Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Frankie hugs herself, but Jackson doesn’t miss her shaking, trying to hold in her emotions despite the tears that cannot be contained.
“Tell your parents I’m sorry for my inappropriate behavior. As a father, I knew better. I should have acted better.”
Her laughter escapes as a sob while she shakes her head. “You tell them. If you have something to say to my parents, you’d better tell them yourself.”
Jackson winces at her angry tone. Sometimes, doing the right thing can take time to feel right. He lived with his sister’s wrath for doing the right thing when she couldn’t see it right in front of her.
Jackson wraps his arms around Frankie’s shoulders, so she doesn’t have to turn and look at him if she doesn’t want to. Frankie leans her head back against his chest.
“Why did you let me love you?” she whispers through a mess of tears and broken syllables.
He kisses the crown of her head. “That’s my line.”
“Jack …” She covers her face and sobs.
He turns her in his arms and lets her feel every emotion she needs to feel. When her tears end and her grip on his shirt loosens, he holds her face and wipes it dry. “Time to go home.”
Frankie closes her red eyes for several seconds and acquiesces with a barely detectable nod. She lifts onto her toes and presses her lips to his. Just as quickly, she turns and hastens to the door.
Jackson takes several long strides and grabs Frankie’s arm, turning her back into him, kissing her the way he wished he would have kissed Ryn goodbye the morning she died. Frankie locks her arms around his neck and opens her mouth to accommodate his demands, his need to take everything he can in case it’s the last time in this life that he feels pleasure, desire … love.
She pushes him away, covers her mouth with her hand while a new round of tears well in her eyes, and runs out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
FRANCESCA
Through tear-blurred vision and snot running from my nose, I pull out of the driveway.
No goodbye to Eloise.
No retrieving the few belongings I bought after the fire.
No looking back.
Passing the cemetery, I slam on the brakes. There is one goodbye I need to make. I wipe my eyes and nose before stepping out of my car. The path to their graves is a short one. Lynn appreciated John being buried close to the road so she could say “hi” to him whenever she headed out of town.
The wind picks up, ushering in cooler air with the promise of distant storms. Crossing my ankles, I lower to my butt and curl my hair behind my ears. I still don’t know what to say to Lynn and Steven, so I sit with John.
I trace his name in the granite.
“I’m trying to pinpoint when this started,” I say. “When you decided your existence was inconsequential despite having a wife and son. A sister. Parents.” I pick at the grass. “Did it make it easier for Steven to feel the same way about his life?” I rip out a handful of grass and let it scatter in the breeze. “Did I blame Molly for something you did?” I laugh. Clarity is never punctual. Had I never seen that letter, or had I been able to walk away sooner, my heart never would have had the chance to fall in love.
Maybe that was never the plan if there is such a thing as a plan. Have I spent forty-one years waiting for my path to cross with Jack’s?
“It’s all gone,” I whisper. “Your house. Your things. Your family.” Rocking forward, I kneel and rest my hands on his headstone. “I’m going to take the best of us and go … live.”
“That’s touching.”
A voice has never shaken me to the point of my teeth chattering … until now. The temperature plummets. And my heart thumps and lumps with a suffocating panic.
I stand on weak legs and face Archer. Fifteen feet of isolation with him from his bodyguards. The question is … are they here to protect him or to corner me?
Sliding off his sunglasses, Archer blows and wipes them with his sleeve. “Your nephew dated my daughter. Did I miss that in one of our conversations?” He squints while sliding his glasses back onto his smug face. “I mean … I might have. You were rather distracting.”
“What do you want?” I say as steadily as my nerves will allow.
“I want to know why you said your name is Iris. I want to know why you said you’re a dental assistant instead of a professor of music theory.”
I clear my throat. “You seemed interested in me the day I walked by your table. And after your daughter wrote Steven a letter giving him permission—encouraging him—to take his own life, I became very interested in your family. What kind of parents raise a young woman to do something so unimaginable?”