Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“I’m not so sure.” I shake my head, deflecting her mom-guilt with an imaginary force field. “You’re in perfect health. You walk two miles every day and during your last physical, your doctor said you had the heart of a thirty-year-old.”
She waves away my facts. “Yes, but we could all go”—she snaps her fingers for emphasis—“just like that. What about runaway trains or lightning strikes?”
“Oh Jesus—”
“Yes, the good Lord could call me home at any time.”
I massage my temples, trying to quell the impending headache that seems to trail after every one of our conversations. “Let me get this straight: I have to come to the barbecue on Saturday because otherwise you might violently perish?”
She nods, smiling. “Yes, Adam, that is exactly what I’m saying.”
“Wow. That’s fuc—”
“Adam!”
“Messed up,” I correct hastily. “You realize if I don’t come and you do get hit by a train, I’ll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.”
She nods again, so damn pleased with herself.
“So I can expect you for a late lunch on Saturday at Sammy’s?” she asks, standing and straightening her sundress. She just breached my defenses, and she doesn’t even look ruffled.
I blink, completely at a loss. She’s stooped to an all-new low, and at the moment, I can’t think of a single way to get out of going on Saturday.
“I’ll be there,” I say with a dazed tone.
“With Madeleine?”
“We’ll see. She could be busy.”
My mom steps closer and fixes the lapels on my white coat, though they were already laying perfectly. “Sweetie, she won’t be, not if you’re asking her out. If I know women, she’ll rearrange her whole schedule to be there with you.”
I wish that were the case, but with Madeleine, it couldn’t be further from the truth. After last night, there’s no way she’ll accept my invitation.
“It might just be me.”
She flinches and presses her hand over her heart. “Oh, my heart, suddenly it hurts so badly…”
“Are you seriously feigning a heart attack right now? Do you have no morals?”
She steps back, drops her hand, and smiles. “Not when it comes to my children, my dear. I’ll do just about anything for you.”
I shake my head. “You need therapy.”
“And you need to bring Madeleine on Saturday. I cannot wait to meet her!” She heads for the door, her stuffed bird tucked beneath her arm. Just before she leaves, she glances back over her shoulder. “Oh, and she’s not a vegetarian is she?”
“I honestly have no clue.”
She laughs and waves away my answer. “Well you two have probably been too busy doing other things to worry about food.”
I laugh.
Yeah…not exactly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MADELEINE
It’s Thursday morning and I have hope. Even though I had to pull money from my savings account this morning to cover rent. Even though Mouse chewed up another pair of my work shoes. Even though I haven’t gone on a date in two months, and the closest I’ve been to a climax recently is when my beat up car starts vibrating at about 35 miles per hour. But I do have hope—either that, or I’m way over-caffeinated, I don’t know. Does hope make your hands shake?
I’m at work and Lady Helen has invited me into her office for tea this morning. I hate tea and am suffering through an Earl Grey just to please her. I think with another ten tablespoons of sugar and honey, it would taste good, but I’m too nervous to keep adding to my cup. It’s already nearing overflow level because I refuse to take another retched sip.
“So Madeleine, I’m sure you know why I’ve asked you in here this morning.”
“Oh, umm…yes.”
I spill a bit of tea on my pencil skirt when I attempt to set it back down on her desk. Fortunately, the hardy cotton-blend material is black and conceals everything—I learned that lesson a week into owning Mouse.
She smiles at me from her throne—a gaudy cheetah print tufted chair that reaches a foot past her head—and then she leans forward to drop her chin on her hands.
“You’ve been on this little probation for a week now and I’d like to hear what changes you’ve implemented.”
“Oh yes. Absolutely.” I scramble through the papers on my lap, as if the answer will be found on one of them. Then I laugh awkwardly and force myself to smile and sit up straight. “Umm, since last week, I’ve gathered a few leads. As you might have heard, Greg Van wants to sell his property and purchase a bit more land. I’ve already gathered up quite a few lots with good acreage, and we have a time set for tomorrow so I can show them to him.”
She nods, seemingly pleased. “Good. What else?”
What else?
“Oh, um, Loretta Rae mentioned to me last week that she’d like to sell her townhouse downtown. She’s owned the property for years and—”