Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear they’ve only got the sponge ball up there. Can’t imagine that’d do too much damage. Oh, I meant to say, Billy over at the farm says he’s got some sheepskins that’ll be ready soon.”
“Oh, that’s great.” My company, House of Dalforth, or HoD as my brother likes to call it, sells mostly local products via e-commerce. I might not use my title very often, but I’m not so silly as not to cash in on the Dalforth name. Sandy likes to tease me by saying I mostly sell twinsets, tweed, and sheepskin slippers for middle-aged matrons, and he’s right. But I also have a small clothing line that I’m very proud of. Mostly because I designed it. Va-va-voom, I think with a smile. Bombshell dresses with nipped-in waists to create a classic hourglass shape. Tartan jackets with fishtail backs, that kind that scream out for a riding crop and a jaunty hat with pheasant feathers. I sell those too. The hats, I mean. HoD has only recently broken even. I don’t even make a salary out of it yet. “I’ll give him a call,” I say, mentally calculating when I’ll fit it into tomorrow.
“Meanwhile, stop frettin’ about those boys. They’re better behaved than you and Sandy ever were.”
I smile at her slip. She usually insists on using formalities.
“All the same,” I reply, “I think I should check.”
“God only gives you what you can handle,” she calls after me. “Remember that!”
“Apparently, God thinks I might be Wonder Woman,” I mutter, gathering my skirts over my arm. And off I set, navigating the myriad of halls, rooms, and corridors off-limits to the public in this rambling, ramshackle castle I still think of as home.
Along the ancient, flagged hall, I walk past the ladies’ parlors, several sitting rooms, and the main library, all still roped off for public viewing and the looming tourist season. Through the arch flanked by medieval pikestaffs and suits of armor, I pass the main reception hall and the Victorian busts of long-dead Romans, then climb up one side of the grand staircase before I cut through the state room and out into the hallway, and almost stumble over my firstborn, Hugh.
“There you are.” The relief I feel at finding him is short-lived as, his back pressed to the wall, my son doesn’t immediately lift his head from his knees. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where’s your brother?” I’ve barely gotten the words out when I realize he’s trying not to let me see his tears as he hurriedly wipes them on the backs of his hands.
“He’s still watching cartoons with the others.” Still not looking at me, he sets down his only for emergencies cell phone that he hadn’t answered when I’d called.
“Have you fallen out?” Crouching beside him, I sweep his hair out of his eyes. “Had an argument?”
“No.” Along with his denial, he shakes his head.
“There must be a reason you’re sitting out here all on your own.”
Hugh glances down at his phone. “Dad just called,” he mutters without lifting his head.
“Ah.” There’s a time when all children realize their parents are fallible. That they don’t have all the answers. That they’re human and have faults. Despite my best efforts, Hugh is finding this out sooner than most. I’d wanted a different experience for my boys than my own childhood, but I see the echo of it in so many ways. The divorce has been particularly hard on Hugh. But it’s difficult for me to police his father’s behavior when I no longer have daily access to him. “What happened?” I ask softly.
“He’s not coming to get us next weekend.” Again. He means he’s not coming again. His timing is the worst.
“Oh, Hugh. I’m sorry.” The bastard. I’ll ring his skinny neck when I see him next. “There will be other birthdays. Lots of them.” And probably lots of my time spent whisper-hissing down the phone line you promised, you dick head.
“He’s taking Carly to Paris.” The words leave his mouth like little bullets. “He said Carly booked it, that he’d told her what dates not to book but that she must’ve gotten muddled up.”
“Oh. Well.” That absolute cow. “Perhaps she forgot it was your birthday?”
“So?” Hugh’s head swings my way, his expression suddenly uncannily like my brother, who can hold a grudge like it’s nobody’s business. “He’s known her weeks. He’s known me almost ten years!”
“I know, sweetheart.” Scooping my rented dress under my bottom, I lower myself next to him. “But your father—”
“Has his brains between his legs.”
“Hugh!” I aim for chastisement over agreement, even if he is right. “Wherever did you hear that?”
“I overheard Chrissy saying it. She didn’t know I was there, so you can’t blame her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Again, because she’s not wrong. “Even if it isn’t a nice thing to say.” Though I will be saying much worse things to him over the phone tomorrow. It’s probably just as well he’s in London or else I might pop around to his place with a shotgun. Hurt my babies at your peril…