Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
7
THE HORNY HOUSE
Juliet
The stars flicker brightly in the beautiful night sky, visible through the kitchen window as I scrub the last bowl to a shine. Nope. There’s a remnant of dinner still on it. I attack the risotto speck, and then, victorious at last, I set it on the drying rack.
“That’s done.” I hang up the towel next to a white wooden cupboard. “Is the kitchen the only room in The Horny House that doesn’t feel like a retro brothel?”
Monroe is sorting the takeout containers into compostable and recyclable.
“That’s your name for it?” he asks as he folds up the paper bag.
He seems ultra-focused too. The dinner he brought back—a mouthwatering asparagus risotto and a delish arugula salad for this vegetarian, and chickpea cakes and seared salmon for him—took care of the hangry in both of us. While we ate, we tackled his preliminary notes from earlier, and he mentioned that he ran into his dad. He didn’t share details, but I figured that was why he needed to zero in on tasks.
By the time we’d finished eating, we had the start of a plan for the house and a list of everything we needed to accomplish. I contacted a realtor who we’ll meet with at the end of the week. While we’re here, we’ll paint some of the rooms, and there’s so much sorting to do. Monroe was out hunting and gathering when I found another room at the end of the hallway, sort of a small storage room full of mirrors—mirrors with scalloped edges, with gilt frames, with exposed light bulbs.
I sweep a hand toward the rest of the home. “I’m honestly surprised there’s not a stripper pole somewhere in here.”
He smiles at that and drops the cardboard into the blue plastic bin. “Me too. I figured there’d be one on the garden level for sure.”
“Just a few tables and a wet bar for your average Darling Springs underground poker game,” I say, amused with the decor, then I shake my head, chuckling softly. “But good for her. Eleanor seems like—well, if the house is any indication—like someone who enjoys life. The gifting fits too. I think generous people are often the happiest.”
Monroe cocks his head like he’s considering that. “You’re probably right. And she definitely seemed to be enjoying her new tennis instructor whenever she called about him.”
“Definitely.” I smile as I think of our favorite fan. It’s easier than thinking of the long text exchange I had with my mother while Monroe was out. But I can’t keep putting off the topic, especially since Mom’s partly why I’ve been winding myself up with worry.
“Hey,” I say, in a vulnerable tone, opening up.
“Yeah?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
“My mom’s coming to town tomorrow.” She only lives twenty minutes away, so it’s an easy drive. As soon as I mentioned I’d be nearby, she jumped at the opportunity to get together, which concerns me a little.
“Oh.” He scratches his jaw. “That’s good?”
I nod a few times, nerves winging through me. “I hope so. I’m worried about her. We’re having breakfast in the morning at the café at The Ladybug Inn.”
“I know that place. Good pancakes, but why are you worried?”
That’s a good question, which I’ve been chewing on, not for a few hours, but a few months. “Their divorce was only final two months ago. I had to travel a lot for business, so I haven’t seen Mom since they split. We’ve talked plenty, but I should have seen her sooner. Same with my dad, but he always seemed so steady, so certain. I’m more scared of how she’s doing.” It’s a relief to give voice to that fear.
“That’s understandable, especially when we think we might have to take care of our parents in some way.”
I knew he was the right person to share with, that he’d get it immediately. “She was always so secure. So even-keeled. I’m genuinely nervous about the effect that divorce might be having on her.”
“Your dad was always her rock of support, right?”
“Yes. I just hope she’s doing okay. There wasn’t even a big reason for the split, you know? They both said, repeatedly, it was amicable. They realized they just weren’t right for each other.” I’m still a little shocked when I repeat those words. “I mean, how does that happen? After thirty-five years?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t see her for a few months. Maybe you weren’t ready.” This side of him calms me at times, soothes me when I need it. He’s masterful at getting under my skin, but he’s also surprisingly good at saying the right thing.
Well, I suppose it’s not surprising. It’s literally his job. But I haven’t told him the kicker.
“She said she had some things to talk to me about,” I blurt out, twisting my fingers.