Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
I look back to Walsh’s sweet little wife in her maternity skinny jeans and a simple tunic blouse. This place, with its shiny floors and little baby gate at the top of the stairs, the smell of something already cooking for dinner, shows me she is exactly what a man like Walsh needs. This house—she—must be a haven for Walsh after the cutthroat world he occupies all day. For a man who never wanted to grow up to be like his father, he married a woman who would make sure he never does.
“I practically grew up here, too, you know.” I tap my shoe over a familiar nick in the floor. “Walsh and I used to slide down this banister like monkeys.”
I open my mouth widely enough for her to closely examine my front tooth.
“I actually chipped my tooth here doing that.” I laugh, tapping the tooth in question. “Mother was furious. We got it fixed the next day, of course, but Walsh teased me for the longest.”
“I never realized that you and Walsh were…” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Friends?” I nod. “Yeah, even though my parents wanted us to be the cornerstone of the Bennett dynasty, and convinced me that I wanted that, too, we were friends first. Walsh has always been good to me.”
“He’s furious that your father isn’t supporting you against Kyle Manchester.” Kerris’s face shows her sympathy, her concern. “I’m sorry, by the way. I knew there was a reason that man made my skin crawl.”
She lifts her hands for the coat I’m sliding from my shoulders, hanging it on a vintage-looking coat tree tucked into a corner of the foyer. She walks back to me, hands slid into her back pockets and expression hesitant.
“I, um…well, I just wanted to say our situations are different, obviously,” she says. “But I know what it feels like to be violated, Sofie. The man who hurt me had been dead for years by the time I spoke out. The man who hurt you is not only still alive, but powerful and prominent, with many people supporting him. I think what you’re doing is incredibly brave.”
I’ve never heard Kerris’s full story, but I know she speaks from time to time for the Walsh Foundation about being molested as a child. She’s sorry for me? I can’t imagine the things she endured so young.
“I appreciate that, Kerris.” Something lodges in my throat. Maybe it’s the crow I need to eat. “Look, I know you and I have never been on friendly terms. I was a bit of a bitch to you. Old habits die hard.”
We both laugh at my admission, and I wonder if one day we could be friends. I don’t have many of those. Never have, but I sure could use some in this three-ring circus.
“But it’s obvious that you make Walsh happy,” I continue. “And believe it or not, ultimately, that makes me happy. This is probably as close to apologizing as I’ll get, by the way.”
Kerris meets my eyes, a fractional smile settling on her lips.
“Wow, Sofie.” She toys with a slim necklace hanging at her throat. “I never thought I’d see the day when you almost apologized.”
We laugh again, and I feel things loosen between us a little more.
“I gladly accept your almost apology.” Still smiling, she gestures toward what used to be, and I assume still is, the kitchen. “Let me check on this stew I’ve got going, and then we can head downstairs to my studio. The girls’ nap is over in about an hour, and nothing gets done once they’re up. They’re tyrants, both of them.”
“It smells delicious.”
I sniff the air appreciatively, sitting at the farmhouse table a stone’s throw from the island and counters that make up Kerris’s work space. I remember Kristeene Bennett’s kitchen as warm and cozy, but dark. They’ve renovated, adding a skylight that ushers in natural light to brighten the space.
“I know I’m totally the housewife stereotype, Crock-Pot and all.” She lifts the lid, stirring the savory-smelling stew. “But I’m a country girl. That’s never going to change. Walsh had them install a small greenhouse on the roof, so I grow my own vegetables. All the veggies in here were grown right over our heads.”
The distance between the wife I would have been to Walsh and the wife he needed continues to grow. Pictures of their girls, Brooklin and Harlim, decorate the refrigerator. Framed finger paintings hold a place of pride on one wall. A toy bin in the corner rests on a rug, and I can imagine the twins playing there while Kerris prepares dinner. It’s a scene, a life of domesticity I’m not sure I could ever achieve.
Only…something feels good about it. Looks are deceiving because Kerris, in spite of her modesty, is anything but the typical housewife. She owns a thriving high-end thrift store back in North Carolina and has someone like me here courting her to design jewelry. It’s apparent, though, that this is her first love. This life with Walsh and her children, it’s her first priority. I never saw this, not in my home and not with my friends growing up. Walsh at least had Kristeene for a mother, and a greater woman you’d never find. She probably planted the seed for this vision in Walsh’s head.