Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
My grandmother, Margaret, and I don’t discuss Emmett’s gifts.
Margaret turns a vase, eyeing the flowers, but she doesn’t give me any advice about them. She doesn’t tell me I’m making a mistake by stringing him along, doesn’t say I better be careful not to allow his interest to lapse.
I’m not used to the freedom, and I almost bring him up to them countless times.
What would you do in my shoes? seems like a question that’s perpetually on my lips, but I don’t ask it.
I don’t really want to know what they would do.
The night after I return The Midnight Library to him, I happen to see his Range Rover slow to a stop at the curb outside my grandmother’s house. He’s come back just like he said he would this morning. I hurry over to my bedroom window and peel back the heavy drape so I have a perfect view of him lit by streetlights as he slides out of the back seat of his car, holding a second book.
My heart races like mad. I catalogue every detail as quickly as I can. His navy suit and crisp tie, his dark hair and knitted brows—he’s so handsome it hurts.
A large part of me wants to race down the stairs, run across the foyer, and leap into his arms, but I hold my ground and wait to hear Jacobs’ footsteps out in the hall.
He knocks on my door, and I go to answer it calmly.
“Mr. Emmett Mercier is here to see you,” he tells me, no hint of judgment in his voice. “He’s also sent me with this.”
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
I can’t help but smile. He’s starting to get cheeky.
“Should I send him off?” Jacobs asks.
The first day Emmett arrived, it was all too easy to turn him away. My answer to Jacobs was swift and stern, no room for second-guessing. Now, though, I waver.
“Ms. Lainey?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I say, weakly. “I think so.”
He responds with a simple nod then closes my door once again. I rush back to the window and wait for Emmett to walk back out to his car. It’s impossible not to question myself. What the hell am I doing? What kind of punishment does he deserve, if any?
It’s painful to watch him leave the house, his head tipped down, his shoulders crestfallen and dejected. When your heart beats for someone else, they can inflict incredible damage. It’s hard to extrapolate right from wrong when every step Emmett takes feels like a wounding blow.
I can’t get into Crime and Punishment no matter how hard I try. I carry the book with me around the house and to work the next day. I read it on my lunch break, but the words carry no meaning. I only daydream about Emmett and what time he plans to stop by later. I imagine a scenario where he grows so desperate he ignores Jacobs and stomps up the stairs to get to me, a caveman on a mission. It’s utterly ridiculous and silly, and yet, a thrill runs through me.
I trick myself into thinking my infatuation with him is over when in reality it’s only been refocused on this new game of cat and mouse. If I don’t go down to see him when he visits, I feel as though I’m winning. Never mind that he’s all I think about, the heaviest thought in my head day in and day out.
One month in, the flowers are mostly wilted and gone.
The gifted books are stacked beside my bed.
Every day, I fear it’s the last day he’ll come, and every day his black Range Rover pulls up in front of my grandmother’s house then a few minutes later, Jacobs knocks on my door.
I have no idea what my grandmother thinks about all of this. She hasn’t mentioned a single word to me about Emmett. No compliments about the flowers, no offhand remarks about his visits. Lately, it’s been nothing but discussions about the spring ballet season.
This evening is the opening night of Swan Lake followed by a black tie gala to raise funds to aid the Boston School of Ballet. All the invited guests have been asked to dress in black and white in honor of the theme.
My grandmother and I spent hours combing through racks of dresses at Neimans and Saks, and we eventually fell in love with a white princess gown. Its base is a simple fitted bodice with a full skirt, but intricate beadwork covers the sheer neckline and long sleeves, sprinkling down like raindrops onto the skirt. My grandmother’s borrowed pearl choker sits nicely at the nape of my neck, and my long hair is pulled into an up-do to better show off the details of the dress.
We have a private box at the ballet we share with Diana and Victoria. I sit on the far side beside my grandmother, looking down onto the crowd below. I’ve already read through the program once, sipped an entire glass of champagne, and done my fair share of people watching. I love the ballet. The pageantry of opening nights never disappoints, so much fashion and beauty on display. No one has missed the mark on the theme, the crowd a sea of black and white gowns, pearls and diamonds adorning every ear and wrist. I find my favorite outfits from among them, already hoping I’ll get to take a closer look at the gala later. The men are impeccably dressed as well, all in tuxedos, some even in tailcoats.