Melinda Curtis - Kissed By The Country Doc

When Ella had told Bryce she was pregnant, he hadn’t blinked. He’d dropped to one knee, professed his love and enthusiastically asked her to marry him, as if her unplanned pregnancy was the best news in the world. A weekend trip to Vegas, and they were married, much to the chagrin of the family. But in time, Ella had won them over. She’d won them over before Bryce had died in a car accident a month before Penny was born.

The memory put an ache in her chest.

Ella was a Monroe now. It said so on her driver’s license. No one could take this family away from her. She was expected at holidays and birthdays and any old day. She was included on trips to the family lake house and family business updates. She was a Monroe.

She. Was. Family.

So why had Ian’s expression shaken her?

Because for fifteen years I had no family.

On their way back down the wide hall, with the Spanx now stuffed into the diaper bag, Ella and Penny stopped at a section of the wall devoted to memorializing the dearly departed Monroes. There were Grandpa Harlan’s parents in 1950s faded photographs, Cousin Carl, who died storming Omaha Beach, Harlan’s four wives—the actress, the pilot, the politician and the oil heiress—and, of course, Bryce.

Ella’s heart hitched when she looked at her husband, at brown hair so dark it was almost black, at friendly bright green eyes, not to mention the smile he’d passed on to their daughter.

“Blow Daddy a kiss,” Ella told Penny.

Together, they sent air kisses toward Bryce’s handsome, worry-free face.

And then Penny wriggled free, running on her short sturdy legs toward the grand marble foyer outside the dining room. She wore a black dress with a white sash and her thin blond curls bobbed as she made her escape, clutching what looked like Ella’s black Spanx in her small fist. She ran in circles around the plush red-and-black carpet, waving the Spanx like a flag.

“Mr. Quinby—” Ian’s voice drifted from the dining room “—we have no need of Ella. Please proceed.”

No need of Ella?

She wanted to protest, to charge inside and shout: But I’m a Monroe.

But... Was she?

Weak-kneed with doubt, Ella sank into an antique chair that was stiffer than her father-in-law’s voice, a chair where she could watch the proceedings like the outsider she was.

At least she’d been asked to attend. Other partners and spouses were barred from the reading.

“And now for Harlan Monroe’s personal message and family bequests.” Mr. Quinby tugged his tie, cleared his throat and cast a sideways glance toward the much younger lawyer behind him. He lifted a sheet of paper with hands that shook. “I’m going to read a letter from the deceased. One that was written over two years ago, notarized and kept with his will. He wrote...”

Two years... Could this have anything to do with Ella falling in love with Bryce? The timing couldn’t be a coincidence.

The old lawyer sucked in thready amounts of air. “‘If you’re hearing this, then I am dead. And if you want an inheritance, you’ll have to listen to my lawyer without any back talk.’” Mr. Quinby did a quick visual survey of his audience.

He was anxious for good reason. The Monroes were an expressive, explosive bunch. But this time, there were no outbursts, no questions, no challenges. Or, as Grandpa Harlan put it, no back talk.

The old lawyer heaved a sigh of relief and resumed his oratory. “‘I was born into a home with nothing but love. I was raised in hand-me-downs and nourished by leftovers. I played unsupervised and ran barefoot until it was too dark to catch a baseball or to fish. Those humble beginnings gave me an appreciation for life, a drive to succeed and, most importantly, a love of my fellow man. I was unable to give the latter to my children. It’s my fault my sons consider themselves superior to others, that they consider their wealth a form of entitlement.’”

That was Grandpa Harlan, calling a diamond-studded spade a diamond-studded spade.

“You, my girl, have gumption,” he’d told Ella the first time he’d met her as he’d grabbed onto her hand from his wheelchair. “Don’t let the Monroes take that away from you. You’ve got to greet every day with a happy song.” He’d given her hand a squeeze and then raised his arms in the air and goofed, “Are you ready, Hezzie?” It was a favorite line of his that had been popular when he was a young man. And then he’d burst into song, uncaring of his surroundings or the audience.

Grandpa Harlan hadn’t had a pretentious or self-conscious bone in his body.

Penny did a slow-motion, near-silent fall to her rump on the plush carpet, and then lay down on her back and pretended to make a snow angel. One hand still clutching black Spanx. She turned her sweet face toward Ella and whispered, “Mom. Mom. Mom.”

How could Ella worry about anything with a daughter like that? And yet, how could she not? She had no family apart from the Monroes. Without them, who would Penny have if anything happened to Ella?

Ella peeked in the dining room, her gaze connecting with Ian’s. Her father-in-law gave her that farewell look once more. It roiled the artichoke quiche in her stomach.

“‘I made my first fortune in Texas oil before I ever married,’” the lawyer went on. “‘I was also a lucky man who found love four times over. My wives were drawn to my sense of adventure and my charm.’”

Someone chuckled. Grandpa Harlan was a straight-shooter with a good heart, but he forgot to mention he had a wandering eye.

“‘My four sons were raised in the lap of luxury, never worrying about having a roof over their heads, where their next meal would come from, or how to pay for their college education.’”

So true. Those four millionaires had never balanced the need for rent money against the cost of a new pair of shoes.

“Hep.” Penny struggled to sit up—the Spanx was pulled over her head like a stocking cap half covering a bank robber’s face. “Mom, hep.”

Ella reclaimed possession of her undergarment and then her seat outside the dining room, hoping she hadn’t been noticed. Thankfully, all attention was being given to the lawyer reading Grandpa Harlan’s letter.

Freed, Penny lay back down and began to sing a soft, wordless song, while she made another snow angel in the carpet.

“‘My four sons...’” Mr. Quinby cleared his throat, nervous once more, perhaps because he was delivering Harlan’s barbs without cover against return fire. “‘My four sons are too old to unlearn the privilege of the silver spoon, too busy to enjoy the priceless beauty of a mountain sunrise, too calloused to appreciate the comfort that comes from loyalty, or the joy that love for love’s sake can bring.’”

“Beautiful,” Ella murmured.

Maybe he wrote that after Bryce and I fell in love.

“‘To those coldhearted fools, I leave the Monroe Holding Corporation and all its entities on one condition.’”

Everyone leaned forward in their seats, even Ella.

“‘As for my grandchildren...’” The elderly lawyer ran a finger beneath his collar.

“Wait,” Holden, the oldest grandchild, said. He managed the Monroe assets. “What condition?”

“I’m getting to that,” Mr. Quinby said defensively. He rattled the letter. “It’s right here.” And then he spent a moment trying to find his place. “‘As for my grandchildren, there is hope for their moral fiber. But only if they break free of the influence of my four failures and learn there is more to life than the bottom line. Therefore, for the good of my grandchildren, as a condition of their inheritance, my sons will immediately fire said grandchildren and terminate their contracts with any and all entities under the ownership of the Monroe Holding Corporation. Also, it is my further stipulation that within the next thirty days, my grandchildren will vacate all residences, homes, apartments and penthouses that are owned by the Monroe Holding Corporation.’”