Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
I stare at Heron’s cocky, accomplished, unfairly gorgeous face in the picture and frown, imagining those dangerous lips saying, Come. Interview with us. Destiny awaits.
“I guess I should try it. Maybe. It can’t hurt worse than what already went down.”
So what if my pride takes another direct hit? If I get a job out of this, it’s worth a shot.
And if it really is a sadistic prank and Heron tries something outrageous?
Well, he’ll find out a latte spritzer is just one of my many talents when I’m backed into a corner.
* * *
“I love your parents’ house,” Paige says when she drops me off.
I laugh. “You always say that.”
“It’s true! It looks like something out of a fairy tale. Lord of the Rings hobbit home, tucked away right here outside Chicago.” She bats her eyes, temporarily somewhere else.
Uh, no. Paige is too well off to get that folks settle into these cramped, older working class homes for decades not because it’s fun—it’s because they’re priced out of anything nicer by exploding real estate prices, and they’re the lucky ones to have a home.
The tiny stone Bedford Park bungalow I grew up in will always be magical, though.
It’s the place I still think of as home.
She doesn’t know the tall purple flowers capping the stairs to the front porch are fake. Or that the house was already dilapidated when we bought it, and Dad spent fifteen years getting it to the general state of passable shabbiness it’s in today. From the curb, it just looks charming and rustic.
“Thanks, lady. Thanks for everything today.” I get out of the car and wave to her, heading for the door.
Placing my hand on the knob, I’m about to get my key, but a sneaking suspicion occurs to me.
I turn it instead. Yep, the door sails open.
They’re still not locking it.
“Mom? Dad? You guys know Bedford Park isn’t like, Mayberry, right?” I shout as I step in and shut the door, shifting the lock loudly into place. “It’s changing all the time. It’s not safe to leave the door unlocked.”
“Aw, Brina baby, we ain’t got nothing for anybody to steal,” Dad says from his recliner without taking an eye off the Cubs game on TV as he takes a swig of his iced tea.
How am I going to convince them that while that may be true, some nut could still stab them in their sleep for the sport of it? I take a seat next to Dad on the lumpy couch.
From the kitchen I hear, “Hel-lo-oo!”
“What’s Mom doing?”
“Dishes.”
“And show tunes?”
He looks up from the game.
“She’s in a good mood. Up to six hundred books sold after this month. It’s always entertaining when your ma’s happy.” He laughs at her off-key rendition of “Hello Dolly.” “She deserves to be happy.”
“Is my Brina home?” Mom calls from the kitchen.
I smile because she already knows the answer, but she keeps up this cozy, familiar game of making me feel welcome like only Mom can.
The house is small. Barely any space separates the kitchen from the living room where Dad and I sit. Before I can answer, she peeks through the passthrough and shrieks. Then she runs through the door, lifts me from the couch, and squeezes me in a tight hug.
“Welcome home, baby!”
I close my arms around her. “Hi, Mom.”
“Guess what?” She pulls away excitedly, and I can guess what she’s about to say.
“You sold six hundred books this month?”
“Oh, Nolan, you shouldn’t have told her! It was my news.” She waves a hand at my dad.
“Sorry, babe.” He doesn’t look away from his game.
I manage an awkward smile I hope to God doesn’t look suspicious.
Mom would be crushed to smithereens if she knew that over the past three months, I’ve bought six hundred and ten copies of her various titles and shipped them to libraries and used bookstores.
It’s going to be impossible to do that this month, and it kills me.
My parents depend on those book sales for extra money and Mom’s sanity. She’s struggled at this writing thing for years.
I always told her she’d make it someday. And if I have to help that along in my own secret way, so be it.
My face must betray my thoughts because Mom says, “Sabrina, honey, what’s wrong? You got so serious all of a sudden.”
“Oh. Nothing.” I smile. “Nothing at all!”
“Well, come into the kitchen and let me get you a cup of coffee.”
I follow Mom over and sit down at the four-person table. Her five-year-old writing laptop currently occupies a seat, the lettering on the keys worn off. The dishwasher gurgles behind us.
She returns to the table a minute later with two piping hot mugs of coffee and hands one to me.
“I’m working on a new book called Farm Love. It’s going to be my best yet.”
“That’s cool. What’s the story?” I ask, taking a long pull of warm coffee. It’s not Sweeter Grind but it’s familiar, and that makes it good.