The Will

Arrivals II

Dally POV - Arrivals II

The invitation had told me to be at the main house by six.

At five forty-five, I was still pulling weeds from the flower beds by the front steps.

Some habits die hard.

Mom always said first impressions started before people even got out of their cars.

The flower beds closest to the house mattered most.

I worked a dandelion loose from the soil and tossed it into the bucket beside me.

The evening air smelled like fresh-cut grass and roses. My roses. Well, hers first. Mine now.

The mansion loomed above me, all stone and ivy and old money.

Beautiful.

Cold.

Like a church built for people who worshiped themselves.

The crunch of tires on gravel made me look up.

A black sedan rolled into the circular drive.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Tailored suit. Perfect teeth. The kind of guy who looked expensive.

Gunnar Hastings.

I'd met him a few times over the years.

Hard not to remember somebody like him.

Football star. Fast-track executive. Mr. Ashwood's favorite success story to date.

Mom used to call people like him encantadores.

Charming, but dangerous if you weren't paying attention.

He adjusted his tie, looked around the estate, then headed toward the steps like he owned the place.

His eyes landed on me.

Recognition flashed across his face. Not real recognition, though.

The kind people fake when they know they've seen you before but can't remember where.

Probably because people like me all blurred together after a while.

Groundskeeper, maintenance guy, delivery driver.

Background scenery.

"Hey."

I stood slowly, wiping dirt from my hands onto my jeans. "Mr. Hastings."

Right away, I could see it in his eyes. He had no clue who I was.

"Good to see you," he said.

Bullshit. He couldn't even remember my name.

His smile was too practiced. Too polished. Like he'd spent his whole life learning exactly what expression people wanted from him. He pulled an envelope from his jacket.

Cream-colored. Gold embossing. Red wax seal.

My stomach tightened.

So he'd gotten one too.

Interesting.

"What do you think this is?" he asked.

No hello. No how've you been.

Straight to business. Corporate guys always acted like conversations were meetings, and theirs were the most important.

"Don't know."

His smile tightened a little.

"No one else here yet?"

"Nope."

He checked his watch.

I tried not to roll my eyes.

The guy looked like he'd shown up early just so everyone would know he was the kind of person who showed up early.

Mr. Ashwood loved that punctuality crap.

"Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable," his words rang in my head.

As if everybody had assistants and corner offices. As if some of us didn't spend our mornings hauling mulch.

"You know," he said, "if this is some kind of promotion thing, you probably shouldn't look so miserable."

Promotion. I almost laughed. For what? Most improved gardener? What's the prize? A fifty-cent raise and a handshake?

"Cabrón." The word slipped out under my breath.

"What?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

He kept smiling. People like him always smiled. Like life had personally apologized for inconveniencing them.

I slid the pruning shears into the holster on my belt. The front steps needed to be swept before six.

The last thing I wanted was to stand around making small talk with Mr. Hastings while he tried to remember my name.

"Guess we'll see."

I bent to pick up my bucket and headed toward the side entrance. As I walked away, I could feel him watching me. Probably still trying to place my face.

Good f*****g luck with that.

Gunnar Hastings was the kind of guy Mr. Ashwood collected.

The rest of us just kept the place running for them.