be a therapist. Sometimes it sucks to realize that nothing I’m describing is unusual.

Being overwhelmed is part of the process.

Being in denial is normal. Billions of people before me have felt exactly the same way, and billions of people after me will face the same complex tangle of emotions. I’m not unique in my grief.

But I can’t help feeling that I’m failing. I should be doing better at this. I’m a therapist, damn it. I shouldn’t be struggling as badly as I am. I should know what to do to feel right again.

Brian Holland thought I looked terrible. I pull down the visor mirror and regard myself, and he’s not wrong. I look dreadful. I haven’t been sleeping. My eyes are bloodshot, my clothes are wrinkled, and my hair is an overgrown mess.

My mother took great pride in her appearance.

My grandparents had instilled it in her.

They came to America with nothing but the clothes on their back, but they were very clear about some things.

It didn’t matter how poor you were. You made sure your clothes were clean and ironed.

Dressing decently was an act of self-respect, something that said to the world that you were more than your bank balance and your circumstances.

This isn’t good, Hunter.

I reach for my phone again to see if my barber can fit me in today. My display is open to my emails, and one message catches my eye.

It’s Open Night at Club M tomorrow.

That’s it. That’s the solution to my problems. A scene where I have to be focused and completely in control of myself is exactly what I need.

An experienced submissive, maybe even a new one, someone wide-eyed and eager, someone with whom I’ll have to be careful and attentive, making sure she gets what she needs out of the encounter.

You’re lying to yourself, you do realize that, don’t you? A scene isn’t the solution to your problems. You’re hiding from reality, but you can’t escape it forever.

Maybe so. But it’s going to take more energy than I possess to tackle my messages, call Donahue, and figure out what I’m going to do about my mother’s house.

A casual scene is all I have the capacity for right now.