Chapter 6 - The Magnolia Blooms
Six months later, the Georgia heat had finally broken, leaving behind a crisp, breezy autumn.
I stood on the back porch of Magnolia Hall, wrapping a cashmere shawl around my shoulders. The estate had never looked more beautiful. The two hundred acres of moss-draped pecans were bursting with life, and the catering pavilion was booked solid for the next three years.
“Nora, darling!” Aunt Ruth called out from the kitchen. “The peach preserves are boiling over, and Helen is on the phone!”
I smiled, walking back into the warm, cinnamon-scented kitchen. Ruth was standing at the stove, looking vibrant and entirely in her element.
I picked up the landline. “Helen, tell me good news.”
“The best,” our attorney chirped through the receiver. “The judge just handed down the sentence. Between the attempted murder charge and the federal wire fraud, Clayton got twenty-five years without the possibility of parole. Serena got eight. And the civil suit just finalized. You and Ruth own the riverfront penthouse now.”
“Sell it,” I said without hesitation. “Donate the proceeds to the county’s domestic violence shelter.”
“Done,” Helen said warmly. “You did it, Nora.”
I hung up the phone and walked over to the kitchen desk. The spot where Clayton used to leave his leather briefcase was now occupied by a vase of fresh-cut magnolias and a stack of legitimate, wildly profitable ledgers.
I ran my finger over my lower lip. There was a tiny, barely visible scar there now. A reminder.
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Men like Clayton always made the same mistake. They saw a woman’s silence and mistook it for submission. They saw Southern hospitality and mistook it for weakness.
I closed the ledger, the books perfectly balanced, and went to help my aunt with the peaches. Magnolia Hall belonged to the women who bled for it. And we were never letting it go again.
