Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
The dress fits like it was custom-tailored just for me and the stylist pins my hair up in an elegant updo that I would never have the imagination to conjure up. She keeps most of my makeup natural, but a red dress demands red lipstick.
And I have to admit, as I watch myself walking in the full-length mirrors lining the lobby of the restaurant, that I look amazing.
No one would ever know that I grew up in a trailer park.
This thought makes me wince as Mercer puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me forward as we are led through the restaurant. Because I’m not ashamed of where I come from. I love my parents. Nothing will ever convince me that I missed out on anything because of where I started.
Not this dress, not this hair, and not this man.
The table we’re led to is empty. Mercer holds my chair, then pushes it in as I sit.
There are three chairs placed equidistant around a round table and he takes the seat to my left. “We’ll have a bottle of your best champagne, please.”
“Very good, Mr. Mercer.” The maître d’ motions with a finger, and sets this request in motion. “Your mother wanted me to inform you that she’s running seven minutes late.”
“Thank you,” Mercer replies. And then he catches my grin as the maître d’ retreats. “What?”
“Seven, huh? Not six, not eight, but seven.”
“Oh, you wait.” He smiles, and the champagne is there. He doesn’t get to pop the cork on this one and I think he might be a little disappointed about that. But he acquiesces, and even allows the wait staff to pour our drinks.
When they leave, he holds up his glass.
I say, “To fresh starts and new beginnings.”
And he positively grins. “I’m really beginning to like you, Nova.”
“I think I have always liked you, Mercer. But this day has been a real eye-opener.”
“How so?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “How so? Is that a real question?”
“Real question.”
I look around, maybe even blush. “You’ve surprised me at least a dozen times today.”
“List them.”
He and I both chuckle.
Then he puts up a hand. “No. We’ll have to do that later. Mother is coming.” He stands up, smiling. And I turn in my chair. An older woman, but not an old woman, approaches Mercer. She is tall and lean—like her son. And even though she must be, at the very least, upper fifties, she has the poise, and movements, and appearance of a much younger woman. In fact, the only thing that really gives away her age is her hair. It is blonde. Or platinum. Or both. I can’t tell. It’s long, I think, but piled on top of her head much the way mine is. Not the exact same updo, but not that dissimilar, either. She’s wearing a dark purple gown with intricate gold embroidery on the neckline and cap sleeves. And the jewels. A drop diamond necklace, matching drop earrings, and a cuff around her wrist.
My first instinct is that they’re not real.
But of course they are. She is Mrs. Mercer.
She and Mercer both carefully place their hands on each other and do a well-practiced air-hug and kiss.
They turn to the table and I suddenly wish I was standing in this moment because I feel very small and vulnerable.
“Don’t get up,” Mrs. Mercer says. “I’ll sit.”
It’s like she can read my mind.
Mercer holds her chair, then pushes it in before taking his seat on my left. “Mother, this is Nova Ryan.”
She smiles at me. It’s a warm smile too. “So lovely to meet you, Nova. Silas has told me so much about you.”
“Mother,” Mercer cautions. Like he doesn’t want her to say too much about what he may or may not have told her about me.
“Don’t worry, Silas. I won’t embarrass you. But she’s lovely, isn’t she?”
“Very,” Mercer says.
“You will call me Patricia,” Mrs. Mercer announces.
“Thank you.” I finally find my voice. “It’s very nice to meet you, Patricia.”
“I’m sure Silas told you all about me, as well. Hmm?”
I smile and nod. “He mentioned a thing or two. But do you know what he didn’t say?”
“Tell me,” she whispers. Like she’s about to get a secret out of me.
“He didn’t tell me how beautiful you are.”
Her face lights up. Then she beams at Mercer, which is maybe a little over the top because there is no way that Patricia Mercer doesn’t understand exactly how beautiful she is. “I like this one,” she says. “Keep her, will you?”
Mercer is pouring her a glass of champagne. “She’s my work partner, Mother. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. But I’m telling you, she’s a keeper.” She lifts her glass and gestures to me. “Dear Nova, I do hope you will stick around. My son can be”—she side-eyes him—“a bit much, at times. But he’s worth the trouble.”