Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“I thought it was supposed to be sunny in Spain,” an American, male voice said from behind me. I spun around and found a tall, handsome guy, trying to dry his face with his sweater.
“You’re American.” It was funny to hear that accent in such a faraway place. Perhaps it was a sign that right here was where I was meant to be.
“SoCal,” he replied.
I laughed. No wonder he looked so butthurt. “The rain isn’t personally directed at you. And anyway, look at how green it is, even in the middle of the city. Trees need the rain. It’s a tradeoff. You can’t have the greenery without the water. Breathe it in.” I faced the torrents and opened my arms in welcome. “It cleans everything away so we can start fresh.” I had to believe that Madrid was the beginning of my future and not just a stop I was making while I ran from my pain.
“I’m Jackson,” he said, and I turned to look at him. “And whoever you are, you just made me feel a lot better.”
I grinned. “I’m glad. I’m from Oregon, so I guess I’m a little more used to the rain.”
He shook his head and huffed a chuckle. “So, Oregon, want to go grab a cup of something hot before taking in the Goya?”
I shrugged. I was just thinking how I needed distracting. “Sure,” I said. “As long as you don’t spend the whole time complaining that Europe isn’t just like California.”
“I promise,” he replied. A corner of his mouth turned up as he smiled, creating a dimple in his cheek that I wanted to poke with my index finger.
The Prado was waiting. My future was waiting. I just needed to keep taking it one step at a time.
Thirty-Eight
Gabriel
Penelope was always late but that didn’t mean I had to be, so I got to the restaurant exactly on time. I reached the hostess’s podium and saw Penelope waving from a table by the window. As much as I hated to admit it, every time I’d expected Penelope to stumble since she’d been back, she surprised me. She’d not missed a single play session with Bethany. She hadn’t tried to push me to tell Bethany that she was her mother. She hadn’t been underhanded and told her anyway. When I’d asked her to lunch, I hadn’t had to negotiate on day, time, or place. And she was on time.
“Please can I get some water?” I said to the hostess. “You want anything?” I asked Penelope.
“Water’s great.” She grinned at me. “Did you come from the office?”
I sat down and my phone buzzed in my pocket. “Excuse me.” I pulled out my mobile to see who had messaged me. Unsurprisingly, it was Mike. He seemed to get worse rather than better, constantly checking up on me—like I’d ever dropped the ball—and second-guessing my decisions.
“You need to make a call?” she asked. “It’s fine.”
I shook my head and picked up the menu. Mike would have to wait.
“I can’t believe you’re still doing it. Well,” she said, shrugging, “I never understood why you did the job in the first place. It’s not like you need the money.”
There was no need to dust off this dance that we’d done a thousand times before. My job wasn’t any of her concern. “You know I think it’s important that Bethany has a good role model. It’s good for her to see that everyone has to go out into the world and earn a living.” Working, and working hard, wasn’t a bad thing. “I don’t want to be just another trust fund kid.”
“I know,” she said. “But I don’t think that’s the only reason you do it.” I didn’t ask her to elaborate. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “You’re never going to end up as your father. You have far too much character for that.”
It was the kind of thing she would have said to me when we were married. At the heart of our relationship, there had always been mutual respect. It was what had always puzzled me about Penelope’s leaving. We didn’t argue. We bickered over little things but there had never been a fundamental disagreement. Or so I’d always thought. Her departure had come out of the blue. I’d been completely blindsided.
“Going to work keeps me honest.”
She paused and looked at me. “Really? Going to work and doing something you hate keeps you honest? Why not choose something you love?”
I wasn’t interested in a come-to-Jesus moment for myself. I wanted to hear about hers. “So, Penelope, why are you back?” I asked. “Why now?”
“I suppose I figured out what was important.”
“And that took three years?”
“There were reasons I left. And there were reasons why I didn’t come back. They weren’t necessarily the same. I don’t know how to explain it to you.”