Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
But just as importantly, she learned how to put her brain to use by watching Dad, though she likes to play the dumb-blonde act to her advantage when it suits her.
“Wy, I can’t breathe,” she grunts, laughing despite her lack of oxygen. I squeeze a little tighter, and she thumps me on the back hard enough to take my breath away too.
“Oh, sorry. Just happy to see you,” I tell her, surprised at the honesty in my own words.
“You could’ve come visit anytime,” she reminds me. Her perfectly filled-in brow arches as she experiments with delicately calling me out.
“You could’ve come visit me anytime too,” I echo, not taking the bait.
“Psshaw, and leave all this.” Her smile is bright and as fake as a twenty-five-cent diamond from a gumball machine as she throws her hands out, indicating the house behind her.
“You’d like Newport, Wren. City shopping, for one. And there’s less . . .”—I search for the right word, but find only one—“Ford there.” Somehow, she knows exactly what I mean when I use our last name to describe the difference between Cold Springs and Newport.
Her nod is resigned. She understands better than anyone, I suspect. “There’s a lot going on here at the homestead, Wyatt. I didn’t feel like there was ever a good time to leave.”
“There never is.” The truth sits heavily between us. My leaving went over about as well as a stink bomb in Sunday school, but I still feel like it couldn’t have gone over any better regardless of the timing. “Well, let’s get this over with.”
I take a step toward the front door, following Mr. Puddles, but Wren makes a sound of uncertainty. She clears her throat, and I look down at her. “There are things you should know. About Winston, about Dad and Uncle Jed.”
I don’t stop my progress, on a mission now that I’ve started it. “I figured as much. Let me see what the hell they’ve gotten into now.”
I burst through the front door and into the grand foyer as my mother, Pamela Ford, comes rushing down the stairs. She’s wearing one of the typical uniforms she rotates through, a white tennis skirt with matching tank top. Objectively, my mom is still a knockout, even if there hasn’t been a Miss Cold Springs pageant in at least a generation. She’s diligent about taking care of herself with visits to the tennis courts, the salon, and I suspect, the doctor.
Her eyes go wide as she gasps at the sight of me. “Oh my goodness! Wyatt! Are you really here?” Her hands flatten against her chest dramatically. And the Best Actress Award goes to . . .
“Flesh and blood, Mom.”
“My baby!” she exclaims, running toward me. Her arms go around my waist, and I crouch slightly to wrap my arms around her shoulders, careful not to squeeze her too hard.
“I’m not a baby,” I growl, fighting a smile.
She pulls back, looking up to remind me, “Thirty-six hours of painful labor to push that big head out gives me the right to call you my baby for your entire life.”
Yeah, I’ve been hearing that one awhile. “Disagree. But I’ll agree to your life. Deal?”
In answer, she hugs me again. I take that as agreement and call it a win.
From somewhere behind me, Wren adds on, “Sounds like you’re assuming you’ll outlive Mom. That remains to be seen with the upcoming festivities. I’m predicting Mom’ll be wailing at your funeral within the week.”
“Oh, Wren! Don’t be like that,” Mom scolds her. Abandoning whatever plans she had, Mom starts dragging me toward the living room, talking a mile a minute and hitting me with rapid-fire questions. “I’m so glad you came for the wedding. Have you seen Winston yet? He’ll be so pleased to see you. How long are you staying? You’ll stay upstairs in your room, of course. Did you bring a date? You know she’ll have to stay in a different room so things are proper.”
“Mom.” The tone of exasperation is obvious and does at least make her pause to take a breath. “I haven’t seen anyone but you and Wren yet, but this is strictly a visit. I’m going home after the wedding.” She didn’t ask that, but I know it’s the one thing she wants to know, and I’ve got to stop that train long before it can even start to leave the station. “And I’m alone. I wouldn’t dream of subjecting someone I actually care for to this circus shitshow.”
Harsh, but true. And while my mother may not like it, Wren snorts and then mutters under her breath, “True that.”
“Wyatt,” Mom gasps again, this time more in horror than excitement at my presence. I dare to call my family situation a circus shitshow? Oh, the humanity.
A sudden shout brings us all up short, tension shooting through all three of us.