Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“I like your hair like that,” I said. “You should wear it curly more often.”
Her sculpted eyebrows lifted, and her hand went to her hair again. “Really? You think so? Your father always preferred it straight.”
It was strange to think of my father even noticing my mother’s looks. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d paid attention to anything other than his political ambitions. To be fair, those political ambitions were as much my mother’s as his own. Still, it made me sad to think she’d been keeping herself a certain way all these years for someone who didn’t seem to notice or care.
I thought of Flynn sitting across the breakfast table from me in thirty or forty years. Would I still notice him? Would I care what his hair looked like or what clothes he wore? Would I still want him?
I snorted softly at my menu.
Was it possible to be in the same room, the same state, the same universe and not notice Flynn?
Not crave his attention?
Not feel like he was the sun in the center of my personal solar system?
And not feel that jittery, heart-thundering sense of deep, deep need?
“Darling?” A little frown line appeared between my mother’s eyebrows as she peered at me over my menu. “Are you alright? You’re still breathing heavily even though the physical labor ended an hour ago. I think we need to get you in for a cardiac workup with Dr. Aldridge.”
“I… no… I’m not alright. I want to marry Flynn Honeycutt.” I grinned widely and felt the stress fall off my shoulders. “I’m in love with him, and I want to marry him.”
She tsk’d and rolled her eyes before looking back at her menu. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that,” I retorted. “I’ve only just figured it out myself.”
“I swear, you millennials act like we’re the ones without a clue.” She set her menu down and gave me a piercing look. “Jonathan, I have ridden many hours this day in your convertible, sans air-conditioning. My manicure has been ravaged so badly poor Corrine will disown me as a client, and I have knots in my shoulders that my massage therapist may never fully excise. Do not even get me started on the fate of my Aquarella Tieks.” She stuck out one dusty, blue-soled shoe and sighed. “Do you think I did that because you had affection for your Honeycutt beau? Because you and he have shared…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Carnal relations, however satisfying?”
“Oh, god,” I gagged. “Please, never say those words again.”
“No,” she continued, ignoring my interruption. “No, Jonathan, I did not. I did it because your happiness is my priority. And when you spoke to me about Flynn Honeycutt a week ago, I saw something on your face that I haven’t seen there in a long time: true passion. The same passion that drove you to rescue frogs as a tiny child. The same passion that made you want to leave Honeybridge for college. I’d hoped you’d have that same passion for your work at Fortress, but…” She shook her head. “No.”
“Mother.” I shook my head, amused. “I appreciate the support, but you’re wrong. I have been plenty passionate about my career.”
“You were dedicated,” she corrected. Her eyes perused the menu, though we both knew she’d order a salad. “The work was a means to an end, and that end was success. And there were certainly parts of it you enjoyed, I know. Perhaps, first and foremost, the opportunity to stay in New York.” She shot me a wry look. “But the business itself? The lifestyle? No, dear. They never put that light in your eyes.” Casually, she pointed to an item on the menu and pursed her lips. “Do you suppose they use imported mozzarella for these ‘mozzarella sticks’?”
“Highly unlikely,” I said, staring at her wonderingly.
“No, I suppose not. Well.” She set her menu down again and folded her hands atop it. “I must say that I am very relieved that you’ve found your passion with your young man. It’s possible to have a perfectly lovely life without it, of course. But one always wants the best for one’s children, doesn’t one?” Her voice sounded almost wistful, and it made me remember the story Marta had told me. I wondered if my mother had regrets.
Her prim and proper tone was back in place when she added, “Speaking of which, I would like grandchildren eventually. Ideally several. Honeycutts tend toward those monstrously large, boisterous clans, and I find I’m… not averse to that.” She lifted her chin. “Though I imagine that with my influence, my grandchildren will be considerably more civilized. And, of course, your inamorato will want to name them after painters, but perhaps he’d be open to naming them after some good, solid English landscape artists—Gainsborough, let’s say, or Constable—rather than those modernists.”