Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
My maternal concern to six furry children escalates to new heights. Worse even: we don’t have enough food for seventeen people for that long.
I find my voice. “How did we not prepare for this?”
“We couldn’t have known,” Thatcher says strongly.
“I feel like a straight-A student who forgot to do her homework for an entire year,” I say aloud. “There’s precedent for snowstorms in this area, apparently.”
“This isn’t an annual occurrence here,” Akara tells me. “It’s only happened twice in the last thirty years.” He grabs the doorknob, about to leave. “One more thing.” His eyes are on mine. “I had to tell your dad about Beckett.”
My stomach somersaults, and I down another gulp of sharp whiskey. “Which part?” I lick the liquor off my lips. “That he wants a helicopter to fly him out of here? Or that we forced him on this trip because of his cocaine use?”
Akara gives me an apologetic wince. “Both.”
Merde. I fist the neck of the bottle.
“He didn’t seem surprised about either,” Akara says. “But with your dad…”
“It’s hard to tell,” I nod.
My incredibly intelligent father vaults his emotions like secrets inside Fort Knox. If he were shocked, he most likely wouldn’t let Akara know. It’s entirely possible that my dad and mom sniffed out the situation since Beckett took off dance for Scotland.
Which is a rarity in itself.
I can’t predict what they’ll do once Beckett goes home, but I feel like I’ve thrown him in boiling hot water when I only intended a light simmer to start.
Akara continues, “Connor said if things get serious, they can send a rescue team. But it’s not advisable unless someone’s safety is at risk. Other people need those resources, and I consulted with Jack. He said a helicopter picking up rich white kids stuck in a million-dollar house would be bad publicity.”
Those headlines and the fallout could destroy Beckett’s career more than a couple absent weeks from ballet. My brother has been banking on the skies to clear, not wanting to wait for road transportation. But the helicopter scenario is solidly down the drain.
“You have to tell Beckett,” I say. “I can’t do it. He won’t want to hear it from me.”
Akara agrees and then turns to Thatcher. “The snow is accumulating, and today might be the only time we can exit the door without having to shovel our way out. Anyone who needs to use the sat-phone, needs to use it today.”
Thatcher glances at the door.
Akara adds, “I’ve already spoken to your brother.”
“What?”
“He was my second call.” Akara pushes back his wet hair, visibly shivering. I lean towards him and outstretch the bottle of whiskey. He’s not exactly on-duty while we’re in a secure house, so he takes the bottle with a quick, “Thanks.” And downs a large gulp. “Banks is fine. He doesn’t want either of you to go call him.”
Thatcher glares at the ceiling, then rolls his eyes.
“He’s more concerned about you.” Akara passes back the whiskey. “Said to tell you not to be a dumbass or a jackass. But we both know it’s too late for that.” He steps out of his wet snow pants, sweats underneath, and the door to the laundry room creaks open wider.
My pulse thumps in my throat. If Tony just overheard us…
“Hey.”
I calm as soon as I see the chestnut hair and tattoos of Paul Donnelly.
“Any of you know how to sew?” He raises a sweater, and I recognize the orange and green stitching as Luna’s handiwork. One she knitted for him in exchange for a tattoo design. “I pulled out a thread and now there’s a hole.” He seems laidback about the whole ordeal.
“No,” Thatcher answers him.
Donnelly looks to me.
“Unfortunately, I can barely thread a needle. Luna and Beckett are the only ones I know who could fix it.”
His face saddens at the mention of Beckett, and then he nods to Akara. “Got any thrifty nifty skills, boss?”
Akara cracks a crooked smile. “Not at sewing.”
Donnelly throws up a hand gesture that means love, like he didn’t just meet bad news, and he struts out of the room, as unconcerned as he came.
Akara nods to Thatcher. “You’re relieved of your duties. With the sat-phone working, we don’t need to worry about emails.” He leaves, not giving Thatcher a chance to reply.
Their friendship is still on shaky ground, and I wish I could help, but their issues seem too deep and personal.
With Akara’s abrupt exit, the laundry room becomes eerily quiet, and then feet pound above us, dust billowing off ceiling rafters. Voices heighten in chaotic madness.
“Something’s wrong.” Thatcher finds his radio. Comms work only inside the house, and he fits in his earpiece.
I climb off the washer/dryer and pick up my purse. Readying. I wait for his response, my pulse gaining speed.
His eyes land on me. “Pipe burst.”
I wonder if this is an omen of what’s to come. Broken pipes, interpersonal fights, and all of us just trying to hang on…till March?