Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
The second thing I tried to build a bridge with was bribery. Oh, I didn’t offer her something with a demand for reciprocity. I know she’s too stubborn to fall for that. Instead, I offered a portal of communication that I hoped would show I trust her and that I want her to have a complete life.
I gave her a smartphone. I did my research and there’s great debate whether an almost ten-year-old is ready for that level of responsibility. Handing her a gateway to the internet could be dangerous, but in my research, I found all the ways to lock down the phone to protect her from the worst kinds of stranger danger. What I did not prohibit though, is her ability to contact any family or friend she wants and, much to my disgust, that includes giving her access to the Mardraggons.
I couldn’t tell if that made her happy or not. I handed her the phone wrapped in pink paper, already preprogrammed with the numbers for Lionel, Rosemund and Gabriel Mardraggon. Gabe is Alaine’s younger brother and the heir apparent to the Mardraggon fortune. While I didn’t have many feelings about Alaine and simply disliked her because of her last name, I truly don’t like Gabe Mardraggon as a person. In fact, I despise the man and his overly confident ways. He’s Trey’s age, thirty-three, and we grew up together as rivals in every sport. Of course, once we got into high school, we played for different schools that had no rivalry, but Shelbyville is a small town and you can’t cross the street without running into some descendant of the Blackburns or Mardraggons. As it stands, I have many great aunts and uncles, regular aunts and uncles, cousins, second and third cousins. Some I’m close to, some I barely know. It’s the same with the Mardraggons.
But one thing is always consistent: If your name is Mardraggon, you hate the Blackburns, and vice versa.
At any rate, it galled me to put Gabe’s name and number in Sylvie’s phone. But I want her to have access to the people closest to her, especially those from the last few months when Alaine was home from France and dying. I have no clue what Sylvie’s relationship is like with her uncle. I don’t know because she doesn’t talk about the Mardraggons at all. I’ve only had brief glimpses into their relationships when I observed their interactions at the courthouse and then when Lionel and Rosemund dropped her off.
And while I would term it frigid the way they acted with one another, it was probably still a good twenty degrees warmer than what I have with my daughter.
Regardless, my gift of the iPhone did nothing to warm Sylvie to me or the family. She still spends most of her free time in her room, except now when I check on her she isn’t always reading a book. Sometimes she’s texting and other times she’s embroiled in conversation in her native tongue. I assume she’s talking to friends back home, which is why I made sure she has an international plan. If I dared to interrupt such a conversation, she’d level glaring green eyes at me and demand, “What do you want?” in French.
I acted dumb. I knew exactly what she was barking at me due to my handy little translation app, but I didn’t let her know I’m on to her.
I continue to record her, a chore that is taking up a lot of my time every day. I’ve gotten good at keeping the app open on my phone and hitting the record button while it sits in my pocket. At night after everyone goes to sleep, I spend time pulling out the bits and pieces of French she throws my way and translate them.
I’ve learned a lot about my daughter. Not just affirmation of the enmity she holds for me and my family, but I found out something that has caused my hackles to rise.
Something that I’m going to nip in the bud today.
I walk into the broodmare barn and immediately catch sight of Wade standing outside one of the stalls. I head that way and look in to see one of our veterinarians checking out a three-day-old foal. No matter how many times I lay eyes on those spindly, awkward little beings, I never get used to how cute they are. Some people prefer fuzzy kittens or puppies, but there is nothing in this world that warms my somewhat cold heart more than a newborn horse.
Wade hears me coming down the center aisle of the barn and lifts his chin in greeting.
I stop at the open stall door. The foal’s mom is in crossties to prevent her from attempting an exit, and the foal is currently being examined by the veterinarian. After a few minutes, he looks up. “Healthy little boy.”