The Planet Lara Trilogy E-Book

Eliza Gordon

• Herausgeber: SGA Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Welcome to Planet Lara
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1469

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Welcome aboard as we set sail for an unforgettable riches-to-sensible-shoes journey with the captivating WELCOME TO PLANET LARA trilogy ebook boxset! Join Lara J. Clarke as she navigates the twists and turns of her late grandfather’s eco-utopian legacy on the gorgeous Thalia Island.

In Welcome to Planet Lara (Book 1), Lara must trade her lavish lifestyle for hiking boots (eww!) after her grandfather’s will stipulates that she step into the role of the island’s Project Administrator—or lose access to the family fortune. As she faces the challenges of her new reality, Lara discovers a bizarre, sinister force threatening the island’s security. With the help of charming lead engineer Finan Rowleigh, she must protect her grandfather’s precious sanctuary while unexpectedly finding love along the way.

Planet Lara: Tempest (Book 2) finds Lara at the helm of her “planet,” grappling with personal loss, Finan’s sudden departure, and the reappearance of a fugitive connected to her mother’s past. As cryptic clues and menacing consequences linked to the Dea Vitae cult surface, Lara and Finan must work together to unravel the mystery before it destroys everything they hold dear.

In the thrilling conclusion, Planet Lara: Sanctuary (Book 3), Lara must rely on her Thalia Island family to bring Finan home and save the island that has become home. With long-buried secrets exposed and terrifying new threats emerging, Lara faces a reckoning that will test her resilience and the strength of her relationships.

This enviromance series, set against the stunning backdrop of British Columbia’s West Coast, offers a perfect blend of romance, suspense, and environmental consciousness. Don’t miss your chance to own the complete WELCOME TO PLANET LARA trilogy in one convenient boxset. Immerse yourself in Lara’s world, where love, family, and the fight for a sustainable future intertwine in an unforgettable adventure!

Leseprobe

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First edition copyright © 2021-2022

Jennifer Sommersby Young writing as Eliza Gordon for SGA Books. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner in any media, or transmitted in any means whatsoever, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The publisher has made every effort to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this publication. Any errors brought to the attention of the publisher will be corrected in future editions.

Boxset edition © 2024

Front cover illustrations and design by Bailey Designs Books; back cover design by SGA Books

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-989908-65-5

www.sgabooks.com

www.elizagordon.com | www.jennsommersby.com

contents

Also by Eliza Gordon

Welcome to Planet Lara

Welcome to Planet Lara, Book One

Land Acknowledgment

Join the Raft!

Author Note

Author Note No. 2

1. Dearly Beloved

2. Cut the Ribbon Already

3. Mushroom Sauce

4. Fun Time with Lawyers

5. Chlorophytum comosum

6. Decisions, Decisions

7. Andromache Returns

8. Have a Free Pen

9. The Felonious Philanthropist

10. Windfall

11. Sssshhhh … Chardonnay

12. Keys to My Future

13. Bouncing Baby Bullmastiff

14. Get Up, Lara Jo!

15. Hiking Boots Are for Hippies

16. Mt. Magnus

17. Princess Lara of Thalia Island

18. Maybe We Need a Moat Too?

19. It Means “Green” in Latin

20. Who Ordered the Oysters?

21. A Snitch in the Midst

22. The Glacier Cleaves

23. Brave New Friend

24. The List

25. Thalia Island, Melting Pot

26. Lunch Date

27. Osseous Discovery

28. Cave Art

29. Something Rotten

30. Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major

31. Please Be OK

32. Stormy Skies

33. The Patient Patient

34. Dea Vitae

35. Marked

36. Incendiary

37. Vertical Farm B

38. Wakey, Wakey

39. Town Hall Meeting

40. Japanese Whisky

41. Magic Wallet

42. Utmost Discretion

43. Three-Hour Tour

44. A Very Good Boy

45. Tiamat Mea Fortitudinem

46. Special Delivery

47. Escalation

48. Injustice

49. Bad Optics

50. Tit for Tat and All That

51. Underway

52. No One Says No to Dessert

53. Full Disclosure

54. Best Served Cold

55. Surprise!

56. Realization

57. How Do You Like These Pickles?

Acknowledgments

Planet Lara: Tempest

Planet Lara: Tempest

To My Dear Readers …

1. The Visitor

2. Lots to Do

3. Iceberg, Right Ahead

4. Doctor, It Hurts When I Do This

5. Faux Pas

6. Plus-One?

7. So Many Secrets

8. Fresh Meat

9. Momma Raccoon 1, Big Dog 0

10. I’m Fine. Everything’s Fine.

11. Deep Thoughts

12. Tragic Kingdom

13. Friends Without Benefits

14. Disclosure

15. Nice Tattoo

16. Mail Call

17. Precocious Little Thing

18. Daddy Issues

19. TGIF

20. Team Effort

21. May I Have This Dance?

22. A Tale of Woe

23. Would You Like to Play a Game?

24. An Unsettling Discovery

25. The Sanctuary

26. The Blue Room

27. Ghost from the Past

28. Bluster

29. By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin

30. Low Blow

31. That’s Gonna Leave a Mark

32. Travail

33. Best Wishes

34. Another Day, Another Circus

35. A Moment’s Peace

36. The Manor

37. Hale Storm

38. A Red Heist

39. Spill It, Number Two

40. Home Again

41. Repose

42. Empty Spaces

43. JRCCLC070792

44. Carrot Cake

45. More Secrets?

46. Dig Deeper

47. Extortion Is the New Black

48. Puzzle It Out

49. Snake in the Weeds

50. Red Sky in the Morning

Acknowledgments

Planet Lara: Sanctuary

Planet Lara: Sanctuary

Author Note

1. Arrhythmia

2. No Stone Unturned

3. A Very Good Boy

4. Be Careful What You Wish For

Day 2

5. A Society Friend

6. Dead-End Woods

7. Back Channels

8. Hollow Discovery

9. Hidden Treasure

10. Foreshocks

11. Harmonious

12. A Lead

13. Capitulation

Day 3

14. Intrusion

15. Surrealism

16. We Had a Deal

17. Bargaining Chip

Day 4

18. Acquiescence

19. Let’s Go

20. Mission Ready

21. Red Tide

Day 5

22. Gut Instinct

23. Out, Damned Spot

24. Hypoxia

25. In a World …

26. Forty-Eight Hours

27. Circle of Trust

28. Game Plan

29. Silicon Savior

30. Riddle Me This

31. Hello, Brother

32. Trust Issues

33. Like Magic, Only Bad

34. New Worries

35. 154.324 Pounds

36. Just a Mirage

37. Go Time

Day 6, Saturday

38. Extinction Is the Rule

39. Close Quarters

40. Relief

Day 7

41. Q & A

42. Safe and Sound

43. Quiet, At Last

44. Noir De Noir

45. Breathe the Foul Air

46. Fallout

47. Hemingway Sucks

One month later

48. Bittersweet

49. Chase Away the Shadows

50. Serenity

November 13

51. Good Trouble

52. Epilogue

December

Acknowledgments

About the Author

also by eliza gordon

Planet Lara series:

Welcome to Planet Lara(Book One)

Planet Lara: Tempest(Book Two)

Planet Lara: Sanctuary (Book Three)

The Revelation Cove series:

Must Love Otters(Book One)

Hollie Porter Builds a Raft(Book Two)

Love Just Clicks (Standalone, Book Three)

Hollie Porter’s Hat Trick Christmas (A Christmas novella)

Open Me First (A Valentine’s Day novella)

Hollie Porter Saves the Planet (A Revelation Cove - Planet Lara Earth Day crossover novella)

Standalone novels:

Dear Dwayne, With Love

I Love You, Luke Piewalker

Books written as Jennifer Sommersby (YA):

Sleight(Book One)

Scheme (US) / The Undoing (Canada)(Book Two)

Fish Out of Water

welcome to planet lara, book one

“There are … stipulations on your inheritance, Ms. Clarke.”

Lara J. Clarke is used to getting her own way. Motherless at ten and raised by her oft-absent eco-warrior/philanthropist grandfather, she lives the high life afforded by her seemingly bottomless trust fund—swanky downtown Vancouver loft, apartments and villas around the world just a chartered flight away, a passport overflowing with stamps from the chicest hot spots, a closet bursting with catwalk couture, and a spoiled B-list actor boyfriend whose interest in Lara is tied to her exclusive L’Inconnu wallet.

That is, until Grandfather Archibald sheds his mortal coil in a very public manner, and Lara’s privileged life is set adrift—and headed for a collision course with the gorgeous, private Thalia Island off the coast of British Columbia. According to the will, Lara will step into the role of Project Administrator, wherein she has one year to fulfill her late grandfather’s dream of a self-sustaining, eco-friendly, family-centered utopia.

The stakes are real: fail, and lose access to the family fortune—forever.

Convinced Thalia Island will be an extension of the heiress lifestyle she’s long led, Lara is surprised to find her new coworkers—and neighbors—aren’t as pliable as the underlings of her former life. Even with the hunky lead engineer Finan Rowleigh showing her the ropes, Lara quickly learns just how unprepared she is to trade her Louboutins for steel-toed Timberlands.

When a series of calamities reveals a sinister element undermining the security of the island and her residents, Lara and Finan must reach beyond their job descriptions to protect Archibald’s precious utopia from those who would do her harm.

And while keeping her late grandfather’s flame alight, Lara finds her own flame burning hot for a charming, kind man who wants nothing from her but her heart.

“All you have to do in life is be passionate and enthusiastic, and you will have a wonderful life.”

STEVE IRWIN

“You don’t have to drive an electric car or live off the grid to make a difference. Start small. Do what you can. And when you stumble, get up and try again.”

DR. ARCHIBALD MAGNUS CLARKE I

“Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception.”

CARL SAGAN

To Ann

A true warrior

land acknowledgment

I would like to acknowledge that I live and work on the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territory of the Coast Salish, Kwikwetlem,Tsleil-Waututh, S’ólh Téméxw (Stó:lō), and Qayqayt people. I am grateful for the privilege of living in this beautiful place.

join the raft!

Do you want to be the first to hear about new books, upcoming releases, exclusive sales, and/or life and publishing news? Then join the raft! I can also guarantee pictures of my very spoiled tuxedo cats and granddog, Pippin Took.

Sign up for Eliza’s occasional, not-at-all-annoying newsletter.

Welcome aboard. So glad to have you. Can you pass the Dungeness crab, please?

*In the wild, sea otters hold hands so they aren’t separated in the tides. These groups of floating otters are called rafts.

author note

Welcome to Planet Lara was written during the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020. The book does not address the pathogen, its myriad international responses, or the politics associated with such. If it’s going to bother you to read a book that does not include social distancing, mask wearing, canceled public events, shuttered businesses and schools, and vaccine protocols, don’t read on.

And please, please—don’t eviscerate authors in the reviews for not wanting to include this very new tragedy in our stories. An informal, rolling poll of readers and fellow writers over the last year has made it pretty clear that no one wants to read about COVID quite yet. Maybe by 2022, I’ll include it in storylines. But probably not.

There is a casual, could-be-COVID mention in Act II, but yeah … COVID-free book, fellow humans. Wash your hands. Thank a healthcare worker and the kid at the store who restocks the toilet paper. And now, more than ever, be kind.

xo,

Eliza

author note no. 2

Those of you who are already Eliza Gordon fans, a few morsels for thought:

1. This is not a romantic comedy. In the words of one early reader, “Welcome to a sexier, more mysterious and thrilling Eliza Gordon novel. Welcome to Planet Lara.” This series has a little of everything—funny moments, sure, but also family drama, intrigue, small-town life, dangerous secrets, a little mystery, some steamy romance … and an awesome dog. Of course.

2. This book ends in a mild cliffhanger. Don’t freak out—book two, Planet Lara: Tempest, is written and will be released later this summer. Book three is underway at the time of this writing!

3. There is an actual love scene in this book. I know! I blushed all the way through writing it! It’s probably a three out of five on the steam meter, and I don’t use any graphic language. I tried to follow in the hallowed footsteps of the romance authors I most admire and make my scenes romantic, loving, consensual, and delicious. It’s a departure from the fade-to-black in other Eliza books, but I think the characters deserved more. I hope you agree.

CHAPTERONE

dearly beloved

I don’t know why they have pickles on this table. My mom hates pickles. Hated. Past tense. I heard Rupert correct my grandfather when he mentioned my mother the other day—they were talking in Grandfather’s huge office lined with bookshelves and Louis XV Savonnerie carpets and giant windows the housekeepers complain about cleaning when they don’t know anyone’s listening, and Rupert referred to my mother in past tense. I wasn’t supposed to hear their conversation—that’s why the outside door was closed. When it’s closed, I’m not allowed in. But I’m very good at hearing things I’m not supposed to hear because, like that kid in my class who always smells like wet dog says, I’m so scrawny, he could stuff me into his rolling backpack and throw me into the ocean and no one would ever miss me.

I’d like to think that someone would miss me. Only now that we’re speaking of my mother in past tense, I guess that’s one less person who would wonder if I’m floating out to sea, trapped in a rolling backpack covered in dog hair. Also, I’d like to think my English teacher, Mrs. Buck, would be proud of me for understanding the difference between present and past tense, even if her nylons on her beefy thighs scrape together when she walks between our desks and the sound makes me shiver.

Like I was saying, I’m scrawny, so two days ago, I snuck into my grandfather’s office and tucked myself into the antique liquor cabinet—he doesn’t drink so the cabinet is empty and the perfect place for me to hide when I don’t want his bossy housekeeper to find me because her job is to vacuum and change sheets and make Grandfather’s special food but now she keeps trying to hug me and pet my hair and her boobs squish my face and I can’t breathe, so she thinks I’m crying about my dead mom, my mom who’s only alive in the past tense now, but I’m not crying about my dead mom. I haven’t cried yet. I think that makes me the worst kid ever.

Yeah—I mean, yes, since Rupert won’t allow me to say yeah—so I was in the cabinet and I heard Rupert say we needed to refer to my mother, Cordelia Josephine Clarke, in the past tense. “It will be easier for Lara if we don’t give her hope that her mother will be returning.” Rupert—I call him Number Two, like that character in Austin Powers, a movie I wasn’t supposed to watch but did anyway because one of the housekeepers invited me to her daughter Madi’s ninth-birthday sleepover because she felt bad for me that I never get to go to sleepovers. So I went, and Madi is basically my best friend now, but the housekeeper and her husband drink a lot of wine that comes in a box and they play their country music really loud. The biggest difference from the Number Two in the movie and Rupert Bishop is that Rupert doesn’t have an eye patch and he hardly ever laughs or smiles and even if he does smile, he’s like a hundred feet tall so I can’t even see up to his unsmiling face most of the time.

“They didn’t find a body, Rupert. They found the wrecked plane, but no Cordelia. What if she made it? What if someone in that god-awful jungle has her?”

Through the slats in the square cupboard door, I saw Number Two shake his head and look down at his shiny brown loafers. One of these days, I’m going to take a black marker and color the tops of his shoes so he can’t shine them anymore. I’m also going to cut off those stupid tassels and use them as fishing lures.

“Sir, this is the best course. Do not cancel the memorial. Plant the tree, give Lara some closure. Let her move on. She’s only ten. Still young enough to have a satisfactory life wherein her memories will fade, even in the face of this tragedy. It’s not as though she’s spent a lot of time with her mother anyway.”

My grandfather’s face hardened for a minute, that look he gives when he’s about to blow his top, his chin jutting and eyes narrowed.

“Pardon me, sir. I overstepped.” Rupert folded his hands behind his back. He’s not wrong, though. My mother hasn’t been around for a long time. She works a lot, or so she says. When she’s home, it’s all fun, fun, fun, like she’s trying to make up for the next time she leaves a note on my nightstand covered with Xs and Os and smiley faces and promises of trips to zoos and museums and amusement parks and my favorite ice cream shop when she gets home.

Rupert told me once that my mother’s first love was her airplane. And even though she named it Lara, after me, I have always known that Lara the plane was more important to my mom than Lara the human kid.

My grandfather, unlike me, has cried a lot since the men in black suits showed up a week ago and asked for a place to talk privately. Rupert’s comment has made my grandfather cry again. Maybe I will forget coloring his shoes and just drop them all—his entire collection of fancy, tasseled loafers—into the pond in the back with the koi.

Cordelia was my grandfather’s only daughter. His only child, actually.

I am his only granddaughter.

Archibald Magnus Clarke the First, and only, was almost an old man when Cordelia was born. Her mother left her behind, just like Cordelia left me behind.

I haven’t cried yet. Maybe I will later.

But there are pickles on this big stupid table, and Cordelia hated pickles. And everyone in the room—all these faces I’ve never seen before—are looking at me like they’re expecting me to burst into tears at any moment.

Instead, I pick up the plate of pickles of all varieties and whistle once with my fingers tucked into my lips like Madi taught me. Once I’m sure I’ve got the room’s undivided attention, I launch the plate overhand, anticipating the satisfaction that will come when the glass hits the de Gournay papered wall and shatters into a thousand pieces and stinky pickle juice seeps across the bamboo floor and into the fibers of the eighteenth-century Persian rug we’re not supposed to wear our shoes on.

Except at the same moment, this tall, lanky kid steps into the plate’s trajectory and the heavy crystal hits him instead with a dull crack!

Everyone in the spacious, light-filled room gasps. The kid, stunned, looks in my direction, big brown eyes wide, not quite sure what just happened. And then blood spills down the side of his head and he slumps to the floor into the pile of pickles and juice, followed by grown-ups freaking out and the big-boobed housekeeper barking orders at some other member of the house staff to get the first-aid kit and then Rupert’s bony but well-manicured hand is around my arm and he’s pulling me out of the solarium and forcing me down onto the soft, carpeted steps in the main foyer.

“What on earth possessed you to do that, young lady?”

I look up at him and am surprised when tears sting my eyeballs. I didn’t mean to hit that kid.

“My mother hates pickles. If any of you guys even knew her, you’d know she hates pickles.”

Past tense, Lara. Your mother hated pickles.

Rupert kneels, his joints cracking even though he’s not even that old.

A commotion behind us draws our attention. Two parents huddle around the tall boy who is again on his feet. They pause just long enough for me to look at the kid, a bloody cloth pressed against the left side of his head and face.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

He nods once, and they leave.

Then I start crying, and I don’t stop for a year.

CHAPTERTWO

cut the ribbon already

The cacophony pouring from the hastily constructed, oversized gazebo is the opposite of music. Maybe no one explained to Grandfather what marching bands are best at: marching. Instead, forty-odd adolescents, sweating under the hot lights in their full blue-and-white regalia, must rush out their Born to Run and Uptown Funk before they’re pushed off the stage, to be replaced with the real reason all these people are crowded into this shoreline park in their finest attire, their Jimmy Choos sinking into the sand, in front of a modest structure that promises the future is just inside its double glass doors.

A giant pair of silver scissors, cast from recycled car parts, sits on an equally giant velvet, bamboo-stuffed pillow atop a 3D-printed, biodegradable table made of cornstarch and wildflower seeds that will be left out in the inevitable spring rain to melt and blossom once the ceremony ends. The bold red ribbon stretched across the structure facade trembles at its proximity to the sharpened blades.

A trumpet misfires. The audio system roars with feedback. The impressive crowd groans and flinches. Dainty, bejeweled hands not holding champagne flutes cover delicate ears against the assault.

Thankfully, the song ends. Lukewarm applause plays the marching band off the gazebo, their noise replaced by the ambient serenade of whale song and falling rain pumped through the surround-sound speakers. It makes me need to pee.

“Canapé? It’s fresh, smoked wild Pacific salmon on artisan rye and topped with dill, all ingredients grown in one of Dr. Clarke’s self-sustaining vertical farms.”

“He grew the fish in one of his skyscrapers?”

The redheaded server looks confused. This information wasn’t included in the script his boss fed him before sending him out with a tray.

“I think the salmon came from the ocean?” His Adam’s apple bobs nervously. I should feel bad. Probably just a college kid trying to make tuition for next semester. Some people have to do that. He has no idea who I am. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s sweating.

“Allergic to salmon,” I lie. “But I will take more bubbly.” He nods and hurries away, forgetting to hand out his canapés to the buffed-and-polished deep pockets around me.

“Do not treat the staff like they’re below you, Lara. You never know how quickly life can change. You might need the charity of others someday.”

Grandfather’s voice in my head worsens the martini headache that’s already trying to push my eyeballs out of their sockets. I wish Canapé Boy would hurry up with that champagne.

I’m supposed to be backstage with Grandfather’s entourage to wave at his adoring crowd and field the accolades that his years of scientific achievement and dedication to the environment and sustainability have birthed. Just waiting for Rupert’s hail, at which time I will slide in behind the crowd. I tried to decline—Dr. Archibald M. Clarke I is a big boy. He doesn’t need me standing up there with him faking a smile while his offering plate is passed around. But Grandfather did say he thinks this will be his last public shindig, so I will obey, like a good little cyclone is supposed to.

My phone buzzes in my black clutch. It could be Connor texting to find me in the throng, although he wasn’t sure if he’d be wrapped in time to make it. Too bad. The Pacific Ocean looks beautiful from this very expensive patch of real estate. We could sneak off and get sand in our undies and hope that someone records it.

It’s not Connor.

Please join us.Rupert, a.k.a. Number Two, Grandfather’s steward, valet, assistant, his right-hand man in all things. Tall, pinched, British, and annoying.

Yes, sir.

He doesn’t respond. Rupert tolerates me only because he is paid to do so. The feeling is mutual.

I weave through the crowd, eyes seeing through everyone so no one stops me to ask for anything. Someone is always asking the Clarkes for something. And as I’m here solo tonight—my assistant, Olivia, had some other engagement, and Connor, well, who knows—I have no one to run interference.

The sky purples as the sun dips a toe behind the horizon. While it’s unseasonably warm for April in Vancouver, the breeze coming off the water will soon see bare-shouldered partygoers pulling on wraps and accepting tuxedo jackets from their dates.

Canapé Boy passes with a tray of champagne, and I slow my momentum to lighten his load by two flutes. The pampered, overdone blond next to me tries, and fails, to furrow her brow. “Do you need both of those?” she asks. She looks like she French-kissed a beehive.

I drink the first glass in one long pull, and then the second, never taking my eyes off her.

“Aaaahhhhh, Moët. Refreshing,” I say, handing the emptied glasses back to the sweating server.

“Bitch,” she growls.

I eye her augmented cleavage, one brow hiked dismissively. “Did you know the world’s oceans will have more plastic than fish by 2050?” I move on.

With the last body out of my way, I manage the four metal stairs, minding the hem of my dangerously short dress and hoping my calves look gorgeous in these Louboutin stilettos, to squeeze in behind the heavy green, rough-cotton drapery surrounding the stage. Grandfather stands in the center of his small crowd, like the nucleus of a comet, the source of all this light. I don’t like many people, but I adore my grandfather. And he knows it.

“Rupert,” I say, pushing in beside him.

“My Lara Jo is here,” Grandfather says, handing Rupert his custom, hand-carved cane so he can wrap his arms around me. The only hint that Archibald Clarke is ninety-four comes from his bent spine—and it’s only bent because he took a spill on his solar-powered bike in Toulouse on his eighty-eighth birthday, and the spine doc couldn’t do any better than the fusion that gave him the slight hunch. His brain is still sharp as a razor, his eyes as clear as a Caribbean lagoon.

Though there is the little issue of the dodgy pacemaker …

“Hey, old man, how are you tonight?”

He kisses the back of my hand and pinches my cheek. Same thing he’s done every day of my life. We remain with hands clasped—even though his is smaller and thinner than years past, I still feel safest when Archibald Clarke anchors me to shore—as Rupert and the stage manager whisper and nod about getting the next phase underway.

Number Two nods at us both, pats Grandfather’s shoulder, and steps out into the spotlight. The applause rolls over the audience, growing louder, punctuated with whoops and hollers.

“Showtime,” I mutter to Grandfather. He winks, winds my arm through his, and retakes his cane from one of the stage assistants. His face is a mask of friendly calm, and although I am used to eyes on me, this sort of occasion does make me nervous. I’m sure someone will find something to pick apart about my outfit or hair in time for WickedStepsister’s press deadline.

Rupert, center stage, unhooks and grasps the microphone like he’s going to bust into some Michael Bublé. I’m surprised Bublé isn’t here. He lives, like, a half hour away, the only person in the city who might be more famous and beloved than my grandfather.

With a raised, long-fingered hand most suited to piano scales and reprimands, Rupert calms the gathering. A few of his female admirers catcall from the area closest to the stage, followed by laughs. Joke’s on them. Rupert doesn’t have time for love and other nonsense, “and if I did, it wouldn’t involve vagina.”

His words, not mine, and only after an evening of Macallan “borrowed” from my teetotaler grandfather’s collection of gifts he’s never touched. It was one of three occasions in my life I remember Number Two behaving in a manner more akin to a real-live human than obedient robot.

“Welcome, everyone, to this glorious evening of celebration,” he starts. For approximately a million minutes, he extols the many virtues of my grandfather’s esteemed scientific career, his dedication to the people of Earth, his passion for sustainability, even when people have laughed him out of boardrooms for his crazy ideas, how he was Elon Musk before Elon was even a twinkle in his mother’s perfectly lined eye.

“But no one is laughing now, now that we stand on the brink of an unprecedented era, on the precipice of an irreversible tipping point. In answer, Dr. Clarke has gifted us with an invigorating new way to live sustainably and in harmony with Mother Nature and our fellow earthly cohabitants. Searching the stars for new homes is a fool’s errand, not when we have a beautiful home right here, crying for our help.”

I roll my eyes at Rupert’s melodrama and instantly regret it as a renewed surge of pain pings inside my dehydrated skull. I again promise myself I will never drink another martini as long as I live.

“You remember what I told you?” Grandfather leans over and asks under his minty breath.

“About what?”

“Everything.” He winks again. I kiss his cheek. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I don’t have time to ask for clarification.

“And now, without further ado, I would be so very honored if you would join me in welcoming everyone’s favorite eco-warrior, the son of Gaia herself, Dr. Archibald Magnus Clarke!”

More applause, more whoops. As we walk to center stage, I spy a woman in the front row with tears streaming down her face.

Archibald M. Clarke is happy to take the tall stool Rupert slides behind him. I help him onto it, holding his cane. Under the lights, he looks tired—I know he’s been working around the clock to maintain his myriad projects and make sure they’re all ready to be managed by his crack crew of experts once he “abandons this mortal coil.” He’s tried to rope me into helping, but I won’t hear of him leaving me, so no, Grandfather, leave me out of it and get back to work.

His speech continues on where Rupert’s left off. I stand next to him, his hand still clasped in mine, my obedient, grateful Clarke smile in place as he introduces me to his “friends.” I nod at the appropriate times, even if I’m mostly just scanning for the nearest champagne fountain. The crowd slurps up Grandfather’s words like that fresh, wild Pacific salmon still making its rounds.

“Enough about me,” Grandfather finally says, the onlookers oohing and aahing and clapping again. “Let us cut this ribbon and welcome our generous visitors to the presentation center for the Nature Tower, Vancouver’s first eco-cooperative, self-sustaining, family-friendly, mixed-use high-rise community!”

The Nature Tower. One of many ongoing Archibald Clarke projects—I cannot possibly keep them all straight, despite long discussions over our last-Sunday-of-the-month family dinners. And by family, I mean Grandfather, me, and Number Two. That’s it. We’re all that’s left of the Clarke clan, a dynasty started in Europe via textile manufacturing and railways during the early days of the Industrial Revolution and moved to America in the late 1800s to finance inventors and thinkers. The Clarkes are excellent with business, not so excellent with reproduction to secure the family’s lineage. Too busy thinking to make babies.

And Rupert isn’t even a blood relative. He’s just been with Archibald for so long, he’s become a remora, suction-cupped to my grandfather’s flank as they navigate the tempestuous waters of science and discovery.

Either way, I’m usually three sheets to the wind by the time they get heated about the number of hipsters and free-range chickens their high-rises will house.

Rupert steps in with the giant, shiny shears as my grandfather finally releases my sweaty hand. Archibald takes the scissors; the red ribbon before us has stilled. It has accepted its fate.

We begin the count. “Three! Two! One⁠—”

The scissors plunk noisily to the stage floor, followed immediately by my grandfather keeling face-first onto the red-carpet-covered plywood.

Everyone freezes, me included, the only sound the subtle recording of keening whales and steady rain floating from the speakers.

Followed in short order by shouts and yells that aren’t quite screams but probably could be. I drop to Grandfather’s side, turn him over, grab his hand, and pat his cheeks. “Open your eyes, Archie. Let me see you in there,” I demand.

He obliges, his blue eyes bright as the sunrise. “Take this,” he says, pointing to the sole piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen him wear. “My little cyclone.” He struggles to remove his thick white-gold-and-stone ring as the crowd crushes closer to the stage to see what the hell has just happened.

“Grandfather, keep your ring on. We’re going to get you some help.”

“I love you,” he says, and then his hands flop to his chest and his eyes fixate on something overhead, the light draining from them like an incandescent bulb whose filament has just flamed out.

“Grandfather … Archie!” I yell, patting his face harder, shaking his shoulders. “Wake up! Please wake up!”

Panicked assistants converge from offstage. Rupert pushes me aside to make way for the audience member who has rushed up the gazebo stairs and is initiating CPR …

I lean back on my haunches in my too-short evening dress and watch Rupert and this stranger bounce on my grandfather’s rib cage to attempt to restart the heart I know has finally given up. Memories of my mother’s wake flood into my head, what later became known as The Pickle Incident. Whatever happened to that kid … one of the few things I’ve done that I actually feel guilty about.

I wish I had something to throw right now.

“Lara, move!” Rupert barks as Grandfather is hoisted onto a stretcher. I hop back, numb, legs tingling from crouching, as my last remaining relative is carried behind that heavy green curtain, away from public view. He’s surrounded by so many people, I only catch a brief glimpse of his smiling but bluish face, glazed eyes staring into nothingness.

Another assistant appears next to me, her hand on my arm, her headset making her look like an alien or maybe an astronaut. “Ms. Clarke, Ms. Clarke, do you want to go in the ambulance?”

I look at her, see her mouth moving, but I’m underwater.

The red ribbon dances before us, happily untouched by those menacing, giant silver scissors now left forgotten on the stage.

Inches from the pointy toe of my shoe sits Grandfather’s ring. I bend to pick it up.

Slide it on my middle finger. The dark red stone stares up at me, confused.

It’s still warm.

CHAPTERTHREE

mushroom sauce

The earth has her mouth wide open, awaiting the arrival of Archibald Magnus Clarke I. And unlike the ribbon-cutting ceremony of ten days ago, today’s weather is more like a normal spring day in our fair coastal city.

Number Two offers his arm as we follow the pallbearers up the graveled path and through the lush, forested area on the back of my grandfather’s rolling estate. In true Archibald M. Clarke fashion, his final wishes eschewed the idea of a traditional cemetery, places he called “abominations of the modern age, the ground poisoned by the toxic chemicals from chemically embalmed corpses and overpriced boxes made of lethal varnishes, all in the name of vanity.” Even the idea of cremation got his ire up: one human body burned to ash emits about 250 pounds of carbon dioxide into the air.

Yes, good old Archie had some Opinions with a capital O.

Today, he’s in a plain wooden box, the wood harvested from a dead tree on this very property, untreated and held together with wooden screws and biscuit joints. My grandfather himself is dressed head to toe in a mushroom burial suit wherein the mushroom spores will eventually eat him and absorb the toxins released by his decomposing body, thereby soaking all his juicy juices into the soil and nourishing the green lawn and forest around him. Like Grandpa Soup for all the flourishing flora.

The idea of mushrooms, soup or otherwise, turns my stomach. The no-martini rule I swore to myself the night of the ribbon cutting lasted approximately four hours. Hey, my grandfather dropped dead in front of me and five hundred of his closest friends. I’m grieving. Martinis are good listeners.

“You’re green,” Number Two says.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a flask on you?”

He tightens his clench on my arm and shifts the umbrella against a gust. Guess that’s a no.

“Today of all days, Lara,” he scolds. “You couldn’t remain sober, even for this?”

“I am sober.”

Rupert is enough taller than I am, even in my heels, I don’t bother tilting my head to see the disappointment on his face.

Someone calls my name from behind. “Wait up!”

“He does know this is a funeral, not a game of dodgeball,” Rupert says. He never hides his disdain for Connor Mayson. Instead, he releases my arm and walks ahead, taking the umbrella with him.

“Hey, babe, yeah, sorry. I forgot the gate code.” Connor Mayson is a legend in his own mind. A model since thirteen—the earliest age deemed safe enough for Accutane to clean up the skin overlying that perfect bone structure—he transitioned into acting a few years ago when the modeling gigs started going to younger, fresher faces. He enjoys a bit of celebrity locally and never shies away from groupies of his one hit TV show, Super George, about an accountant who gets caught in a terrible storm and wakes up with X-Men-like powers, but between you and me, the show is terrible. Connor is hot, but he can’t act his way out of a paper bag.

And, as usual, he has his umbrella. “Do you know how much I pay to keep my hair looking like this?” is his most common refrain. Right after bragging about how much he paid for the umbrella at some swanky umbrella store downtown. And by he paid, he means I paid. Connor pays for nothing if he can help it.

“Is your grandfather in that box? He’s, like, super rich, and they’re burying him in that? Looks like someone nailed it together from an old Costco pallet.”

“No nails.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I don’t have the energy to explain the part about steel nails leaching into the soil as they disintegrate. Or something. Grandfather talked at length about his plans for his eternal sleep. I don’t think my bloodstream was entirely free of Grey Goose that day.

The night of the fundraiser, I rode in the ambulance with my dead grandfather, holding his ever-cooling hand during the short ride through downtown Vancouver, lights and sirens clearing our path. As soon as the ER doctor pronounced Archibald Magnus Clarke I assuredly deceased, I wandered out of the hospital exit, into the nearest bar.

Rupert had to pick me up at closing, pay the tab because I somehow lost my clutch, chastising and scolding me all the way to my loft.

He doesn’t know the conversation I had with Grandfather earlier that week, the one where I was actually sober, the one that involved him revealing he’d stopped taking his heart medication weeks ago, the one where he knew his time was coming—and he was ready for it. Rupert doesn’t need to know that I spent my last wonderful moments with Grandfather without an audience or a giant red ribbon. I’d like to think that good old Archie was having a hearty laugh (pun intended) while all those posh society types whispered, aghast, behind their 98 percent post-consumer recycled paper cocktail napkins while the well-intended frantically tried to coax his ticker back to life.

Connor’s voice is still annoying my ears as we reach the gaping maw. He shuts up when he sees the pallbearers, men hired from the funeral home who had to sign a formidable stack of nondisclosure agreements and were not allowed to bring phones to the burial site. They ease Grandfather onto the green straps that will lower him into the arms of his original and favorite lover.

About ten feet away, a man dressed in black with a colorful stole emerges from the cover of the trees. My throat instantly tightens with emotion. My grandfather was not a religious man, but he was very spiritual. The man approaching with the kind eyes and soft smile is Father Brooks—I don’t know if he’s an ordained minister or a priest or what—but he and my grandfather have been very close for the last twenty-five years, their debates about God versus Gaia versus Carl Sagan and his Cosmos often turning loud and always running late into the night, at least until Grandfather would pull out a nice bottle of sparkling water for himself and an expensive red for Father Brooks. That would calm things down.

When I was a young teenager, I wondered if perhaps Father Brooks was my grandfather’s boyfriend … I wished he were, so my grandfather wouldn’t be alone in his golden years, but no. Just two very good friends who knew each other better than the wrinkles on their own faces.

Father Brooks, surprisingly, I like very much.

“Lara,” he says as he stops in front of me. That’s it. The tears tumble down my face. Father Brooks hugs me and then offers a clean, starched white handkerchief from inside his black suit coat. I dab at the mascara threatening to streak my flawless foundation as Brooks solemnly greets Rupert.

“Hi, I’m Connor, Lara’s boyfriend.” He reaches out and pumps the father’s hand like he’s about to buy a used car. I jab Connor in the side.

Father Brooks returns his attention to me. “I’ll say a little about your granddad, and then if you have anything you want to add, I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”

I nod. I’m not saying anything in front of these men. Sure, if it were just me and Father Brooks having a chat with my dead grandfather, maybe. But it’s not. And showing any sign of weakness in front of Number Two or Connor is unwise. Even the tears are a risk.

We take our spots next to the hole in the ground. The pallbearers have made themselves scarce, though still within our sight line. This is good. If one of them dared to pull out any sort of recording device or snap a photo, I’d finally get to use the MMA moves I’ve been learning from my brutally overpriced trainer.

The wind picks up Father Brooks’s wispy, white hair for a beat before it floats back against his pink scalp. He takes a deep breath, relaxes his shoulders, and launches softly into his eulogy. He reminisces about funny moments between him and my grandfather over the years, how they met at a fundraiser for upgrading the turbines of California’s wind farms back in the ’90s, held by a Canadian clean-energy innovator; he speaks slowly and reverently about those hard years after my mother died and Archie was left as the sole caretaker for a distraught, precocious ten-year-old; and he details the pride my grandfather felt when he realized his dream of building Thalia Island, the private, eco-friendly utopia off the BC coast that has become the perfect marriage between nature and community.

“And although he was hard on you, Lara, he loved you. With every ounce of his heart.”

I nod and look at my grandfather’s rough casket through blurred eyes, twisting his ring around my middle finger. It’s too big, but I haven’t taken it off since the night he died. And I don’t care about the tears now. In an uncharacteristic moment of tenderness, Number Two squeezes my shoulder.

With a few final words, Father Brooks beckons the pallbearers back to lower Grandfather all the way into the ground so we can each toss a handful of soil as a final wish for his safe journey to wherever he’s going next.

“Babe …” Connor’s whisper intrudes. “I gotta go. I have an audition downtown in an hour—for a pit-wipe commercial—and I need to change out of this monkey suit into something less morbid.”

I stare at him, jaw clenched. He quickly kisses the side of my mouth and jogs away. My cheeks superheat—I cannot believe my so-called boyfriend just bailed on my only relative’s funeral to go to an audition for deodorant.

Rupert clears his throat, lips pursed, and hikes an eyebrow with such disgust, I’m afraid it will get stuck there. “Honestly, Lara …”

“Shut it.”

Father Brooks nods once at me—my cue to scoop up some soft, rich earth and drop it on my grandfather’s mushroomy bed. Rupert follows suit, kneeling with his head down for a full minute, sniffing back his own tears, before releasing his final goodbye. Father Brooks whispers his thanks to the pallbearers and then leads our procession of two back down the gravel path toward Clarke Manor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see something move in the trees.

I pause, the rain hitting my face as Rupert continues on with the umbrella.

“Lara?” he pauses and asks.

I squint and scan the wooded area, fists clenched, the cortisol readying for battle. If that’s the fucking paparazzi, I will feed them their cameras.

Nothing moves. The rain picks up.

“I thought I saw someone.”

Rupert wraps an arm around my shoulders. “No one would get past Humboldt.”

“He’d probably slobber them to death,” I say, my heart slowing at the thought of that ridiculous dog. Big bark, no bite, more saliva than a garden slug. “Shit, what are we going to do with him now?”

“We can talk about it later,” Rupert says, dropping his arm, as if he’s just expended his daily kindness quota. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“On a liquid diet, remember?”

He grunts and shakes his head once. There we go. The disappointment is back. That’s more like it.

We’ve reached the portico outside the double side doors that lead into the mudroom and fitness wing of the ultramodern, carbon-neutral mansion. Rupert closes his umbrella and keys in the code to open the door, but instead of following the two men inside, I offer my hand to Father Brooks.

“Thank you for being here for him. I know he appreciated it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He was my best friend,” Father Brooks says, his eyes watery.

I nod, visualizing myself as an ice queen so the tears are chased back to where they belong. “He was lucky to have your companionship all these years.”

“I’ll phone you day after tomorrow to finalize the meeting with your grandfather’s lawyers, for the will,” Rupert says. He bobs his head once and then disappears into the house. Humboldt barks from somewhere deep within. A relief—I won’t be attacked by an affectionate bullmastiff with no respect for boundaries. My assistant just had this skirt dry-cleaned from the last time it was slimed.

“Take care, Father Brooks.” I offer a tight smile and then go to move around him and toward my waiting car. His gentle hand on my arm stops me.

“You are not alone, Lara, even if it might seem like it.”

“Thank you, but it does, in fact, seem like it.” I reach on tiptoes and plant a quick kiss against his soft, jowly cheek, and hurry away before he has a chance to offer any more heartbreaking truths.

CHAPTERFOUR

fun time with lawyers

I’ve been in lawyers’ offices before. This one is no different. Dark paneling, shelves of law books, the western wall nothing but glass overlooking downtown and beyond, the line where the ocean sneaks in to kiss Vancouver’s shore. The table is so big, it’s laughable. I can’t even imagine how many attorneys work in this firm to require a table this excessive. It’s probably not even sourced from sustainable teak. How could Grandfather trust such a place with the handling of his estate? At least it looks clean with its near-blinding, polished shine.

The cup of tea sitting before me steams on its saucer. I hate Earl Grey—my stomach is already a bit unsteady and sloshy—but the pretty young assistant didn’t have ginger or peppermint, so I get what I get, especially since my own assistant, Olivia, seems to have fallen off the grid. She was supposed to arrange a car and be here for this—that is what I pay her for, after all, but apparently, she is “sick” and “doesn’t want to spread her germs.”

I’m not heartless, but the last time Olivia was “sick,” it was from a bad reaction to Botox. She couldn’t smile for three weeks, but I don’t need her to smile to manage my affairs.

Finally, the door opens and Rupert sashays in, a black, cactus-leather portfolio tucked under one arm. He’s followed in short order by two other people, a man and a woman, both dressed in professional navy suits with white shirts and only minimal splashes of color, both at least in their forties. Add some dark glasses and they could be second string for the Matrix agents.

Rupert slides into the high-backed, wheeled chair to my left and offers a tight smile of hello.

“Ms. Clarke, thank you for being here today,” the woman says as she sits at the head of the table. “I’m Heather Smithe and this is my colleague, Arthur Leyton. First, let me express our deepest condolences for the loss of your grandfather. He was truly an incredible man who did so much for everyone he knew, and I’m confident his legacy will live on through you.”

I nod, barely able to swallow. I’m not really legacy material, Ms. Smithe, but thanks.

“As you know, we are here today to read your Grandfather’s last will and testament, as well as discuss the finer points of his legacy plan as it pertains to you and Mr. Bishop.” She bobs her head politely toward Rupert. I’ve called him Number Two for so long, I forgot he even had a last name. “If, at any point, you have questions, do feel free to stop and ask. Also—” Heather Smithe stops talking, makes eye contact with the young, tea-bearing assistant from earlier who has quietly reappeared, and with only a single gesture from her boss, the young woman hustles over and opens a drawer in an imposing side cupboard that matches the monstrous conference table. From it she withdraws a legal pad and pen and quickly deposits both in front of me. “In case you would like to take notes, Ms. Clarke.”

The young assistant slinks away again. Five bucks says that in order to work here, you must pass a test to prove how quietly you can move through a gauntlet of legal journals and overfull coffee cups.

Heather Smithe and Arthur Leyton tag-team to explain my grandfather’s many accomplishments, as well as the money he smartly invested over the duration of his life. As a result, his estate is worth a substantial sum—substantial, as in equivalent to the GDP of Iceland—which is ironic since he often touted Iceland as a superb example of a country harnessing its natural resources (volcanoes) responsibly and sustainably.

“As you know, Dr. Clarke had a number of projects in development at the time of his death, and work will continue on these projects as supported by Clarke Innovations and the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation, overseen by his board of directors, which includes myself, Mr. Bishop, and four other members handpicked by your grandfather over the last decade. It’s a solid team dedicated to maintaining the integrity of Dr. Clarke’s lifelong vision.”

My eyelids feel heavy. I wish I could speed this along and get to the part where they tell me what Grandfather left me with so I can get a drink in this building’s swanky penthouse bar. Instead, I pick up my pen and doodle circles and poorly rendered sunflowers to make it look like I’m taking notes. Anything to distract me from the reality that Grandfather is dead and mushroom spores are eating what’s left of him at this very moment.

“With regard to Thalia Island, your grandfather’s wish to welcome residents and continue forward with this groundbreaking experiment is still on track.” Heather Smithe stops speaking long enough to take a drink from her own teacup and then exchange glances with Arthur Leyton and Rupert. She clears her throat. “Your portion of Archibald’s estate is a worthy sum, of course. You were among his favorite people, as you know, and you are his sole surviving heir.” Heather smiles. She has lipstick on her teeth.

She opens yet another folder and slides a paper across the table to me. I pick it up, my eyes swimming in the legalese as I scan for a dollar amount. I know this makes me sound like an asshole, but Grandfather likes his jokes—it was one thing he and I shared, the back-and-forth of trying to outdo one another—but I’m not in the mood for a chuckle right now. I just need to know what my life is going to look like now that he’s gone.

“I’m sorry, can you translate this for me?”

Heather Smithe clears her throat again. She’d better not be coming down with something she’ll share with me. Connor and I have Paris plans coming up. “Your portion of the inheritance includes interest in several of his ecological funds and initiatives, as well as majority ownership of Thalia Island.”

I sit up a little straighter. “Okayyyy … that’s odd, since I’ve never been there.” I click the ballpoint of my pen closed and set it down on the legal pad. “I’m sorry for seeming crass, but what I really need to know is if he’s left me with a stipend or monthly dollar amount⁠—”

“Of course, he has,” Rupert interrupts.

“There are, however, stipulations on your inheritance, Ms. Clarke,” Arthur Leyton says, folding his hands on the shiny tabletop. He points at the document sitting in front of me. “In order for you to access the funds and privileges left behind by Archibald, you will be required to move to and oversee the operations on Thalia Island.”

The only sound in the room is the subtle whirr of an overhead vent.

“I’m sorry—what does that mean? I have a loft, a home here in Vancouver, plus our place in Zurich, the house in Copenhagen, the estate outside of London. I can’t just move to some random island.”

Arthur Leyton scoops up the stack of papers in front of him and affixes his reading glasses to the end of his bulbous nose once again. “In your grandfather’s own words: ‘My granddaughter, Lara Josephine Clarke, will assume the role of Project Administrator for Thalia Island under the joint umbrella of the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation and Clarke Innovations, wherein her duties will include (but not be limited to) overseeing the administration of the town council (until such time as elections are suitable and appropriate), establishment of residents, assignation of community roles including emergency services, fiscal management, and promotion of approved small businesses within the town, monitoring and managing the island’s unique ecological footprint and organic farming output in tandem with the skilled staff already living on the island at the time of my death, as well as the furthered commitment to making the utopia of Thalia Island an example of sustainability, community, and cooperative living for the rest of Canada, and the world.’

“‘Lara will have the period of one year from the date of execution of my last will and testament to complete the tasks listed in Schedule A (attached) and usher Thalia Island into her second year of successful operation. If Lara is unable to complete the tasks as delineated in Schedule A, she will be removed from her position and residence on Thalia Island and granted a yearly sum of $30,000 CAD to cover living necessities, in perpetuity, with all additional interests and investments redirected to the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation.’”

Arthur Leyton sets the pages back onto the table in front of him and removes his reading glasses before looking directly at me.

I scan their faces—all three of them—for evidence that this is a joke.

No one looks like they’re about to burst into giggles. In fact, no one looks much like anything except deadly serious.

What.

The.

Fuck.

My arm sweeps the tabletop, sending the legal pad, pen, and now-cold tea spinning across the room where it all slams into the long teak side cabinet. The cup breaks, Earl Grey soaking into my stupid doodles and the carpet underneath.

I stand and straighten my skirt. “You are insane. All of you.” I turn face-on to Rupert, who looks exhausted and thin in his tailored suit. “And you—you engineered this so you could scoop up this big pot of gold for yourself, didn’t you, you conniving, posh bastard.”

“Lara, please, sit down. No need for another of your outbursts,” Rupert says.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Rupert stands abruptly. “You have an opportunity here to prove to your grandfather that you’re not the spoiled brat—with obvious anger issues—we’ve all come to know over the last decade.”

“Ha!” I spin and stomp away from him, as well as I can stomp in four-inch Louboutins.

“Where are you going? The meeting isn’t finished, Lara,” Rupert commands.

Shit. My purse. I stomp back over to my abandoned spot at the table and grab my purse from my chair. “Meeting’s finished for me. Enjoy all your damn money, you weasel.”

I storm toward the mammoth door, past the wide-eyed assistant who has already scurried over like a Roomba to clean up my mess. I yank on the handle, bracing to pull it open. “This goddamn door is a fire hazard!” Once it’s propped against my body, the noise from the outside offices pauses as everyone within earshot stops what they’re doing to look at me.

I pivot to face the morons still at the conference room table, the ridiculously heavy door trying to push me out of the way as my slippery-bottomed shoes refuse to grab onto the carpet. “I’ll get my own team of greasy lawyers and prove that you’re all out of your minds. My grandfather would die all over again if he saw the shady, underhanded malfeasance going on in this third-rate shark shack in⁠—”

The door wins. It pushes me out into the hallway and closes with a final heavy click. All the workers in their perfect little suits with their little phones against their stupid ears and the stupid papers in their hands and the fume-spewing copy machine lids open—they’re all staring at me.

Just for the hell of it, I grab a potted plant off the top of one of the wooden filing cabinets and tuck it under my arm. “I’m taking this. You people can’t be trusted to care for a plant, not after what you’ve done to my grandfather’s estate. Deduct it from my thirty grand a year!”

CHAPTERFIVE

chlorophytum comosum

I power walk as quickly as my tight skirt will allow toward reception, the long, skinny leaves of my new plant bouncing frantically with every step. I’m glad when some other suckerfish opens the glass double doors for me to exit the office suite. I’m furious enough that I might break those too—and enjoy it.

This building has an elevator attendant. Like we’re in some New York City high-rise. As if.

“Ma’am?” he asks.

“Do I LOOK like a ma’am to you?”

He even has the white gloves. “Miss?”

“Exactly,” I say. The doors ding closed, but we don’t move. He’s waiting for me to give him a floor number. “The penthouse bar. Now.”

“Um, ma—I mean, miss, the penthouse was bought and converted last year. It’s a private residence now.”

“Probably one of those snakes sitting at the conference table,” I mumble.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing,” I growl. “Ground floor, then.”

He pushes the L button. I’ll go to The Lobby Lounge at the Fairmont. They never let me down.

He stares at me for a beat too long.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No, miss. I mean, will you be needing a cab or car service?”

“Of course,” I say, my return stare pointed.

As soon as the car stops and the doors open, the attendant scurries across the lobby and mutters something to the huge Black dude sitting behind the security desk. He lifts an eyebrow at me but then stands, walks around the counter, and meets me just as Elevator Kid nods and hurries back to push the buttons in his box.

“A car?”

“Yes, ma’am, right this way.” He emphasizes the ma’am as he holds out a hand to direct me toward the building’s front doors.

The click-click-click of my heels echoes around the monolithic, sterile lobby.