“They’re not going to Virginia,” Martha interjected. “Becauseyou’renot going to Virginia. You can’t leave Meridian, Ella. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re obviously letting,” Martha waved her hand toward Maverick, “himinfluence you.”
Ella couldn’t hold her tongue a second longer, and before she knew it, the things she only ever said in her head were flying out of her mouth. “That’s rich, coming from you,” she spat. “You can’t turn around twice without Elijah’s consent. You want to talk about fucking influence?”
Martha’s eyes widened in shock, probably because Ella had never spoken to her with such venom. “I?—”
“Just so you know, Martha,no, I’m not being influenced, at least not by anything other than my heart.”
Maverick’s thumb brushed the top of her hand, silent encouragement to keep going.
“I’m an adult, and perfectly capable of making my own decisions about how I choose to live my life. Maverick makes me happy, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“But this is your home,” Mom insisted. “Meridian is home.”
Ella shook her head. “No. It’syourhome, Mom. I was always happier in Gracemont.”
“So, you came to your senses,” Dad said, and it occurred to Ella that he’d been surprisingly quiet, especially considering she’d just let the F word fly. “You realized you were in the wrong.”
Ella frowned, confused. “I was in the wrong?”
“About the house,” he replied, like she was six eggs short of a dozen. “You realized you have no right to it.”
Ella rolled her eyes—and her father’s face turned ruddy. He absolutelyhatedit when she rolled her eyes. “Gigi left the house to me.”
Dad scowled. “And you’re moving out,” he retorted, as if that somehow signaled her throwing up the white flag of surrender.
“I’m selling it. There’s a real estate agent coming tomorrow.”
“What do you mean,you’reselling it?!” Dad shouted so loud, Ella suspected even Mrs. Cole next door, who was nearly deaf, must’ve heard him.
Everett, bless him, stepped out of the kitchen at the sound, he and Maverick both moving so that they flanked her. They were twin pillars, standing sentry with their muscular arms crossed, daring Dad to make one wrong move. She’d never felt so truly safe and protected.
“It was Gigi’s idea,” Ella continued. “She was the one who told me to sell the house and use the money to start my life over somewhere else.”
“But it’s been six months and the estate is settled. That means the house is yours. You don’t have to do anything your grandmother said. It’s time for you to make things right!” Dad barked.
That was when a light went on.
Six months.
Martha and Mom hadn’t contacted her until six months had elapsed.
“You told them to call me, didn’t you?” Ella asked her dad…even though she was looking at her mother and sister.
“The church’s lawyer said you can do whatever you want with the house now. You don’t have to do anything your grandmother—yoursenilegrandmother—wanted. That hateful woman always had it out for me. I’m your father, and it’s time you started listening to me, time you gave yourself over to God.”
“You waited until the estate was settled, thinking they could convince me to give the house to Mom,” Ella said quietly, pieces she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge snapping together perfectly. She’d stupidly let herself hope that Mom and Martha were reaching out because they’d actually missed her.
“Haven’t you made enough money from that pornography you write?” Dad sneered. “Why not let the church use the money from the sale of this house to do something good?”
Ella scoffed. “Nothing that church does isgood. And let’s face it. You’re not giving the church the house because of what they do. You’re giving it to them so you can look like a big shot.”
Dad was a textbook case of short man syndrome, the Napoleon complex running strong through his veins. She’d gotten her height from Pop, according to Gigi. Her grandmother was convinced Dad’s animosity toward Ella got worse when she hit her growth spurt and was suddenly two inches taller than her father.
She’d known the moment he showed up with the pastor on Gigi’s porch, following her death, that his “donation” was a self-serving act that had nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with his ego.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “That money belongs to God!” he yelled.
Ella couldn’t help it. She laughed. Which was the wrong thing to do, because as much as Dad hated eye rolling, he hated to be laughed at even more.