Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

God, I wanted to scream in her face.

I didn’t.

I sat in a chair, Remy perched on the arm of it, and I pointed out the obvious.

“We’re all here, Colette.”

“Yes,” she said instantly. “And we’ll start with you.”

She picked up a somewhat wide, definitely long rectangular, jeweler-sized box wrapped in linen-colored paper and tied with a strip of a champagne satin. In the exorbitant bow were two perfect ivory roses.

I’d seen a lot of jewelry boxes in my time, but none that unique shape.

She held it out to me.

Remy got off the arm of my chair in order to fetch it.

He handed it to me, resumed his seat, and I saw the roses were real.

I unwrapped the parcel.

Inside was an ivory velvet box, and when I opened it, I saw a long strand of pearls resting in a cloud of alabaster silk.

“Those are my five times great grandmother’s pearls,” she proclaimed grandly.

Dear God.

She’d given me slave pearls.

I felt bile race up my throat as I stared at the necklace in horror.

“Every first Cormier woman has owned those pearls for the last one hundred and eighty-five years,” she went on.

I swallowed difficultly, lifted my head, and croaked, “Thank you.”

Sadly, it sounded not only sickened, but like a question.

Colette’s brows drew together in confusion.

She powered through that and stated, “I hope you one day give them to Manon.”

Pearls were not the most expensive luxury jewel you could buy, except these looked perfect. They shone because they’d been well cared for. Each pearl appeared perfectly matched to the others. The strand was very long, and the unnecessary clasp was extravagant and encrusted with diamonds, the better to show it off.

I’d gauge, depending on who made them, and the quality and carats of the diamonds, they were worth anywhere from $20,000 to $35,000. Maybe more.

I would, indeed, one day very soon give them to Manon.

And then she could decide what to do with them.

“I…this is so generous of you, Colette. Thank you again.”

She dipped her chin to me, looked to her side, and put her hand on a wide, rectangular box that was so tall, it was resting on a slant from the floor against the couch.

“This is for you, Sabre.”

It had no roses, and because genders had colors apparently, the satin ribbon was black.

He opened it, and when he glanced at what was inside, his expression was my feeling of five minutes before.

“That’s your five times great grandfather’s cavalry saber,” she explained. “A saber for Sabre,” she ended on a quip.

I looked to Guillaume, who was standing behind the couch, off to the side, not close, but also not far from Colette.

His lips were thin, and he was studying his wife with an expression I’d never seen him give her.

Distaste.

I was wrong.

This wasn’t a swan song.

She was punishing us.

“You’re giving me a Confederate sword?” Sabre asked, openly insulted.

“Sah, just take it,” Manon murmured.

He ignored his sister.

“You know I’m a Yankee,” he told his grandmother.

A hysterical giggle nearly escaped my mouth.

“I believe at the time Arizona was in the hands of the Spanish,” Colette said, also openly insulted.

“I believe at this time being a Yankee is the state of an educated mind,” Sabre fired back.

I pressed my lips together, doing it so I wouldn’t let out a whoop.

“You cannot escape the fact you have Cormier blood,” Colette snapped.

“Whatever. I can’t take this on a plane,” Sabre replied.

Guillaume entered the burgeoning fray smoothly, stating, “I’ll keep it safe for you. Now, Colette, if you would carry on. They need to be up early, and it’s late for you.”

“I’m not certain I want to carry on,” Colette retorted. “I’m handing them their legacy. It doesn’t matter who lost that war. It still holds value, and it’s part of this family’s history. That saber is in pristine condition. It’s worth thousands of dollars.”

Sabre opened his mouth.

“Son,” Remy said.

Sabre closed his mouth.

But he didn’t reopen it to thank his grandmother.

She waited, which meant we all waited.

But my firstborn said nothing.

Colette sighed with irritation and turned to the seat beside her.

She held out a box wrapped like mine toward Manon. It was much smaller and only had one sweetheart rose.

“This isn’t tainted,” she spat.

Manon took it, opened it, and I could hear her swift intake of breath.

“Those are the earrings your grandfather gave me on our honeymoon. They’re diamonds, radiant cut, nine carats total,” she pronounced.

Now I understood Manon’s breath. We’d all seen Colette wear those earrings over the years, and we’d seen it often.

We also knew she didn’t wear them because they were magnificent (and they were), but because Guillaume had given them to her in the first blush of love and marriage.

Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t punishing us. Maybe she felt this stuff genuinely had nostalgic family value, not to mention monetary value (even that saber), and she was trying to show she cared for us in her inept way.