Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
I deadhead a rose from last season and mutter, “Even if he’s here right before the stroke of midnight, we’re going to the beach.”
Luxxie, is this even about the friggen beach?
For the past fourteen days, I’ve observed a strict regime of moving inward through the garden and into the conservatory so that the last flower I visit is our flower—the Queen of the Night.
I hear a presence but realize the accompanying sound of turning wheels is none other than Burt. Soon enough, he appears, with a butler manning his wheelchair. If we weren’t both silently dreading every second Victor has been gone, I’d tease him. I’d say that he’s living the high life.
The well-deserved high life. But he’s prone to nagging excessively. Burt flicks his wrist so that his butler becomes a ghost the second he’s settled on the bench. A cashmere blanket lays over his lap, and a tiny teacup rests in his hand.
“Luxury, you’ve tended to all the flowers. Come sit with me.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t sit.” I look to the planter in the conservatory, knowing good and well, not to expect any budding. But I’d give away a couple of years—time, the hottest commodity—to have Victor home with me, watching the flower bloom for the very first time. After a moment of fretting, I mumble, “I shouldn’t have fired the gardener.”
“Hmmm,” he says.
For a while, we stare out at all the beauty afforded to billionaires—and we’re so miserable.
Damn near a mile of house. The conservatory, the gardens, and tennis courts and . . . and an ocean that I refuse to visit without Victor.
After a while, Burt adds, “But you relieved the gardener because you required a pastime.” He lifts a worn novel, implicating that we’re on the same wavelength.
I nudge my chin to the literary work. “Haven’t you read that?”
His pathetic chortle leaves so much to be desired between us. We need Vic. “Of course. Victor has gotten so tired of seeing this book that he threw it away a few times. I’ve a dozen autographed copies.”
“Your favorite book, I take it?” After he nods, I settle down into the seat next to him. “Must be perfectly nuanced.” Like Victor. God, I miss you, Vic.
“Precisely. I unearth a new symbol or meaning. This story had a new scope of interest every time. Brilliant until . . . recently.” Burt lifts the book. Out of nowhere, his trained butler appears, apprehending the novel and returning to attention at a discreet distance again. Damn, he’s trained well.
Burt clears his throat. “You should consider visiting your floristry.”
I try on a smile. “I will, with Vic.”
“Oh, Luxury, I must insist that you cease your usual musings today. We can visit Urban Gardens,” he mentions the name of my company, “or I can provide you with the last letter.”
While chewing my bottom lip into my mouth, I configure another excuse. Burt offered me Victor’s last letter before breakfast. Nerves simmer in my gut, ready to boil over at the thought of reading what he’s written. What if he glimpsed the future while placing pen to paper and discovered another tragedy?
“Hey,” I begin and nudge my chin across the yard to the book that Burt’s butler retrieved. “How about you give me a rundown on this amazing story?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we’re both ‘no’ people today.” I hold up my hands in apology and rise from the bench. With a shrug, I pick up the tin watering can. “I really need to get this place in tip-top shape. You know how Vic is about subpar shit?”
“Yes, Luxury, I’m aware of his distaste for ‘subpar shite.’ Please sit. We’ve important matters to discuss.”
“Oh, you’re cussing,” I joke, looking away from his insistent gaze. Though my blood jumps anxiously in my veins, I reclaim my spot next to him. “Really important?”
“Imperative.” Burt holds out the letter.
“I don’t want to read what he’s said, Burt. I’ll let Vic read it to me when he arrives.”
“This one isn’t a letter. He ran out of time.”
My heart constricts in my chest. He ran out of time. Voice hollow, I murmur, “What is it then?”
“A brief note that accompanies this.” Burt holds out an identical envelope. Two letters for the last day, although he ran out of time? Instead of my name scrolled on the closed envelope like the fourteen that proceeded, the new envelop reads, Only if . . .
Fidgeting with my fingers, I reply, “I don’t get it.”
“Luxury, I know this hurts.”
“Friggen kills me,” I gasp. “If I wait—wait until he returns—then I don’t have to torture myself wondering if this stupid letter, and our flower, and my memories are the only thing I have of Victor. This is all too much!”
“For any other woman, yes. Some bloody nobility couldn’t have endured a day in Victor’s place or at his side. You’ve handled yourself well, despite the circumstances. However, I suppressed Ms. Elliott’s involvement long ago. That’s the only deceit I have in me. Victor would have my head if you refused to open these last notes. You must.”