Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“I need to talk to you. It’s important. It can be now or later. Just tell me when.”
She whispered back, “Go to hell.”
As I watched her walk away, her steps uneven as she favored her sprained ankle, I whispered into the air, “Without you, I’m already there.”
CHAPTER 34
ROSE
Even from the grave, my mother influenced my actions. It had been a few weeks since her funeral, and I didn’t know what I expected to change, but hardly anything had.
The house was still somber. It felt like she would come marching down the halls, her heels clicking as she searched for a victim for whatever tirade she was having. I still expected to see a new maid scurrying around the corner in fear.
I was still being forced to take part in throwing this church bazaar. I hadn’t been back to the church since the funeral. My father didn’t push, and I didn’t want to see anyone, especially Thomas.
After the funeral, several people called to offer their condolences and check on how I had been doing, for precisely three days. One woman, whom I didn’t know very well because my mother stuck up her nose at the woman’s “new money,” sent over an entire catered dinner. It was unusual; not just the act itself, but the food was almost entirely simple carbs, which were practically outlawed for women to eat, and different soups and stews. I didn’t understand the gesture, but it saved me from having to feed myself, and I may have let the plastic tub of macaroni and cheese provide more comfort than was probably healthy.
After that, it was silence.
It seemed as if society was ready to move on from my mother’s reign and decide who the new queen bee was going to be. It took less than a week for another one of the society women to run circles around everyone else. I stayed back, receiving updates on the carnage through the other daughters, who were fascinated by their mothers’ escapades. Unlike their mothers, however, these girls had figured out the brilliance of group chat.
It didn’t matter how many times I left those chats. Despite the fact I didn’t consider a single one of these women as friends, they put me right back in, saying things like, “It’s really important to be around people you care about in times like these,” or “I know you’re grieving, but locking yourself away from your friends and family will only make it worse.”
Never mind that I hadn’t locked myself away from my family at all. In fact, my father and I were growing closer. I also spent more time with Amelia at her school while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
Still, I had separated myself from most of the society women and was slowly pulling away from what could only be described as the world’s most toxic, Chanel-wrapped people on the planet. It wasn’t until Mrs. Donahue contacted me about the Christmas bazaar that I was forced to rejoin society.
That woman would not take no for an answer.
First, she sent a message via courier because apparently we lived in the year of our Lord 1735, asking for my help running the Christmas bazaar. When I said no, she just took it upon herself to show up at my door to check on my well-being. She forced me to serve her tea and entertain her while she went on and on about how tragic my mother’s death was, her garish orange lipstick staining the bone china tea set that had been in my family for generations.
Still, I politely refused her request, stating that I simply was not up to running social events at this time. I thought she would allow me the time to grieve properly, even if my grief was over my own soul being tainted by my hand in my mother’s death and not by the loss of a motherly influence, as Mrs. Donahue kept saying.
The way she kept repeating the words “motherly influence” and taking me under her arm made me nauseous and wonder if her ploy wasn’t about getting me to help but rather an attempt at trying to sink her claws into my freshly widowed father. After all, her husband left her a year or two ago for a much younger woman.
I genuinely did not care who my father dated, or even if he dated, but I certainly would not let this woman control me like my mother had.
I was about to tell her just that when she pulled out a manila envelope and showed me the brochures and flyers that she had created. The beautiful gold script at the top stated that the Christmas bazaar was being dedicated to Mary Quinn Astrid. There were even a few lines about her dedication to charitable work and how her loss would be felt for generations.