Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Let’s count. How many more days?” I pointed and Elara repeated my words. “One, two, three, four, five.” I helped her pull open the door.
Of course, Elara’s advent calendar wasn’t made of paper. When I explained the tradition to Hale, he had a local woodworker custom-build a Victorian dollhouse for his daughter. It had shutters, interior lighting, and even a mechanism that made the chimney puff when a button was pressed. And there was no crappy chocolate in hers. He had every little box stuffed with a small prize.
“What is it?”
She popped open the small door and pulled a small, plush dog from the box and held it out to me. “Doggy.”
“Ooh! What’s the doggy say?”
“Woof-woof!” she barked, racing into Hale’s empty office to show her father what she found. “Daddy?”
I wobbled after her. “Daddy’s not here, Peanut.”
“Daddy gone?”
“Daddy’s gone. He’ll be back tomorrow.” My hand cradled my back, and I frowned. The kink in my back returned and I massaged the area.
The doorbell rang, and I sighed, pulling the door to Hale’s office shut. “Come on.” I corralled Elara to the front door. When I opened it, there was another pile of boxes, and the brown delivery truck was driving away. “Hey! Wait!”
“Wait!” my mini-me echoed.
“Damn it.”
“Damn it.”
I looked at her sharply, but she only flashed me a cheeky smile.
With a sigh, I checked the labels. As expected, they were all from Remington. “Your grandfather’s a coward.”
I spent the next hour stewing on the couch. Elara played with her doggy while The Backyardigans sang on the television. The longer I sat there, the angrier I became, until I finally texted Andrew, requesting him to come watch Elara.
I backed my Jeep up to the front porch and loaded all the boxes into the back.
“Rayne, should you be lifting them?”
“They’re not that heavy.”
Andrew rushed to pick up the last few and loaded them into the Jeep. “What are they?”
“Gifts from Remington. I’m taking them back.” I wiped the sweat off my brow and tried to remember where I put my keys. They were still in the ignition.
When I reached Remington’s house, I burst in without knocking and dumped three boxes onto the foyer floor.
Marta appeared in a rush with a dust rag in her hands. “Niña, what are you doing?”
“Is he here?”
“Mr. Davenport is in the den.”
“Good.” I walked back out to the car and grabbed another armful of packages.
“Meyers, what the hell is this?” Remington barked when I dumped the next armful onto his floor.
“Stop sending presents to our house, Remington.”
“Those aren’t for you. They’re for Elara.”
“If you want to give your granddaughter gifts, have the decency to deliver them in person. You live one mile from her.”
“God damn it, Meyers, this can’t be good for you.” He followed me out to the Jeep where I proceeded to gather more packages. “You’re as stubborn as a goat. Put them down!” He followed me back inside, and I let the boxes fall.
“You’re as stubborn as a coward.”
Miles appeared, and Marta quickly tidied the boxes into piles so they weren’t all over the foyer.
I shook off a dizzy spell as I bent over to drop another box onto the floor. “You can’t even bring yourself to apologize or admit when you’re wrong. Well, guess what? We’re a package deal. You can’t buy her off! If you want to be in her life, you need to treat her parents right—including your son. I’m sick and tired of this petty rivalry between you two. There are other people impacted by your childishness, and some people just want to live a normal life with normal—” I sucked in a sharp breath.
Remington stilled. “What is it?” He yelled for the housekeeper, “Marta!”
Marta appeared as Remington ushered me to a bench.
“I’m fine.” I massaged the pinched nerve in my back. Tightness stitched across my abdomen, and I winced.
“She’s not fine. Something’s wrong. Where’s Hale?”
“He’s in Chicago.” My face tensed as another cramp contracted around my abdomen. Something wasn’t right. I looked up at Remington, too afraid to be angry anymore. “Call a doctor.”
He flew into action. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the emergency room getting a lecture about something called prodromal labor, similar to Braxton Hicks, but more painful.
“It’s all that damn spicy food you’ve been eating.”
“Actually,” the doctor corrected Remington, “Prodromal labor isn’t caused by diet. It can, however, be triggered by stress or anxiety.”
I glared at my father-in-law. “Are you happy now?”
“I haven’t seen you in a month!”
“And look what’s happened!”
My phone buzzed, and I looked at the doctor apologetically. Hale was going to implode if I didn’t answer. “Go ahead,” she said.
“Hale?” I brought the phone to my ear. “I’m on my way. Have you talked to the doctor? Did they find anything—”
“Hale, Hale, calm down. I’m fine. The baby’s fine. It was false labor.” I quickly informed him of everything I’d been told over the last hour, but he insisted on coming home anyway.