Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
I rock gently to and fro on the stool, watching Kam squint at the papers until he pulls out his glasses from his shirt pocket.
With the slacks and thin wire-rimmed glasses he reminds me of his father for a moment. He was a hedge fund manager and as Kam gets older, he looks more and more like him. Not that I would tell him that. He hated his father and for good reason. For similar reasons that I hated mine.
“We have three offers but we shouldn’t take any on the beach house. The one in LA you may want to consider, but I wouldn’t say yes to anything yet.”
His statement makes me pause the easy motion of back and forth. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘offers?’ How do we have bids if we haven’t put them on the market?”
His glasses tink as he closes them and then he passes me three papers. I don’t bother looking at them, he’ll explain it well enough. “We haven’t put them up on the market, but some realtors have contacted me. There’s clear interest but I thought maybe we should wait until you can see them one last time. Make sure that you are set on selling them?”
My heart does a little tumble and my fingertips go numb. I take a sip of tea, allowing it to warm my hands instead of replying.
If I were to go to those homes, especially the beach house, all I would see are memories of James. Even now, without stepping foot on the premises, I see him.
“I’d rather just sell them,” I tell Kam with finality and set the mug down. Memories flood in and I can’t shove them away.
“You don’t want to say goodbye? Have a look around? We’d be selling fully furnished and I don’t want you to regret that. Or regret anything.”
I remember the moment James and I bought our first house together in LA. I remember the snapshot we took, how he kissed my cheek and whispered, I love you, my wild girl.
Tears prick as I imagine never setting foot in the same bedroom where he made love to me, the same kitchen where he told me he loved me for the first time.
“Is it bad if I don’t?” I ask Kam and steady myself. I’m not going to cry. Not over houses and furniture. This is the home we spent the least amount of time in. We bought it because of the bedrooms. We wanted a family. And that family will never happen now. It was only hopeful wishes that lived here and they have since been replaced by reality.
“Not at all,” Kam is quick to answer and then offers, “Do you want pictures of any of them?”
“Pictures?”
“I had a photographer take photos of everything in the houses … if you want to see them to have a look over? Especially the items left behind. Is there anything at all you can think of that you don’t want sold with the properties?”
My answer is immediate. “There’s a picture by the bed in the beach house.”
The moment the statement leaves me, Kameron gives his complete attention to a manila envelope and takes out a bundle of photos held together with a paper clip.
I glance, but just as quickly return my attention back to the mug in front of me. The nervous energy doesn’t leave me alone. Neither do all the memories.
“This one?” he asks, handing me a printout of what could be a home decor magazine cover. I forgot how much we spent decorating that house to make it perfect. I forgot how luxurious it looked. The painting by James’s bedside was a gift I gave him the weekend before we got married.
He wanted to elope on an island off of the coast. I didn’t and he caved easily, telling me we could do whatever I wanted. The weekend before the wedding, which was set in an expensive hotel in Maui, we took a jet out to that island where in a simple white sundress, I told him my vows and Kam married us. Trish snapped the photo and my artist friend made it into a painting.
We both got the wedding of our dreams and none of our guests beyond our inner circle knew there were two.
That painting is a secret and a memory and it’s exactly who we were as a couple.
“I just want that painting, please,” I whisper to Kam and touch ever so gently at the corner of my eye, willing the tear not to fall. I remind myself that I am okay and there’s no reason to cry. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
“Of course,” Kam answers and he can’t hide the sympathy in his voice.
That’s what does it; the damn tear falls. “I think I want to see Zander,” I manage to get out with my throat tight. Rule three. Rule three.