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)
He painted the picture of a charmed childhood.
I can’t imagine how a house filled with so many joyful memories for one brother could be nothing more than trash to the other.
“Thanks for your help.” He lifts the bag with the greeting card before heading toward the door.
I try to say his name, a feeble attempt to keep him from leaving so we can continue this conversation . . . but nothing comes out.
For the first time in my life, I’m speechless.
EIGHT
LACHLAN
logophile (n.) a lover of words
“You didn’t have to get me anything, kid.” Lynnette swats at my chest Thursday afternoon when I show up with a birthday card and a twelve-pack of Diet Pepsi. I’m sure she’d have much preferred a carton of cigarettes, but I don’t condone that shit. “Get your ass in here and have some cake. My sister baked it from scratch—double-layer German chocolate. Our grandmother’s recipe.”
She sets the case of soda on the kitchen table and rips into the card.
“‘Happy birthday,’” she reads from the front before flipping it open. “‘Words are cheap and so am I. That’s why I’m only giving you one this year . . . tacenda.’”
“Tacenda,” I echo.
“Still obsessed with those obscure words, I see,” she says, arching her mouth. “What’s this one mean?”
“Things better left unsaid.”
“So in other words, I’m the most amazing person in the world, you’re sorry for not keeping in touch better over the years, you’ll never do it again, and you love me,” she says.
“Sure.”
“Wiseass.” She throws her lanky arms around me and gives me a bite-size bear hug. “I still have that calendar you gave me for Christmas all those years ago, the one with the word of the day. Never used it but never threw it out either.”
“That counts for something.”
“Maybe it’ll be worth something someday?”
“Doubt it.”
“No, I mean, when you’re a famous writer. I can say Lachlan Byrne gave this to me when he was sixteen years old,” she says.
“Ever the optimist.” Some things never change.
“You still writing?” she asks.
“Not lately.” Part of the reason I moved out of the country was to get away from my toxic upbringing, but the other part was to experience the kind of life I’d only ever read about in books and magazines. I thought it would inspire me and help me work on my craft. And it did. To a point. But somewhere along the line, I sidelined my passion in favor of beautiful women, late-night pub crawls, and thrill-seeking adventures of the European variety.
I can’t remember the last time I picked up a pen for the sheer pleasure of writing.
“Sit down, Lach. I’ll slice you some cake,” she says. “But you can’t have it until you sing me ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Guess I’m going hungry then.”
She laughs as she slams cupboards and drawers, and a minute later, she places an over-the-top triangle of double-layer cake in front of me.
“You want a glass of milk to wash it down?” she asks. But before I can respond, she’s already halfway to the fridge.
She was always like this when I was growing up—doting on me the same way she doted on her own flesh-and-blood son. I always found it bittersweet that her birthday was the same date as my mother’s death.
The two never met each other, since Lynnette and Bryce moved here years after Mom died. But I like to think that they’d have been friends, and I always pictured them sitting side by side at my games in coordinating school colors.
“You hear from Bryce?” I ask between bites of cake rich enough to put me in an instant sugar coma.
“Yeah, he called me yesterday. Cell service is spotty where he is because they’re pretty close to the mountains, but he’s doing well. I told him you were in town. He made me promise not to let you leave before he gets back.”
“Ha. I’m sure I’ll be here awhile. I met with an attorney yesterday. Says we’ll need to file to open an estate to transfer the house into my name. If everything goes smoothly, it could take four months, but if Anneliese files a claim against the estate, we’re looking at a year, at least. Maybe longer. And I wouldn’t be able to sell the house until the claim is resolved.”
“Do you think she will?” Lynnette takes the seat beside me and props her head on her hand.
“Apparently she dumped her life savings into that shithole.”
Lynnette shakes her head before throwing her hands in the air. “I don’t want to judge, because I’ve made some crappy decisions in my day, but that’s just . . . oof.”
She doesn’t mention Donovan—she doesn’t need to.
Tacenda.
Some things are better left unsaid.
“I have a feeling she’s going to fight me on this every step of the way,” I say.
Yesterday Swank said to get the ball rolling he needed a copy of Donovan’s death certificate—which I’m assuming Anneliese has. Once I get that, we can open an estate, and once I’m named administrator of said estate, I can transfer the house into my name, and the rest is history. Given the fact that both of our parents are deceased and Donovan had no wife, children, or will, Swank doesn’t foresee an issue, as I’m Donovan’s closest living relative. The only hiccup would be if she files a claim against the estate to recoup renovation costs, but he said that could be tricky, proving that the money came directly from her, funneled into Donovan’s account, then went directly to pay for materials and labor. The whole thing sounds convoluted and expensive—at least on her end.