Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Mama’s face puckered from biting her tongue so hard.
“Thank you for taking all those notes. It makes it so much easier to send thank-you cards.”
“Yeah, no worries.”
I check the dash clock. Henry should be landing in Pittsburgh soon, and it’ll take an hour for us to get there, especially on the dark roads. “So, I was thinking …”
Violet reaches back to fish out a cookie from the box Celeste insisted we take with us. “Yes?” She croons in a mock deep voice.
“What would you say about being one of my bridesmaids?” It dawned on me halfway through the shower that, if Violet were younger, we’d have made her a flower girl. It wouldn’t be a question.
Violet pauses midbite. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.”
She chews, giving herself time to process. “But won’t your numbers be uneven?”
I shrug. “So what? I also have a man in my bridal party. And you should be in our wedding. It’s your dad getting married.” More and more, I’ve been dropping that word into our conversations to try to make it a familiar one.
She bites her lip. “Is he okay with this—”
“Yes.” Or he will be when I tell him.
“Okay.” A slow smile stretches across her face. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
“Good.” A swell of emotion hits, telling me that while I might have made that decision only hours ago, it’s the right one. “We’ll get your measurements to the seamstress this week.”
She reaches back to collect the wooden card box. “This is pretty.” She traces the letters of Henry’s and my name with her fingertip before easing it open.
“Celeste does calligraphy. She painted that by hand.”
Digging inside, she pulls the top card out to read aloud. “‘Dear Abigail, we are so thrilled for you. As requested, we’ve made a donation to—’” Violet’s voice cuts off as she reads the rest silently. “You asked for donations in my mom’s name?”
“Toward ALS research, yes. Henry and I felt that was the most meaningful charity for our family.” Which now includes Violet. I lied to Mama, telling her Audrey was one of Henry’s staff members. I wouldn’t even share a last name.
I watch the dark roads for a moment as the silence in the car stretches. When I dare steal a glance next to me, I note the tear rolling down Violet’s cheek.
CHAPTER 23
March
“Busy afternoon, ladies?” Sullivan holds the elevator door for us, our arms laden with shopping bags.
“Spring is coming soon, right?” Because we bought a wardrobe of clothes we can’t wear until it does.
“A few more weeks.”
“Lies,” I moan, falling back against the elevator wall. He might be right, but with that early March blustering cold wind that churns through the streets, burning our cheeks, warmer weather feels an eternity away.
“At least you’re going somewhere hot for your honeymoon, right?” Violet says.
“I have no idea. Henry won’t tell me anything.” It’s the only part of the wedding that he’s taken control of, and he’s already said he won’t even tell me what to pack.
“Miles would know. He knows all.”
“Miles wants to keep his balls intact.”
“Understandable.” Violet met Henry’s assistant the last time she was in the city and wanted to see her father’s office. They took to each other in an instant.
“Margo knows because she’s in charge of packing for me.” Which means my daytime attire will be respectable enough, while my nights will likely be filled with public indecency and sex toys. “But she won’t tell me either.”
“Sounds like you’re SOL, then.”
The elevator feels like it’s moving especially slow today, either because my arms are about to fall off under the weight of all these bags or because I’m dying for time to hurry up and for Henry to come home tomorrow night. He’s been in Tokyo all week, and I’m regretting not going, but it was a last-minute trip and I’m elbow-deep in all things Farm Girl Soap Co.
“Okay, so if you were stranded alone on a deserted island and you could choose to have one of the following, which would you pick: a knife, a ball, or a book?”
Violet’s question comes out of left field, but in the months since we met and the time we’ve spent together, I’ve grown to expect—and love—that about her. “What kind of ball? Like a Wilson, that I could turn into a friend to talk to?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
I consider the other options. “Are there animals on this island that I could use the knife on?”
She pauses for a beat. “Puppies and kittens.”
“Aww. An island of puppies and kittens?” But then I wince. “So I’m going to starve, is what you’re saying. Not even a chicken?”
“No chickens.” Her face lights up. “But there are coconut trees.”
“Ugh. I hate coconut, but fine, I can work with this.” The elevator doors open into the penthouse lobby. “What’s the book?”
“Does it matter?”