Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
There are tears, not just from her. There’re smeared along my cheeks as well.
Emily.
The expensive treatment.
Debt.
His father dying.
The addiction.
The pride and need to protect his mom.
“So … you … what? Just happened to start dating the woman who stole our house?” Martha’s desperation bleeds with each word.
“She didn’t steal it. And the opportunity to keep this from you for a little longer just sort of arose, and I took it because I felt so much shame and regret.”
“Well, when you get married, the house will be back in the family. I mean … you’re going to marry her, right?”
My heart constricts as I stand, brushing off my legs; Martha’s so desperate for this to be true—and it constricts because I’m emotionally invested in his answer. Really invested in it.
Truth? I think I fell a little in love with Henry before I ever met him. I’d built up this idea of a Hermann Bechtel heir in my head, and when we came face to face, he didn’t disappoint.
Mesmerizing blue eyes.
A boyish smile.
An irresistible personality.
“I’m not marrying Serena. She’s not my real girlfriend. This has all been a terribly cruel farce to save face.”
I’m not his girlfriend. Okay. That’s fair. Sex doesn’t equal a relationship.
“You lost it all? Everything?” Martha says. Her words barely audible.
Henry nods.
Martha shakes her head, and her expression morphs into a harder one, anger … resentment. Hate? She aims it at me. “You can’t have this house. I don’t care what you think this Afina woman meant to Hermann. This was Marian’s house. This is where she raised her children and her children raised their children and …” She swallows hard and clenches her jaw. “This is where I raised my children. My Emily died in th—” A sob rips from her chest. “T-this house. And my husband …”
“Shh …” Henry pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair.
I wipe a tear from my cheek. I feel her pain. But my family’s life hasn’t been without tragedy either. I have no words. I choke on every single one that tries to find life past my lips while watching Henry collect his and his mother’s personal belongings and load them into his van. After Martha heads toward the driveway, Henry stands at the front door.
He can’t even look me in the eye. “The night you hit my mailbox, were you researching me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“For your fucking book?” His gaze finds mine. It’s no longer soft and endearing. It’s stony. Angry.
“No. I wanted to—”
“Save it. Just save it for someone who cares. Enjoy the house and your pile of letters and photos. You can go back to your life as a recluse.”
The door clicks shut.
I wait … I ponder … for a full thirty seconds before running outside in my socked feet and no jacket. As Henry backs out of my driveway, I bang on the passenger window.
He stops.
Martha won’t even look at me.
I open her door and slap the pile of letters and photos onto her lap. “You read them. You look at all the photos. I don’t need them. I already know. I know Hermann was a good man who loved Afina. I know he built this house for her. And I know he moved on to love another woman and have a family with her. I know that generations of Bechtels have lived here. But now, it’s my time. It’s my time to live in this house … that he built for my great grandmother. This house is ready to tell a different story.”
I slam the door shut and run into the house, freezing, and shaking right to my bones.
HENRY
“Hey,” I say the next morning, emerging from the bathroom, showered and dressed, hair wet and in need of a trim, along with my scruffy face.
Mom gives me a sad smile. Last night she refused to take the bedroom. From the looks of the bags under her eyes, I don’t think she did much sleeping last night. The photos and letters are scattered all over the sofa beside her.
She looks … defeated.
I did this.
“Merry Christmas,” she says with very little merriment to her greeting. “It’s a beautiful love story.”
I run my hands through my messy hair and take a seat in my recliner, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I let things get so out of hand. I just wanted to save Emily. I just wanted to—”
“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do this, Henry. I’m not angry. I’m grateful for everything you did. And I’m sad.” She pulls in a shaky breath. “I’m sad that I didn’t see it. What kind of mother doesn’t see that her child is struggling? I was so focused on Emily that I just …”
“I’m fine.” I nod several times. “I’m fine. This trailer is all I need. We both know it’s unlikely I’ll ever need more than this.”