Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Will I ever have the same look?
Will I ever find love as she has?
Would I even want to?
Mom looks at Randolph as though he’s Prince Charming, but she’s forgotten how many tears she has shed because of him. It’s like the past has been scoured with bleach so that the future can be shiny, bright, and new.
I’m not like that. I don’t forgive easily. I hold my anger and resentment in my chest like a burning ball.
I don’t want to have to kiss frogs and then turn a blind eye to faults when I’m in my fifties and desperate. Randolph is pretending to be a good guy, and maybe he will be now that Mom is on his team, but my experience is that leopards don’t change their spots. We thought Dad was trustworthy until we found out he’d been playing hide the sausage with his secretary.
But I don’t want to think about that today. Today is all about new beginnings, albeit forced ones, and I need to take strides forward, not steps back.
“Message me when you get there,” I tell her for the millionth time.
“I will, and you do too. I want to know you’ve settled in and let me know what you think of the boys.” Her eyebrows rise, and it isn’t in a bad way. Is she insinuating that I might like one of them? We certainly don’t have the same taste in men, so I’m not hopeful.
We kiss again, and the hug Mom gives me is so tight it winds me.
I remain on the sidewalk while their limousine pulls away. I gaze back at the apartment block that has been my base for most of my memorable life. I’m anchorless and adrift in a swelling, heaving sea.
The removal van leaves ahead of me, and I plug Randolph’s address into my phone, so I have directions to follow. I’m not familiar with that neighborhood.
I slide my sunglasses up my nose and put my car into drive.
This might just be a journey across town, but it feels like the start of a new life.
I just know I’m going to hate it all.
2
CORA
The Carlton house is much more impressive than I envisaged. I guess my imaginative capacity is small for mansions with columns and gated carriage driveways. The removals van has already arrived, and my boxes and bags are already being unloaded onto the driveway. I feel like an imposter parking my beat-up Nissan on this grand driveway, wearing Doc Marten boots, a loose paisley dress, and a wide-brimmed black hat. It’s an outfit suitable for arriving at a cramped apartment in a terrible neighborhood, not a luxury home fit for a reality TV show about rich assholes.
I like my clothes and my car, and I definitely don’t like being somewhere that makes me feel as though none of it fits.
A man, who isn’t part of the small team of movers, emerges through the double-height doorway, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s one of Randolph’s sons, then I notice that he has gray hair at his temples, and I realize that he must be one of the staff.
Yes, they have staff. A housekeeper who cleans and does the laundry, and a groundsman who takes care of the outdoor spaces and cars. Can you believe it?
He looks up, noticing me across the driveway, and his head jolts back. Surprise widens his eyes, but I have no idea what he’s surprised about. Surely, he’s expecting me. He has his hands on a box of my cosmetics.
Placing the box back into the van, he makes his way toward me, brushing his hands against his pants. “Cora?”
“That’s me,” I say. “It looks like you drew the short straw dealing with the movers.”
“It’s my job,” he says, without emotion. “I’m Ross. I’ll show you to your room.” His eyes drift over me as though he’s thinking all the same things as me: cheap clothes, doesn’t belong, Randolph must have taken pity on her.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I lock my car, even though no one in this neighborhood will have any interest in rooting through my collection of cheap sunglasses or the receipts stuffed in the door compartment.
The entrance hall to the house is crazily impressive, with herringbone hardwood flooring and a ceiling height that would be more fitting in a cathedral than a home. The energy bills in the place must be astronomical in the winter.
I gaze up for so long that I feel my hat begin to slip, and my hand flies to keep it on my head as I spin in a slow circle.
A family portrait hangs above a large console table that must have been shipped in from a French chateau. The Carlton family, apparently over a decade ago, were captured by an oil painter who can only be described as mediocre. Randolph has his chin tipped up and his hand is resting on his eldest son’s shoulder in a pose that screams lord of the manor. The boys are all dressed in neat sweaters with their hair cut in a style ideal for members of the local country club. Mrs. Carlton is smaller than I expected, especially seeing as she birthed five sons. I don’t know how or when she passed away, but maybe it was from the exertion of such a large and demanding family. Her blue eyes stare out of the picture, judging me. Why are you here? she seems to ask. I wonder if my mom has seen the art piece, then I shake my head because of course, she has. She’s been dating Randolph for over a year. She must have spent a lot of time in his home while I was busy with college.