Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
But all that luxury couldn’t disguise that this was basically a makeshift hospital room.
Oxygen and respiratory monitors were stacked on one of the nightstands next to the special-issue hospital bed where Jasper lay dressed in his silk paisley pajamas with his husband’s red sweater draped over the thin blue blanket covering his legs.
His eyes lit up when he saw me.
“Is that Mr. Hollywood?” he wheezed, adjusting his oxygen tube as he sat up.
“Hi, Jasper. How are you?”
“I’m still here, dah-ling.” He shrugged and pointed at the blanket and sweater. “The red, the blue…I look like a flag, don’t I?”
“Nah, you look good,” I said, perching on the chair beside his bed.
It was a lie. He looked like death.
“What can I do for you?” His voice was paper thin and so weak, I had to lean close to hear him.
“I have something of yours I wanted to return.” I pulled the book of poems I’d taken from the bedside table in Carmel from my pocket on a whim and held it up. “I snooped in your drawers and—”
“Well, I never,” he huffed like a campy old queen.
I smiled, loving that he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. “I thought you might want it back.”
“May I see?” He flipped it to the front and pulled out two photographs. “You found them. These are yours.”
My breath hitched and my throat threatened to close as I studied the pictures.
I remembered the days these were taken. The first was a sweet photo of my mother with her arms around my brother and me. I was in the third-grade school play. I got the part of a mushroom and was wearing some kind of Styrofoam hat my brother told me looked like a penis. My dad had made a snide comment about the rouge on my cheeks, but my mom…she’d said she was proud. She’d looked it too.
The second was taken eight years ago—just Mom and me, sitting on the deck of my old house in Malibu, drinking margaritas. I’d just finished filming and she’d said we should celebrate.
I blinked back tears. “She sent these to you?”
“There are more…somewhere. They’re yours. Sweet memories, yes?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I crossed my arms and looked out the window at the dewy white roses painted against the brilliant blue sky.
“Don’t thank me. I’m sorry I didn’t mention them sooner. I’ve sent books, photos, clothes to Carmel over the years…for safekeeping. It’s the place my memories go. Like a museum, I suppose. David gave this book to me on my fortieth birthday. If I remember correctly, I read the poem he’d dedicated to us and nearly cut my own heart in two. Those photos possibly arrived the same day and I probably stuffed them in the book and mailed them off. My cleaning lady in Carmel is a friend and she’s used to my odd style of…coping. It looks as though she found a safe place for these things, and you were meant to find them,” he wheezed, exhausted from his small speech.
“But why did my mom send them at all?”
“I can’t answer that. Perhaps she wanted to reach out and…maybe right some wrongs.”
I swallowed around the grapefruit lodged in my throat. “Our relationship was…complicated.”
“Family can be hard. We don’t get to choose our blood relatives, and that’s too bad. Some people get lucky. Some of us don’t. Most of us get a mixed bag of nuts.”
I smiled. “True.”
“She loved you, Pierce,” he rasped. “Perhaps she didn’t say it. Damn shame. If you love someone, you really should let them know. Often.”
“Yes.” I bent to shake his hand. “Take care, Jasper, and—”
“Don’t be afraid, dah-ling,” he intercepted in a surprisingly clear voice. “You know what to do.”
I did know.
BGoods was open for business.
A blond guy held the door for a happy customer carrying a bag in each hand. He waved to her before greeting a couple of window shoppers. He coaxed them inside with a friendly smile.
Without binoculars, I wasn’t sure how many people were in the store, but there had to be at least eight.
And Lo.
He sashayed into the room, balancing a stack of pillows and dropped them on a sofa near the front window. Thankfully, he didn’t notice my motorcycle idling at the curb.
But I hadn’t ditched a flight to Toronto to hide out now. This was it.
I pulled my helmet off, shoved the ballcap I’d stored in my pocket low on my forehead, and crossed the sidewalk in two strides, pushing open the shop door as if it were a stage prop.
Act Four, Scene Eleven…man begs the guy he’s crazy about to give him a chance.
And…action.
Except there was no script here. I was operating on instincts alone. Scary.
I spied the sea of pillows he’d spilled across the sofa near the window. But no Lorenzo. Knowing him, he’d be back to fix this mess. I gravitated to a nearby table lined with rows of candles and picked one up, turning it to read the label. It smelled fresh and—