Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I snort. Because I know exactly how suffocating my mother can be. I ignore her jab about me not being here. She knows I have my reasons.
“You still datin’ Owen?” she says with a wry smile.
“Oliver. His name is Oliver, for shit’s sake. And I’ve been dating him for the last six years. It would be real nice if everyone could remember his name.”
“How come he isn’t here with you?”
“Because I’m going back to London as soon as I’m done with this estate business and I didn’t want him waiting around for me to finish.”
Sounds legit…enough. Whatever. It irks me that I’m constantly defending my boyfriend to my family when I really don’t think there should be a need for me to defend him.
“What about you? Are you dating anyone?”
Annabelle rolls her eyes. “So, how’d you lose the leg? Well, Bob, or Bill, or whatever the hell your name is, a tampon almost killed me.”
“Everybody around here knows what happened.”
I get a sideways glare. “As if I’d date anyone around here.”
“No cute––”
“No,” she barks.
Sliding off the barstool, she adjusts her shorts. “I gotta go. I’m teaching a private lesson at five and I have to be at the courts by four thirty.”
“I think it’s great that you’re coaching.”
“You know what they say––those that can’t play,” she voices tonelessly. The disappointment hiding beneath it can be heard from a mile away.
I can’t fault her. It’s so unfair. Bebe was the better player, the more naturally gifted one. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t ask myself why her and not me.
Stepping onto the porch, she turns abruptly.
“I’m sorry about the Open.” I shrug away her comment. “There’s always next year, right?” The glint in her eyes reminds me of the look she used to get when she was playing.
My gaze shifting briefly to the house across the street, ashamed that she’ll read my mind and see the truth. “Right.” My voice is flat. I can’t even muster up more than a half-hearted reply.
* * *
As soon as Bebe leaves, I check out the rest of the improvements Noah made to the house. The bedrooms upstairs have been left untouched for the most part. One of them was redecorated with wide plank flooring, cool ivory walls, and a king-size sleigh bed. I waste no time claiming that room.
My iPhone rings as I’m opening the luggage. Oliver’s name flashes onscreen.
“How was your meeting with the solicitor?” he asks as soon as I answer.
“Not great. I’m just…it’s hard to accept he’s gone. I’m staying in his house because…forget it, it’s a long story.”
Pushing aside the curtain, I glance out the window that overlooks Noah’s house. Maybe not the wisest choice but the rest of the bedrooms are dark and musty. Left as they were, they haven’t seen a new coat of paint since my grandmother died.
“He was sick for a long time.”
“I know but––”
“So technically you could catch a flight back to London tomorrow.”
“It’s not that simple, Oliver,” I respond while I open a drawer in the bathroom. A single toothbrush rolls around. A used one.
“Maren?”
I slam the drawer shut.
“Rowdy has this list,” I start again. “Stuff he wants me to do. It’s going to take time to sort that out.” I question how much to tell him because giving Oliver too much information is dangerous. He will inflict his opinions with impunity––whether asked or not. “He has a business partner and––”
“Darling,” he cuts in again. “Let the solicitors work it out. Come home and put this behind you. Don’t you want to see Bali?”
God forbid we actually ever agree on anything. “Spain.”
“Bali’s better this time of year.”
“I’m really not in the mood for a debate.” For once it would be nice if he could listen without the need to stage a hostile takeover of the situation. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Maren––” There’s a heavy pause. The inflection in his voice gives me hope that maybe he’s starting to get it, to understand that I need him to be a friend right now and not a motivational coach.
“Yes?”
He exhales. “Never mind. Talk to you tomorrow.”
As I stare at the darkened screen of my phone, I belatedly realize he didn’t say he missed me.
Then again, neither did I.
* * *
By the time I step out onto the front porch and take a seat on the swing, the sun is sinking in the west and the letter from Rowdy is burning a hole in the back pocket of the jean shorts I changed into. I push off the floor with my bare toes and rock the swing. In the distance the sweltering heat coming off the land blurs the blaze of orange lighting up the sky.
My focus shifts to the envelope in my hand. I rip it open, intent on getting this business over with.