Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I thought of Lynnette often over the years.
I thought about her off-kilter advice too.
It rained all the time when I was staying in London years ago, but anytime I felt stationary, I’d just move along to somewhere new. And when the stagnancy followed me, I’d pick up and leave again.
As much as I’ve been a rolling stone gathering no moss over the years, there’s a stagnant piece of me I haven’t been able to shake. A piece that’s still here in Arcadia Grove, a piece I’m ready to cut loose once and for all so I can finally be free.
Maybe I’ve gone about it all wrong.
Maybe I should’ve lain in the rain.
FIVE
ANNELIESE
pluviophile (n.) a lover of rain, someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days
“Oh, honey, I’ve got this.” Florence places her hand over the dinner bill Tuesday night. “My treat.”
It’s always her treat.
I look forward to the day when I can return the favor.
“You don’t have to do that . . . ,” I say, like I always do, knowing full well she’ll insist until she’s blue in the face. Florence is too good to me. We’ve only become friends in the past few months, but I get the sense that she’s taken pity upon my situation and enjoys looking out for me. A couple of years ago, she lost her husband of fifty years, moved here on a whim because she thought it was a charming little town, and then bought a quaint cottage in the historical district and poured her life savings into Arcadia Used Books.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, rolling her eyes. On a handful of occasions, she’s made small comments about having never had children or the fact that her closest niece and nephew live in California and she rarely hears from them except on her birthday. “I’m the one who invited you out. You know I adore your company.”
Flo is also well aware of my financial situation.
She slips two large bills into the black leather envelope and slides it to the end of the table. The restaurant has been packed tonight, and our waitress is spread thin. It’s going to be a while before we get out of here, not that I’m in a hurry. I’m going home to a big, empty house.
In a way, finishing the house is my equivalent of Flo’s bookshop. We both needed to pour our energies into something to distract us from our bleak realities.
“You know the other day at the shop?” I ask Florence. “When I thought I saw someone I knew?”
Her eyes crinkle at the sides, and she toys with her white Lucite necklace. “Ah yes. I do.”
“He looked exactly like Donovan,” I say.
Her mauve lips press firm. “That must’ve been upsetting for you.”
It was a lot of things.
“He . . . that man actually showed up at my house on Sunday.” I crumple my napkin in my lap.
“What? What do you mean, he showed up at your house?” Florence leans closer, angling her left ear my way.
“He says his name is Lachlan . . . and that he’s Donovan’s brother . . . but Donovan never mentioned he had a brother.”
Florence frowns, straightening her posture. She doesn’t like what she’s hearing.
But to be fair, I don’t like what I’m saying.
“Are you one hundred percent sure that’s his brother?” she asks.
“No. Of course not. But he looks like him. Nearly identical. And he knows his name. Claims the house is legally his . . .” I exhale. “And he’s not wrong. I mean, if he is Donovan’s brother . . . there was no will and no heirs. At least none that I know of. He’d be the next of kin.”
“Oh my, my, my.” She fusses with the wedding band she still wears. “What did you tell him?”
“I asked him to leave,” I say. “And he did. But he wants the house. I don’t think he’s just going to walk away—especially if it’s legally his.”
“Are you absolutely certain Donovan didn’t leave a will?” she asks. “If he forgot to mention his brother, perhaps he forgot to mention that as well?”
She’s giving him the benefit of the doubt—which I’d love to do, but Donovan was an impeccable person. Slightly type A. Organized and meticulous. If he’d had a will, he’d have surely mentioned it. But being thirty, perhaps he felt he was young and invincible and had more time to worry about those things. That and who knows what other secrets he was hiding—someone capable of ripping off an honest, trustworthy woman isn’t going to put all their dirty dealings on paper.
“He wouldn’t have forgotten something like that,” I say. “He purposely didn’t tell me.”
“In all fairness, sweetheart, the two of you had a bit of a whirlwind courtship. It is likely there are certain things about him you’d yet to learn,” she says. “I was with my Lou over fifty years, and there were still things I didn’t know about him. Little things, of course. Nothing as major as what you’re dealing with, but I think it’s human nature to never fully show our hand to everyone we know. We’re all entitled to keep a little bit of something for ourselves.”