Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Their housekeeper, Carina, is bringing in a soup course. While my parents come from old money built on the backs of hard-working attorneys in our family, which is a noble and formal profession, they are very laid back in their home. They might have staff to care for them, but the staff don’t wear uniforms. In fact, Carina is wearing a mauve velour tracksuit, although when working with our food, she wears a hairnet—her choice, not theirs.
The dogs rush en masse to my dad, as he’s the softie in the bunch. Mom and I don’t feed them from the table, but Dad can’t help himself. He makes them sit pretty and then takes a piece of crusty bread and feeds them dainty nibbles, each taking their turn with extreme manners.
I sit to Dad’s left, and Mom is to his right. When Carina brings me a glass of ice water, I take a moment to grip her hand in greeting. She’s been with the family for nearly twelve years and is as dear to me as she is to my parents.
“You need to eat with us more often,” Carina says as she takes my napkin before I can reach it, snapping it out and placing it on my lap. “You’re skin and bones.”
I snicker because I am most definitely not skin and bones. I’m tall but curvy, a body style I both embrace and accept as my own. I exercise habitually because I want to be healthy. What I don’t do is eat like a rabbit because I like food too much.
“You’re good for my ego,” I reply with a smile.
Carina clucks at me in disapproval because she knows I’m not taking her words seriously, patting me on the shoulder before she leaves the dining room.
Odin, Loki, and Freya all have their faces practically in Dad’s lap, now that they’ve tasted Carina’s fresh bread. Mom snaps her fingers and says, “Loki… Freya… down.”
The two dogs drop obediently, lying beside Dad’s chair, but they still look up at him longingly. Odin moves in closer, noting the competition has been cut down.
“Odin,” I say with warning, “down.”
He cuts a short glance at me, then looks to Dad wistfully. My dad, in turn, reaches for another piece of bread.
“Don’t you dare,” I growl, and my dad’s hand freezes.
“Odin… down.”
He looks at me, then to Dad, then to me again. We lock eyes, and he knows I mean business.
And with the speed of a turtle on sedatives, he lowers himself into a down position, looking at me the entire time in case I change my mind and release him from the command.
I don’t, and when he finally settles with a chuff of disappointment, we dig into our soup.
Our mealtime chatter is what it normally is—Dad fills us in on interesting cases happening with the firm, and he asks me and Mom for our opinions. While Mom no longer practices, she graduated first in her class at Yale and has an incredibly sharp mind. He likes my opinions because I have tremendous common sense. I did not graduate first, but I worked my ass off and still do.
Next, we have the requisite conversation whereby Dad wants me to consider coming back to Alston Law Group to carry on the legacy. I, in turn, remind him that I don’t enjoy that type of law.
Mom then adds the obligatory, “We’re proud of you no matter what you choose to do with your career.”
Dad then huffs with indignation. “Of course, I want you to do what you want. There’s no pressure here.”
And we all have a good laugh.
My parents are the absolute best because while the Alstons are heavy on tradition, heritage, and legacy, more than anything, they want me to be happy.
With all of that out of the way, my mom asks, “How are you doing, honey?”
She’s not talking about career, but about Brooks. My parents know about our friendship and have had Brooks in this home many times for meals and holiday gatherings. They knew of his struggles and liked him very much.
They know I loved him deeply.
“I’m okay. There are moments I think to call or text him, and then I remember he’s gone.”
“He was a special man,” my mom murmurs.
“The best,” my dad says in agreement.
They’re not wrong. Brooks was one in a million.
“I met his brother this week.”
Mom pauses while cutting a tomato. Dad still moves a forkful of salad to his mouth, but they both look at me. They know Brooks asked me to be his trustee, and since I don’t represent Stone, I’m not violating any attorney-client privilege. “Brooks left almost everything to him.”
My parents also know that Brooks and Stone were estranged. Over the past two years, they got to know Brooks well, and through conversations, it came out that he wasn’t close to either his parents or his brother.