Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Yep. The woman in the room next to me. Didn’t wake up on Sunday. They drop like flies around here in the summer. They say more people die in the two weeks following Christmas than any other time, but not at this place. It’s summer, for sure.”
“Were there purple flowers at her funeral?”
“Nope. Didn’t have a funeral. Just went straight to the crematory. Kids didn’t want to waste any of their inheritance, I’m sure. I prepaid for mine so I wouldn’t get cheated. Anyway, just wanted to tell you I was right again.”
“Not for nothing, Mrs. P, but you live in an assisted living facility with senior citizens who have health problems. I’m not sure you can call this one a premonition.” I reached for the coffee on my desk.
“That may be true. I suppose someone probably dies every week in this place. But the woman who kicked the bucket? Her name was Violet.”
I was mid coffee swallow and coughed it down the wrong pipe. “The woman’s name was Violet?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. So quit your doubting me, boy.”
We talked for fifteen minutes. Mrs. P told me her daughter had called and was planning to come visit, though I’d heard that a few times, and she still hadn’t shown up in all the years I’d been talking to her. She also complained about the physical therapist and the dentist—both of whom she swore were bilking her insurance because there was nothing really wrong with her.
“So how are things with the future Mrs. Donovan?” she finally asked.
I frowned. “Not sure you got that one right. Things aren’t going like I thought they would.”
“Welp. I call ’em like I see ’em. I can’t control if you go and screw things up. You met the woman destined to be your wife. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time a man threw a wrench into his own future.”
“What makes you so sure it’s me who’s screwing things up?”
“Because you just said things aren’t going like I thought they would.”
“So?”
“You don’t sit around expecting things to happen the way you’d like. You make them happen, dumbass.”
***
My afternoon meeting had been uptown.
I could’ve hopped in a cab afterward or even jumped on the subway located right in front of the building. But instead I decided to walk the thirty-something blocks back to my apartment. It was a nice summer evening. Going a few blocks out of my way to walk along the park wasn’t that unusual.
The fact that I happened to pass a certain French bistro—that was total coincidence, too. I lingered out front for a minute before deciding to go in. Why not stop in and have a beer since I was in the neighborhood? I didn’t even know if Eve would be here. Sure, she’d said she worked six days a week, but today could have been her only day off.
An older man in a suit stood at the front host area.
“Can I help you? Do you have a reservation for this evening?”
“Umm. I don’t.”
He used a finger to scan down a pretty full list of names and times. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any tables available.”
I looked around the restaurant and didn’t see any sign of Eve. My shoulders slumped, but I nodded. “Thanks, anyway.”
Just as I turned to walk back out, I heard my name. “Ford?”
“Hey.”
Eve walked out from a door toward the rear of the restaurant. I assumed maybe it was the kitchen.
“I was just…walking by and saw the place and…”
Eve smiled and came over to hug me. She absolutely knew I was full of shit, but seemed genuinely happy to see me.
“Come in. Let’s go sit at the bar.”
While she went around to the other side and made us both drinks, I checked out the restaurant. The place was really nice—tons of glass along the front that showcased the park across the street. The dining room had dark wood mixed with hot pink tablecloths and at least a dozen different, ornate crystal chandeliers. Oddly, it reminded me a lot of Eve’s personality.
“This place is really nice—kind of funky, yet traditional at the same time.”
She hopped up on the barstool next to me. “I’ve been here seven years.” She tilted her head toward a table in the corner. “Tom sat right over there for nineteen consecutive days until I agreed to go out with him.”
“What made you finally give in?”
“That night, the hostess told me he’d requested a reservation at the same table, at the same time, for a year.” She shrugged. “I figured any man who was that persistent was worth a date.”
I lifted the drink she’d set down in front of me. “A year, huh? I only have until Labor Day.”
Eve patted my hand resting on the bar. “I’m glad you just happened to be passing by. You know, my issues with Tom weren’t all that different than what’s going on in Val’s head. When I met him, I was thirty, and he was fifty. I joke that he’s old enough to be my father, but it was never the number that scared me. It was that we were in different places in our life. He was financially stable and thinking about retirement accounts. He’d made all of his mistakes and learned from them—he knew what he wanted. I, on the other hand, had just maxed out my credit cards buying designer waitress uniforms for a restaurant I didn’t know if I’d be able to pay the next month’s rent on, and I’d picked the last guy I dated because he had dimples—even though he was an unemployed, wannabe actor.”