Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“My grandmother taught me about family. About passion. About what’s important in life. She taught me how to live.” Except if she were here now, I didn’t think she’d be impressed with how I’d been applying her lessons. At least not where Sofia was concerned.
Thirty-Nine
Sofia
For the first time since Natalie had returned to New Jersey, I felt homesick. I kicked off my shoes, nudged the front door shut with my butt, and padded into my bedroom to change. Up until now, London had kept me distracted. First it was finding a job, then Andrew, James, Bob Goode, and finally Verity. I hadn’t had time to notice how lonely I felt.
As if she’d heard me from three thousand miles away, my cell flashed from where it had been discarded on my bed. Natalie.
“I miss you,” she said before I could say anything.
“I miss you too.”
We hadn’t actually spoken since she’d found out that I was sleeping with Andrew. There’d been texts here and there. I’d told her about my new job. She congratulated me. I’d told her that Andrew and I weren’t sleeping together anymore, and she offered to call. I’d assured her I was fine.
I wasn’t fine.
“I’m sorry I was so down on Andrew,” she said. “You obviously saw something in him that I didn’t.”
Even now it felt like I saw a side of him that he didn’t share with most people. And that’s why it was so hard to understand why he’d just ended things. He hadn’t even suggested we try being together and working together. Maybe I’d been wrong about thinking what was between us was special. I’d assumed he felt the same. If he had, though, he would never have been able to walk away so easily. What I’d had with Andrew had been different from anything I’d ever had with someone else. He’d been the first man I’d really trusted be true to his word—the first man I’d been so completely and utterly myself with.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s over now anyway.”
“Over? You want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about. He doesn’t mix business with . . . anything. So, here we are.” I pulled on my favorite Yankees tee and slipped off my skirt.
“But he promoted you, so that’s nice.”
“He did. And I love the job. It’s impossible and stressful, but I still love it.” Sweatpants on, I shuffled the four steps to the kitchen. A life with no money in New York had me well trained for living in this tiny apartment.
“You don’t sound happy,” she said.
“I’m fine.” I had my dream job. What didn’t I have to be happy about? I was making more money. I was getting along with my father. I even had time to go and see some of London now I wasn’t job searching or sleeping with my boss. I had nothing to complain about.
“How are things with Des?”
“Good. He’s . . . He’s a nice man. Not the monster I expected.” If he’d been a monster, it would have been far easier to ask him for the money, take it and get my mom better. But he was a good man who had just made mistakes. Maybe I would find the right time to ask him. Just not yet.
“Is he going to give you the money?”
“I haven’t asked him yet.” I didn’t tell her about the will. “It’s harder than you think to ask someone for fifty grand. Even if they owe you.”
“I imagine it is. Especially if you want to have an ongoing relationship with them.” She didn’t ask it like a question, but it was one—and I didn’t have the answer. I knew I wasn’t ready to close the door on my father. I had too many questions. Too much I wanted to know. I didn’t know how long that would last.
I collapsed with a glass of wine onto the sofa that had been my bed for my first few weeks in London and told Natalie what my father had told me about his parents, my mother disconnecting her phone and him trying to find us years later when he came into his own money.
“Do you believe him?”
“I do. He defended my mother. He doesn’t blame her. He holds himself accountable and he’s . . . sorry.”
“Have you told your mom?”
I needed to tell her I’d made contact with my father. At some point. I just didn’t know when.
Or how.
“She doesn’t need to know. Not yet. It would only hurt her, and what purpose would it serve? I don’t need her feeling guilty or full of regret for cutting him loose. She did what she had to.” I didn’t blame my mom. She’d described the situation and my father as honestly as she could. There was always more than one version of the truth. My mother had hers; my father had his.