Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
When I enter, Dad is tearing through his office and yelling at poor Mr. Finley. “It’s got breasts on the front, young man. Great big ones! You puff on the mouthpiece, of course, not the breasts. But the breasts are nonetheless very important. It’s like art! It is art. I need it!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t seen any such … item … at all.”
When I enter the office, Mr. Finley half-heartedly searches along a bookcase as Dad pulls drawers from his desk.
“What’s the big deal with the pipe?” I place the box of cookies on the corner of his desk.
Dad narrows his eyes, his gray hair thick and in disarray.
“Is that … what’s that? Some cookies?” he asks.
“Yes, from the bakery.”
“Lorraine’s bakery?” He leans over and opens the box.
“Yes. She asked about you, by the way.”
“She did?” He grabs a cookie that’s shaped like a Christmas tree and covered in green sprinkles. “Lorraine. When we were young, the figure on her—it was like … Like a dream. Her ass—you could set a drink on it. And she was so funny. Smart. Everything, really.” His eyes get dreamy. “But of course she wasn’t from a good family. Just nobodies, really.” He coughs. “Not meant for me. Your mother… Yes, your mother was more suitable. With a good pedigree, or so my father said. . .” He pauses, lost in thought, but then he seems to remember himself. “Yes, your mother was far more suitable.”
I certainly don’t have time to get into the many, many ways my mom was absolutely unsuitable as a wife and a mother, so I try to focus on the one thing I can fix. “Why do you want a pipe?” I glance around at the mess he’s made.
“A pipe?” He munches the cookie and almost smiles, his eyes still dreamy as he likely pictures younger Lorraine’s rear shelf. “What pipe? Who wants a pipe? Didn’t Dr. Sunderland say I’m not supposed to smoke anymore? Not that I did it much. Your mother hated the smell. And I did anything I could to keep her from snapping at me.” He makes a face but takes another bite of the cookie and almost smiles again. “And you shouldn’t smoke, son. It’s a terrible habit. It’s bad enough that you became a mechanic, of all things. Opened a shop and everything. You could’ve been someone important, someone famous. Like Bobby Kennedy—but alive, of course. That’s important.” He munches thoughtfully. “Right, being a mechanic is one thing, but smoking is simply one bridge too far. I have to put my foot down on this one.”
Mr. Finley groans and starts setting the room back to order.
“Glad we got that straightened out.” I don’t roll my eyes, but I certainly think about it. “If you’re all set here, I have some work to do at the shop.” Not entirely true—my work has more to do with Ruby than anything. I want to know if my plan is working, and more importantly, I want to know the second she steps foot into town.
“Fine. I don’t know why you came up here to begin with. I never see you anymore. You really should take more of an interest in the estate since you’ll be inheriting it. You need to find a good match like I did. Then settle down here and, and, and … and do whatever it is we do. Yes? Yes.” He nods to himself.
“Right.” I pull him in for a brief hug and ignore the sprinkles he leaves on my shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few days unless you need me. Sound good?”
“I’m fine.” He waves me away and reaches for another cookie. “I’ve got young Finley here to do my bidding.”
“Young Finley” is sixty if he’s a day, but there’s no point reminding my father of that.
Mr. Finley gives me a kind, long-suffering smile as I back out of the office.
I hurry back to my car so I can return to town. Keeping an eye on the bakery is a full-time job. It’s a good thing I own the entire block right across the street. Now all I have to do is hunker down and wait for Ruby to show up.
Once she’s here, she’s mine.
4
RUBY
Luckily, the flight home was short. I’d barely made it to the airport in time to even catch my plane. But I was able to get on, and that’s all that matters. The last thing I needed was to linger around and change my mind about coming home. Plus, I know if I really had time to think about the consequences of my decision, I might not go.
There’s no turning back now, even though this most likely will get me fired. I really had no choice in the matter. What was I supposed to do? Leave my grandmother high and dry when she needs me? This has nothing to do with the longing I’ve had to come back home for a few years now. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.