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)
I don’t say anything. Just nod and resume my appreciation of this other world that exists, right alongside my own, on the far side of the country.
“She won’t want to see you today, Locke.”
I hate that she calls me Locke. But that’s what Nova calls me. That’s what everyone calls me, so I should just get over it. “Why not?” I keep my tone even. I hide the disappointment.
“She’s in a mood. One of the barn cats disappeared. Haven’t seen her for almost a week now.”
“Which one?”
“Whiskers.”
“Ahhh.” I frown, then tsk my tongue. I was there the night this one showed up begging for food a couple years back. All ratty and thin. Cold, and wet, and shivering. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s not dead,” Veda says. “She’s just lost.”
To be four. To be four and so optimistic. “You’re right. She’ll turn up.”
Veda grabs my hand. Hers is sticky and warm and this makes me smile. I let her tug me towards the barn where her mother must be. I let myself enjoy this moment.
But still, the thoughts creep in and crawl up my spine.
Is she mine?
Is she Mercer’s?
Is she Olsen’s?
Nova refuses to have a DNA test so I guess we’ll never know.
“She is mine.” That’s what Nova says if I bring it up.
And how can I deny her this one thing? Even if it steals something away from me in the end?
I can’t.
So I didn’t even try.
Veda stops in the open barn door. The farm is closed, but a few lingering customers are at the cash register paying for their soaps or whatever.
Nova is wearing oversized overalls with a white t-shirt underneath. Her long hair is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, and she’s talking in an easy, animated way to the group of young women with strollers who can’t wait to hand her money in exchange for the contents of their baskets.
She looks up and sees me, meets my gaze without pausing her conversation, then looks away.
“Well. She didn’t scowl at you, so looks like you’re in,” Veda says.
I can’t stop the chuckle. No one is surprised that Veda is smart. I mean, her mother is a genius. And whoever her father is, so is he. But I get a kick out of her conversation skills every time I come. And each time, her vocabulary is bigger and her possession of the nuance of English is more and more brilliant.
I wish I knew if she was mine.
But I don’t want to know if she’s not.
Veda leaves me there, scampering off through a door that leads to the baby goat part of this place, so I pretend to browse the wooden shelves stacked with various things made of lavender. You can buy fresh flowers, you can buy dried flowers, you can buy arrangements, you can buy essential oil, you can buy soaps, and lotions, and lip balms, and candles. Plus, there’s a row of glass-front refrigerators and freezers where you can buy goat’s milk cheese, and butter, and ice cream.
In the fall she serves baked goods too, but in the spring, she doesn’t have time for that.
It amazes me that she has built this new life in such a short time. I am constantly in awe of what she has accomplished. And even though I still feel that the world would be a better place if Nova Ryan was still at the Institute with us, I can’t blame her for leaving it behind.
I can only blame myself.
Finally, the women with strollers leave and Nova is alone at the cash register. I take a basket of soap up and put it on the counter.
She looks up and actually smiles at me.
I almost fall over.
“Would you like some bubble bath with that?”
I don’t fall over. But I do grin. She’s in a mood, all right. But it’s not a bad one. “You make bubble bath now?”
“Just put it on the shelves last week. People are going crazy for it.”
“That’s great, Nova. Really great.”
She packs my soaps into a plain brown paper bag without ringing me up. None of this is about money, but then again, it is. Not because she needs money, it’s just nice to make money doing something you love. It’s a justification, I guess. That your contribution to this world is worth it.
“Where are you staying?”
I look at her, trying to figure out if she’s telling me to leave, or making small talk, or teasing me. I go with teasing because I’m an optimist. “Here.”
She grins and folds the top of the paper bag over, then hands it to me. “Not tonight.”
“Why not tonight?”
“I’m just busy, ya know? You never call, you never write”—my guffaw bursts out before I can stop it—“you just show up.”
“If I call, or write, you’ll tell me not to come.”
“And yet you always do. Did it ever occur to you that I have a life? That I might be seeing someone? That I might actually love to see you, if I had notice?”