Chapter Thirteen
A loud knock on the door made Hannah frown deep in her sleep. Her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry.
Shit, I’m hungover.
The knock sounded again, and she peeked open one eye to see she was on her couch in the living room, fully clothed, and it was sunny outside.
She let out a loud breath and slowly got up. She had the event tonight, which meant she had several hours until then to think about all the shit that had rained down in the past twenty-four hours. Apparently five drinks at Goonies didn’t numb the pain of Grant lying to her, leaving her, then stealing her bar out from under her.
The knocking sounded again, and she realized it was coming from the front door. She got up and ambled to the entrance. She opened the door to find the last person she’d ever expected to see.
“Silas?” she asked her father, who was standing on her front stoop looking surprisingly awake.
“I just stopped by to see how you were feeling,” he said. There was no slur in his voice. No staggering stance or smell of fresh gin on his breath. He didn’t look great, but he didn’t look drunk. So that was a start.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Her father looked her over, and Hannah shielded a hand over her eyebrows to try to shut out the bright sunlight.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Well, thanks for never sugarcoating. Anything else you want to say?” she replied with annoyance.
“Yeah, there is,” he said. “Stop being a dumbass.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and rested her shoulder against the doorjamb. “If I wanted you to come over and insult me, I would have called.”
“This isn’t an insult—this is free advice.”
“Oh, really? What a gem coming from you.”
“Hey, I know what I’m talking about, you brat. I’m here to tell you to stop.”
She laughed. “Stop what? What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about you. Last night at Goonies.”
She pinched her nose. He must have seen her. “Jesus, Silas. Just because I have a few drinks one night doesn’t mean I want a wake-up call of you in my face.”
“It wasn’t a few drinks. I knew what you were doing.”
“And what’s that?” she said, exasperated.
“You were drowning your sorrows in liquor. You wanna drink, fine. But don’t you go hiding behind the bottle. You’re better than that.”
Those last words made Hannah’s heart snap into motion. It was the only kind thing she could remember her father saying to her. And he sounded like he actually meant it. Still, she didn’t need him all of a sudden. And she certainly didn’t need his advice.
“You see me in a bar once, and now you think you know who I am?” she said to him.
“Yes, I know who you are. You don’t go giving in to your grief and unleashing your anger on yourself through drink. But that’s what you did last night.”
“How on earth do you think you have this much insight?”
“Because,” he snapped, “I’ve been doing the same thing for over twenty years.” Her father sighed and ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I broke when your mama left us. Hated life. Hated you, even, a little. A constant reminder that she’s gone.”
While parts of that hurt, he was trying to be honest, so she kept quiet and let him finish.
“You’re better than me, Hannah. You always have been. You’re tough, and whatever you’re going through, don’t you let it take you down.”
He nodded once, lifted his hand like he was going to wave, then set it down as if he thought better of it.
“That’s all I came to say,” he muttered, then turned to leave.
“Dad?” she asked, and he turned to face her. “You came to check on me?”
He nodded. “You looked like you were in pain last night. Wanted to make sure you got home all right.”
He walked down her driveway and to the street. A sting hit hard behind her eyes, and she had to close them to alleviate the burn. Her father, whom she’d bailed out over and over, had actually come to check on her.
She didn’t remember seeing him last night. Didn’t remember much other than with every drink, she’d felt a little more numb. Because the hurt of losing Grant, of the secrets, was too much to bear.
She watched her father walk away and realize that he thought she was strong. In his way, he cared. And it was up to Hannah not to let these issues take her down. Her dreams were still her own. She’d fight for her bar, for her future.
She’d get to the bottom of whatever the hell Grant had been thinking.
She went back into her house, closed the front door, and picked up her cell phone. She dialed Becky Lace at the local bank. They’d gone to school together and had gotten along pretty well. Now, as adults, Becky had been working with Hannah to get the loan for the bar, and every time Becky came into Goonies, she drank for free. It was the silent understanding they had.
“Yachats Bank, this is Becky, how can I help you?”
“Hey, Becky, it’s Hannah Hastings.”
“Oh, hi,” she said joyfully.
“I know this is unconventional, but I need to know what’s going on with the bar. Rudy said someone put an offer on it. It’s not even on the market.”
“Yes, well, the person must have known it was up for sale,” she said with tone of a professional courtesy.
“So I can’t buy it now? I have the money. I’m paying the balloon payment tomorrow.”
“That’s been paid off, and the bar has actually been sold as of this morning. Rudy signed off on the sale and paperwork.”
Rudy? So he’d gone with another buyer? Even after he made a deal with Hannah? She was ready to burst with frustration.
“Who did Rudy sell it to?” Hannah asked slowly.
She could hear Becky’s frown from the other side of the line. “He sold it to you,” she said.
Hannah about swallowed her tongue. “What are you talking about?”
“The bar was sold, cash up front, and put in your name,” Becky said.
Hannah’s mouth hung open, and before she could ask more, her other line beeped.
“Hey, Becky, let me call you back.” She switched over to the other line and answered the number she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m looking for Hannah Hastings?” a man asked.
“This is she,” she replied.
“Miss Hastings, I’m Harvey Wolcott, Mr. Laythem’s attorney. I need to discuss some legal matters with you.”
She closed her eyes. This was the call she’d been waiting for. The one that ended any tie she had with Grant. And her heart sank.
“Okay,” she urged.
“Miss Hastings, you have been awarded an eighty percent share in Laythem Inc., as well as sole proprietorship of Mr. Grant Laythem the Third’s estate in its entirety.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” she said around a strangled breath. Had the world gone mad today? “Grant Laythem left and . . .”
“And you’re his legal wife. He has bestowed his entire estate on you.”
She gripped her head and tried to wrap her hungover mind around what was going on.
So Grant hadn’t left her with nothing—he’d left her with everything.
But he’d still left . . .
“Miss Hastings?” Harvey asked from the other line.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said.
“I was hoping to set up a time I can get you some documents.”
“Sure. Are you calling from New York?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She thought of Harvey, of Grant, sitting around in a big high-rise in the middle of downtown Manhattan. At least, that’s what it looked like from the picture Cal had shown her last night of where Laythem Inc. was located.
“Do you mind if I call you back? I need to get a few details sorted out,” she said to Harvey.
“Of course. Thank you, Miss Hastings.”
She looked at her phone and hung up. Wishing Grant was in front of her so she could hug him—or scream at him.