Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Let’s put all that aside for a minute. What you’ve done, and I’m assuming that’s make me your wife so you’re a more attractive parenting prospect.”
I nod once, hard.
“But you’re going to go to court and gamble?”
“It’s not about odds. I need to fix the gamble. I fight dirty to win.”
“Not for Daisy to win?”
“I’m doing this for her, even if I can’t get her to tell me what’s going on in that head of hers.”
“Is she getting help? Therapy, I mean?”
“Of course.” Court mandated or not.
“She probably can’t make sense of it herself,” Lavender murmurs. “But if she doesn’t like being with her dad, if she prefers you, coupled with the fact you had bazillions for lawyers, that should be enough.”
“It’s not just about the courts. We have social workers, one in particular, hell-bent on the perception that I’m trying to tear a family apart. I can’t get her to understand that he’s only in it for the money. Meanwhile, Daisy won’t say a word against her father. Not to me or to her therapist.”
“You don’t think he’s hurting her?”
“Not in the ways you might think,” I answer darkly. The man is still breathing.
“Couldn’t she just tell the courts, hey, I want to live with Uncle Raif? You know, without saying anything against her dad?”
“If she could, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“I suppose not,” she agrees. “I’d be at home, sleeping off mimosas and eggs Benny.”
“With anyone in particular?” My question sounds dangerously frigid.
Her answer is to send a withering glance my way. “What about a nanny? Couldn’t you get one to keep an eye on her when she’s there? Spy for you, maybe.”
“She has a nanny, but the agreement in place says she goes to visit her father alone. His house isn’t big enough to accommodate anyone else, apparently.”
“Seems like a poor excuse.”
“But one the social worker approved.” Father and daughter need a safe space to learn to communicate, she’d said.
“I suppose you’ve already tried to buy him off.”
“Whatever makes you think that?”
“Oh, just a hunch,” she replies, fighting a smile. “Pity you couldn’t frighten him off.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“You already tried.”
“I have thought about it.”
“Oh, that tic in your jaw says you’ve thought about it a lot.”
I could’ve made him disappear before now, but I won’t be the reason he abandons Daisy. I never want to have to look her in the eye and admit I was responsible for his absence.
I slow the car at the lights. As usual, the McLaren draws attention.
“It’s so loud,” Lavender mutters, slinking down in her seat.
“You’re embarrassed?”
“I just don’t like people looking at me.”
“Then get ugly.” I chuckle, my attention returning out the windshield.
“It’s not me, it’s this car. You shouldn’t even be driving it. Adding miles will diminish its value.”
“It’s not yours yet.”
“Twelve months. Do you really think it’ll take that long? To convince whoever I’m meant to convince, I mean.”
“These things are complicated. Mediation, assessments and evaluations, home visits, fact-finding timelines. The list goes on.”
“Sounds like you’re getting desperate.”
“No shit,” I mutter under my breath. I expect her to begin some kind of negotiation when, in the periphery of my vision, Lavender’s hand appears. I frown as I glance down at it.
“Hello.” She gives an impish grin. “Looks like I’m desperate.”
The corner of my mouth curls. I make it look reluctant as I take her hand. The lights change, and I pull it away. Also reluctantly. When Lavender is shining, she really fucking shines.
“While I hate to admit it, I do get it. I have nephews and nieces, and I love the bones of those little snot machines. Whit and Mimi have three-year-old Irish twins. Augustus,” she says, pulling a face, “or as his auntie Lala calls him, Gus. His little sister is so sweet. Her name is cheese.”
While the Whittington siblings all have unusual names, I’m going to guess the next generation hasn’t tried to one-up their parents.
“Go on then,” I say in the vein of one who is long-suffering. “I can tell you’re dying to explain.”
“Thank you!” She rubs her hands together gleefully. “It’s Annabel. Boring, right? Her name was shorted to Belle quite early on. Baby Belle. Can you see where I’m going with this?”
“I bet her parents just love that.”
“Gus does. He thinks I’m the greatest. Heather, my eldest sister, and her hubs, Archer? They have Milo. He’s almost five. I held all three of those babies as wrinkly new humans and swore I’d be the best aunt ever. Better than Primrose, anyway. I’m good with kids.” The look she slides me seems to dare me to contradict her. “The good thing about being an aunt is that I get to do the fun stuff,” she says, beginning to count her points against her fingers, “that I’m not responsible for them, and that I get to hand them back at the end of the day.”