Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“We didn’t want it to get cold,” he excused himself.
“Enjoy.” Riley hugged Mom and followed behind him.
“Wow,” I said, taking the seat closest to me. “Did you buy the place?”
“No. Would you like me to?” she asked, and even though she was smiling, I knew she wasn’t kidding. Nothing sounded better.
“I wouldn’t be able to run it,” I said quietly, tears threatening again. “I’m getting married, remember?”
“Lenora.” She sighed, reaching for my hand over the table. “Let’s talk about this. Did you leave your cell phone in the car?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Good.” She took her hand back and sipped her coffee. Mom never spoke about anything important on the phone since we knew that the government or my father probably bugged them. Maybe both, but we were only apprehensive about Dad.
“Before we get to that, how’s Wela doing?” I asked, setting my hand over hers and squeezing it as she’d done for me.
“She’s. . .made peace with death.” Mom swallowed.
“I’m so sorry, Mami.” I sighed.
“It doesn’t matter how old you are. Losing a parent sucks.” The grief in her eyes broke my heart.
Growing up, I was never really close to my parents. At home, I had two nannies with me day and night since I was born. My mother still participated in things like picking out my clothes and food, and sometimes, though very rarely, she’d tuck me in. When I turned eight, I was sent away for school. There, I was free, or as free as you can be in a boarding school that felt like a prison at times, surrounded by guards.
I only saw Dad during the holidays. Mom tried, though. She visited me throughout the year. She convinced Dad to buy the property in Connecticut so she could be closer to me. Still, she was married to my father and seemed to tell him everything, which strained our relationship. Sometimes, that mother-daughter bond doesn’t form because of things like that. Trust is important, so it’s hard to get it back when someone breaks it.
“I can’t even imagine.” I took my hand back. “I won’t see her before she goes, will I?”
“I doubt it, babe.” She took a croissant and started tearing it apart on her plate. “I wanted to meet out of sight to tell you something.”
“You’re finally leaving Dad?” I asked, sitting up straight.
“What?” She laughed. “No. I don’t think your dad would let me leave even if I wanted to. He’s too dependent on me.”
No truer words had been spoken. Giuseppe De Luca didn’t let go of anything until he was ready, which was never since Dad was a hoarder — of people, land, and things in general.
“So, what is it? You’re not sick, are you?”
“Will you let me talk?” She shot me a stern look, and I shut my mouth. “I want to give you a chance to get away.”
I snorted. “As if I could ever get away from this life.”
“You can take a break for a couple of days,” she said. “I have a place no one knows about. Not even your father.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Do you want to take a break from all of this and recharge for a few days?” she asked, ignoring my disbelief.
“Can I even leave? Won’t Dad . . .” I was trying to wrap my head around it.
As far as I knew, my father was leaving for Connecticut today and Italy for a business trip soon after. My stomach clenched at the thought of my father realizing something was missing from his office. I wasn’t stupid. Dad had cameras everywhere. I knew, at some point, he’d watch them as soon as he noticed. I placed my hands on my lap, twisting them together. Now that it seemed to be coming true, I felt the pressure to leave.
“I already told you not to worry about your father.” She reached out and set her hand on the table, palm facing up.
I looked up at her as I slid mine onto hers. Her eyes held love and compassion. My mother had always been too kind. She lent a hand to anyone and everyone who needed it. I always thought it was her way of counteracting all the bad shit my father did. I never understood why she’d married him, to begin with. I’d heard how they met, but it was always told through my father’s lens. He was in the Caribbean, meeting with some important people when my mother walked by, and sparks flew. I’d never heard the story from my mother’s angle, though. I took my hand back and popped a piece of the croissant into my mouth.
“Oh, my God. This is so good.”
My mother laughed. “I can buy it for you if you want.”
“The cafe?”
“Yes.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’ve always wanted your own coffee shop.”
“Mom.” I looked down at the croissant and indulged the idea for a moment. I could own and run this little cafe, ordering dough and everything else we might need. It would be a dream to do it, but how would I? I wasn’t even going to live in this country. Still, out of curiosity, I asked, “Is it for sale?”