Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I suppose I do deserve this vacation. I am going to enjoy myself, but I’m much more comfortable focusing on Jude’s good time. He’s my baby brother, after all, and it’s my job to take care of him. It’s been that way since we were children. “I forgot to ask if you’ve heard from Mom or Dad at all recently?” It’s a question I always hold my breath after asking. “They were in Bolivia the last time I spoke with them.”
“Still there, I think. Potential riots on the horizon and they’re clearing the national museum, just in case.”
Our parents always had the weirdest job at career day. Officially, they are archeologists, but that title is a lot more boring than their actual duties, which include being contracted by foreign governments to protect and preserve art during times of civil unrest when priceless treasures could potentially be destroyed. Inevitably at career day, a child in the front row would say, “You’re kind of like Indiana Jones,” and my parents—who were prepared for this—would bellow, “Snakes! Why does it always have to be snakes?” Perfectly synchronized.
They are such fascinating people.
I just don’t know them very well.
But they gave me the greatest treasure of my life and he’s currently sprawling out on the closest piece of furniture, as he is wont to do, effortlessly belonging everywhere he goes in flannel and Birkenstocks. “You take the biggest room, all right?” he yawns, dragging suntanned fingers through scruffy dark blond hair. When I start to argue, he points at his mouth and makes a zipping motion, indicating that I should shut up. “It’s not up for debate. I couldn’t even afford to chip in on this place. You get the master.”
“But after everything with Bartholomew…”
A shadow crosses his face. “I’m fine. You can’t worry about me so much.”
“Says who?” I sniff, wheeling my suitcase toward the kitchen. Seriously, what is that aroma? It’s kind of like…a big meal was prepared in the kitchen very recently and the garlic and spices are still lingering in the air. “You take your nap—”
I laugh under my breath when his snore cuts me off. My brother could fall asleep on the wing of a 747 with a flight in progress. Meanwhile I have to perform a very specific nighttime ritual of stretching and exfoliating and precise pillow placement to wrangle a measly four hours. Maybe the waves will lull me to sleep while I’m here, though. One can hope.
With a hopeful exhale and squaring of my shoulders, I stow the handle of my roller luggage and pick it up against my chest, my utilitarian teaching flats carrying me up the stairs. That clawfoot bathtub has been calling my name since I saw it online, buried in the background of one of the pictures. Not featured, as it should have been. There is only a shower stall in my apartment back in Hartford, Connecticut and I dream of baths. Several of the accounts I follow on Instagram are dedicated to luxurious bath time rituals, including people who eat full meals while submerged in hot water and bubbles. Spaghetti and meatballs, right there among the suds. I’m not sure I’ll ever take bath time quite so far, but I respect their enthusiasm.
The master suite is big and inviting, decorated once again in a nautical theme, the palette consisting of creams and whites and light blues. Though it was sunny when we arrived, clouds are currently passing over the sun, darkening the walls. Quiet. It’s so quiet. The bed invites me to come take a nap, but nothing short of a hurricane warning is going to keep me from taking the bath I’ve been envisioning for weeks.
When I walk into the bathroom, I don’t even bother trying to hold in my squeal when I spot the tub at the far end, silhouetted by a floor-to-ceiling picture window. Leaving my suitcase just outside the door, I kick off my shoes, my spine tingling with excitement…although, that pungent smell is upstairs, too? Isn’t that odd? Maybe the previous renter was the type to eat their meals in the bathtub and they accidentally let it rot?
Hmm. The rest of the house is immaculate. That doesn’t really track.
There must be a dead mouse or rat in the wall somewhere, but I am not going to let that stymie our good time. I’ll simply call the owner and ask him to send over pest control. A minor blip on the overall radar of the vacation that will be taken care of in no time. Jude won’t even have to wake up from his nap.
The clawfoot tub beckons me from the far side of the bathroom and I can already hear the white noise of the water running. Can already see the steam curling and fogging up the windowpane. Maybe I can get one tiny little bath in before I call the owner about the smell?