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)
“Mommy, Mommy . . .”
“Yes, honey, I’m listening.”
“The wedding flowers we appro . . . appro . . .”
“Approved, baby,” I reply, helping her unclick her seatbelt.
“Yeah, that. Are the roses really for the Queen? The other Queen?”
“Yes, sweetheart, we just approved a half a million dollars’ worth of wedding flowers for the Queen of Pop.” They weren’t roses. I tap the tip of Victoria’s nose instead of correcting her. We assessed the finest exotic flowers, flown in from various countries to meet the demand.
I suppose we didn’t have to come in today. My girl, Aliyah, did her thing hiring florists who honor our brand, but I felt I had to squeeze in the trip to the city today, despite all that will occur tonight. Contentment creeps over me when I see certain flowers arranged in a way that brings back memories. I guess that’s why I often find myself at either location of Urban Gardens, closing the chasm between myself and my departed momma. And having Victoria accompany me brings it full circle.
“You remember,” I tell my daughter as the back door opens, “the Queen of Pop sings your favorite Disney song?”
As I hold out a hand to assist her from the car, Victoria’s heart-shaped mouth scrunches. “Then why can’t Great Grandmummy, the other Queen, sing, too?”
“Because, my dear Victoria—” At the sound of a familiar voice, my little girl’s kinky tresses bounce as she jumps past me into Burt’s arms.
“Oh, you’re here too,” Victoria shouts. Like a frog, she launches herself from one set of arms to another. This time her small hand palms Uncle Red’s cheek. “All my grandpas are here!”
Well . . . not Silas Tudor, who’s been diagnosed with cancer and is on bed rest at Somerhaven. Or my dad . . .
I look up to both guys. “What are you doing here? Uncle Red, I sort of expected you. But, Burt, shouldn’t you be getting Sarah comfy and cozy in a guestroom?”
Burt pats Uncle Red’s shoulder. “Last time we had dinner, I promised to teach this bloke how to fly a helicopter.”
“Not today, right?” I ask Uncle Red, but he’s chuckling under his breath as he starts toward the chopper with my baby.
“Burt . . .” I sputter as the other old dude follows Uncle Red. “Burt, our circle of trust indicates that . . .”
“Today, Luxury, Charles here will glean all he needs to know.” He turns around with a wink. “Life’s short.”
I twirl my lashes away. “Damned Sarah. Got you living life to the fullest, I see.”
An hour later, the four of us, along with our silent partners—the Holy Trinity—arrive on the roof of the beach home Victor purchased when our hearts were crushed to a pulp. All right, Uncle Red wasn’t that bad flying, but I prayed anyway.
I’ve found myself praying more and being exceedingly thankful for big gifts, small gifts, and . . . grace.
I take Uncle Red’s outstretched hand and step onto the helipad. Across the roof, with the serene backdrop of the sun falling over the edge of the ocean behind him, I notice Victor. Maybe this is why I prayed?
His black linen shirt molds against raw muscles; his black tailored pants do too. And the taut sinews in his jaw constrict in fury.
Instantly, I endeavor to explain myself. “I didn’t think the paparazzi would—”
“What paparazzi?” Perplexed thick brows tug together, and Victor greets the men with a handshake before Victoria has rocketed herself into his arms. Those ballet lessons have paid off. “What paparazzi, Luxury?”
I chew obliviously on my bottom lip. “Oh, nothing.”
“We will discuss this later.” He lifts Victoria by the waist, tossing her sky-high. “My wrath is with you.”
“What did I do, Daddy?” Victoria’s a fit of giggles as he catches her, and we descend the staircase, which leads to the second-floor balcony.
“Your list is preposterous, Victoria,” Victor advises. “I’ll not wear those silly tiaras. You cannot force me.”
“Oh, yeah, you will. You may be Duke of Tudor, but I’m a princess. My grandma said that—”
“Which one? I’ll reprimand them too, daughter.”
A fight of wills and tickles continues as they meander through the French doors.
Suddenly, it’s just Burt, Uncle Red, and me standing on the balcony. The Brit gestures to the entrance. “I’ll even the odds of Victor’s survival with the chit.”
“Thanks.” I smile and turn to drape my arms along the marble terrace rail. I glance over the calm current, recalling how dark and endless it seemed years ago when I fell into doubt.
Doubt that Victor might not survive.
Doubt that Victor was living his best life with another woman after leaving me here in my dream home.
Doubt, which indicated I was always meant to be alone.
I look at the light fading across the sky, then extend onto the edge of my tippy-toes, where I’m able to see a portion of the garden. Twinkling lights are aglow. If I edge up a little farther, I spy a faint ruffle of a white linen table. There must be a few tables with appetizers near the petunias. Tonight, our closest family will dine at our home and watch the Queen of the Night bloom.