Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“We live odd parallels,” she says. “My father and my uncle hadn’t spoken for about that long when my father died, either.” She sinks back against the cushion. “And I’m feeling all the alcohol now.” She shifts to her side to face me. “I’m not drunk,” she adds. “Just kind of numb again, which is a good thing. It’s better than guilt.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Is this a sobriety test?”
“If it is, will you pass?”
“Yes,” she says. “I told you. I’m numb, not drunk. And I have fifty employees, at least part of the year.”
“And your mother’s mishandling put all of those jobs on the line. You had to protect the winery.”
“I know. Especially Kasey’s job, and another ten or so key people who have been with the winery for their entire careers.”
“And yet you still feel guilt for fighting for them?”
“I feel guilt for not finding a way to fight for my mother and them.”
“Your mother didn’t want help.”
“But she needed it,” she argues. “She was clearly an addict, both with alcohol and sex.”
“You said you hired an attorney?”
“Yes. An expensive one, too. That’s what happened to part of my inheritance.”
“Who?”
“Cameron Lemon. Do you know him?”
“In passing and by reputation. He’s good. What happened with him?”
“One of my mother’s many male friends was an attorney, too, and he knew just how to nickel-and-dime me to death with Cameron. I ran out of money, and with the winery in debt, I couldn’t even promise him I’d pay him when we won ownership. I had to back off.”
“Who was your mother’s attorney?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer I am sure I will receive.
And as expected, she says, “Nathan Marks,” her lashes, thankfully, lowering with my father’s name on her lips. “Do you know him?” she asks, looking at me.
“Yes,” I say, telling her every truth I can at this point. “I do. And your mother chose her friends wisely. He would have been a formidable opponent.”
“She got naked with my uncle. She didn’t choose wisely. She just chose often.” She downs the drink. “I can’t believe this, but the whiskey effect is wearing off. Maybe I wasn’t really feeling it after all.”
I fill her glass. “Try again.”
“What if it hits me all of a sudden, and I wipe out on you?”
“I promise you that we won’t fuck,” I say, placing her hand on the glass. “Because I want you to remember every time we fuck.”
Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. “You’re really quite memorable, Mr. Rogers.” She downs the drink. “I think my mother watched that program. I’m really glad that you don’t wear button-up sweaters and sing like the real Mr. Rogers on the show.”
“Last I heard, I was the real Mr. Rogers.”
“Right,” she whispers, giving a tiny laugh. “You are, but without a button-up sweater. Or is it button-down sweater?”
“I vow to never, ever wear a button-up or button-down sweater.”
“It might be cute on you.”
“I don’t want to be cute,” I assure her.
“What’s wrong with cute? Women like cute.”
“Only women who have been drinking really expensive, smooth whiskey or picking out a puppy.”
“Or cat. I prefer cats. I really need to get a cat.” Her hand goes to her face. “I was wrong. I’m feeling those drinks now, and I just drank more.” She sets the empty glass on the cushion between us, as if she can’t quite sit up and get it to the table. “What have I done?”
I set the glass on the table, lower myself to the cushion beside her, and roll her to face me. “I’ll catch you if you fall, sweetheart.”
Her hand falls from her face. “Will you? Or will you fall with me?”
I stroke her cheek. “What does that mean, Faith?”
“It means that if we’re both fucked up, then sometimes, two fucked-up people fuck each other up more.”
“We’re all fucked up, remember? Which means that sometimes, two fucked-up people make each other whole again.”
“That’s like a fairytale ending. We don’t believe that.”
“Now we have each other, don’t we?”
“Do I have you, Nick?”
“Yes, Faith, you do.”
She reaches up and strokes my cheek this time. “Ah, Nick. I have to paint you again. You know that, right?” Her lashes lower, and her hand falls from my face. I catch it, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I count seconds. One. Five. Ten. She sighs and seems to fall asleep. I sit there, staring at her, searching every line of her face, and I swear she grows more beautiful by the second. Her full cheeks. Her fuller lips. The confession that says she wants to trust me, even if she doesn’t quite yet.
“I don’t want to leave,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering and closing again.
“Then don’t,” I say, pleased that the first confession came when she was sober, and this one comes when she’s just drunk enough to make emotional confessions.