Chapter 33

“Actually, this piece of paper says I am.”

“It’s not fair. I hate this place, and I hate you,” she shrieked before stomping off to her room and slamming the door, leaving Jade to clean up the wilted remains of a cold meal.

That night, tossing in his bed, he listened to her muffled sobs.

I could weep, too, Belle, he said to himself. But not tonight. 16

Like a recovering addict, Jade told himself each day that he wouldn’t succumb. He’d wait for yet another day to drink from the cup of grief. Mornings, he rose at four to pray, check the overseas markets, shower, make breakfast and lunch for Belle and set in motion the renovation of his parents’ home.

By seven, he was at work in the fields—planting, weeding, mowing, watering, sculpting the landscape, supervising the greenhouse, delivering the flowers that festooned the inn, hiring workers, dealing with the thousand little crises that arose and, of course, enduring his daily crucible at the Manor House.