Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
She blinks in horror. “You’re coming too?”
“Of course.”
“What? Then why do they need a tour guide? You’re at least as much of a local as I am. I’d argue more so since I just came back here weeks ago.”
“I promise you in two weeks you’ve seen all the latest changes in this town. Shirley’s Chowder Shop added a Fourth of July special and Max’s Garage works on electric vehicles now.” I give her a cutting look. “You do realize we have to interact since I’m signing your checks?”
“Unfortunately.” She sighs. “This has to violate some kind of rule.”
I snort. “You charged me an extra fifty thousand dollars for dealing with my temperament. I have to make sure you are dealing with me, or you aren’t earning your keep.”
“God, you must be miserable to work for.”
I shrug. “Yet no one ever leaves for greener pastures. Luckily, you work with me, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m working for fifteen hundred Benjamin Franklins. You just happen to be an unfortunate part of the arrangement.”
Inwardly, I’m smiling my ass off at the claws this kitten has.
I just wonder if they’ll wind up scratching my back in all the right places or ripping my throat out.
An hour or so later, we’re standing on the main pier in the marina, staring at a heavenly summer landscape.
Jenn and a couple others alternate between laughing among themselves and taking test shots of the gorgeous seascape.
No matter how hard I try to ground myself, the town cemetery across the street keeps grabbing my attention.
How many fucking years has it been?
I stopped counting a long time ago.
The tall, polished mausoleum—the only one that’s regularly well kept—still looks out of place here, no matter how much time passes.
If I hadn’t always had a soft spot for this town, I wouldn’t be a Cromwell.
Still, I don’t understand why anyone would pick this place to spend eternity. With everyone occupied in planning, I slip away and walk up the street to the florist a few blocks over.
The wreaths here aren’t like the ones Lottie used to make by hand.
She’d clip her own flowers and do the arrangements herself, bright halos of appreciation that reminded the dead they were loved when the living couldn’t.
Thanks to her, every grave had one a few times every year.
This town lost a guardian angel the day she died.
But I can’t come this close to my mother’s grave and not leave something, so I find a simple blue wreath and buy it for later before I walk toward the pier.
Even from here, I can see Miss Landers and the team still taking selfies, videos, and playing around. Smokey Dave becomes as serious as a sniper the second he’s behind his camera, and I remember why I put up with his antics.
They haven’t noticed I’m gone.
Good.
Another reason it’s increasingly hard to care about what happens in Seattle. I’m not needed when the machine runs this smoothly, and if I’m not needed, I shouldn’t be stuck there.
I text Benson to pick me up when I’m sure they’re on a roll. Jenn seems to be doing a good job of handling the creatives, judging by the animated looks and gestures when they all huddle, listening to her advice.
A short drive later, I’m at the grave.
“I’m sorry it’s not up to snuff. It isn’t bright and pretty like Lottie’s.”
It hits me that I should have picked up a wreath for Lottie’s grave too.
Fuck, I didn’t think about it.
There’s always next week, though.
“Still, you know me. I couldn’t come here without bringing anything. Dad asked about you last month, too,” I say, my voice burning. “It was a good day for him. He thought it was the nineties again, that time we stayed in Wyoming and you roped him into some bull riding thing for charity. He never made it a second, but he remembered how hard you laughed later, when he hugged you and he was still full of mud.”
Pain is a funny thing. Every word stabs me through the ribs, but somehow, by the end of it, I’m smiling.
Wherever she is, I know she’ll appreciate this.
Just like I appreciate the fleeting bittersweet moments when Dad still remembers her.
As I lay the wreath down, a small, shriveled bouquet catches my eye.
It can’t be too old, a week or two at best.
Some of the flowers aren’t completely dried out and wilted. A card almost as large as the bouquet itself is tucked between the flowers.
My pulse stops.
If this is what I think it is, I’m going to lose my shit.
I rip the small card out and scan it.
Goddammit.
God fucking damn the nerve of that woman.
With my throat vibrating, I tear the message into a million pieces and hurl them to the ground as I storm to the car.
Benson stands there, holding the door open when he sees me. “Everything all right? I didn’t know Miles Cromwell was a fan of throwing parties in graveyards.”