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)
“Don’t sass me, young lady. You know cancer runs in this family.”
“Yes, I’m wearing sunscreen, but I just played a tournament in the middle of summer.”
At the mention of the tournament she frowns. “How’s the wrist?”
“Broken. Didn’t Be tell you?”
The question hangs between us nine months pregnant with all the old hurt feelings we never discuss. My old hurt feelings, that is; she doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. A spot in the middle of my chest starts to itch and I unconsciously scratch it, then wince when a current of pain zips up my injured wrist.
“Not the details.”
Last thing I want to do right now is rehash that loss. Automatically, I pull out of her hold and make my way to the stairs that lead to my old room.
“Where are you going, honey?”
Halfway up the stairs, I stop and turn to face her. “To take a shower.”
My mother’s face twists in discomfort. “Oh…”
“What?” Dread trickles into my gut.
“He forgot to tell you.” My mother makes another face. This one says she’s mad at my father. Practically on cue, the man soon to be in the doghouse walks through the front door and grins widely when he spots me.
“Cupcake!” my father shouts with cheerful exuberance.
When I was eleven, I overheard the father of the girl I was playing in a summer tournament tell his daughter that she was going to beat me soundly. His exact words were, “You’ve got this one, sweetheart. That girl’s nothin’ but a cupcake.”
I won without breaking a sweat. And as I was walking off the court, I shouted, “I ain’t no cupcake.”
Needless to say, my father will never let me live it down.
“When did you get in?” He smiles broadly. Save for the silver threaded through his wavy, strawberry-blond hair, he looks exactly the same. Same blue button-down. Same khakis. Same sturdy brown shoes.
“A couple of hours ago. What didn’t you tell me?”
Judging by their matching blank stares, it’s a good bet I won’t like it. Two minutes later I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be my old bedroom, the bedroom that now resembles somebody else’s Ritz Carlton presidential suite.
“We figured…” My mother hems and haws. “Well, since you hardly ever come home and when you do, you always come with Owen––”
“Oliver,” I correct, more than a little peeved. Really? It’s been six years. Would it kill her to make an effort to remember the man’s name?
“Yes, him––you two stay at the hotel so we thought…”
“Bebe really needed more room,” my father butts in. And there it is, the guilty look they’ve been sharing since my sister got sick.
“Guess I’m staying at Grandpa’s.”
Chapter Four
Maren
My father parks the car in my grandfather’s driveway and we both sit quietly, staring up at the white clapboard farmhouse. So many memories tied to this place. Good and bad.
“You need me to come inside with you?”
“No,” I answer quietly, lost in thought. “I can’t believe he’s gone. And I can feel it, you know––the way his personality would fill this place, like it had mass. It feels eerily empty now.”
My father nods. “This is your place now.” He dangles a set of keys.
The wind knocked out of me, it takes me a minute to respond. “Mine? What do you mean mine?”
“Your grandfather left it to you.”
I guess I should’ve stuck around the lawyer’s office a minute longer.
My father smiles, but it’s one I can’t decipher. A knowing smile? A sympathetic one? Something about it makes me immediately wary. He pries open my hand and places the set of keys in my palm.
“Why would he leave it to me? I’m hardly here. He should’ve left it to you, or Annabelle.”
“I don’t know for certain––you know Grandpa, he never felt the need to justify his actions.” His smile lingers. “I have a pretty good idea though.”
“What, Daddy? Spit it out.”
“I think he wanted you to have a place to call home. Somewhere to come back to when you’re done with your career.”
“I went to see his lawyer before I came by the house.” That statement does not produce even the slightest ripple on my father’s calm expression. “I take it you knew? About this absurd stipulation to his will?”
“Like I said, sweetheart, your grandfather never explained himself.” He faces me then. “Least of all, to me.”
It was no secret that my grandfather and father were never close. My grandma used to say, “Two sides of the same coin: always at odds, never at even.”
“Well, it’s ridiculous and I’m not coming back. Annabelle can have the house.”
Something in his pale blue eyes dims. “It’s good to have you home, Cupcake.”
Leaning in, I smack my dad’s smooth cheek with a kiss. “Don’t get out.”
“Need help with the bag?”
“No, I’m good.”
I get out of the car and grab my bag from the back seat. Standing on the porch, I watch his Cadillac sedan pull out of the driveway and disappear down the street.