Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"Would you care for more lemonade?" The delicate lilt of Gloria Sharp caused me to lift my eyes.
"No, thank you." I took a sip and set the glass down, trading glassware for silverware, and cut a small piece of chicken and placed it in my mouth.
Food. The excuse we all had to avoid talking. I chewed slowly, grateful for the action. To put it mildly, the Sharps seemed unaccustomed to company. They stared at me as if I was a new species, on display at a museum, and looked frequently between Brant and me, as if trying to put the pieces together in a puzzle that didn't match.
Brant stood, his plate in hand, and leaned over to kiss the top of my head. "Excuse me for a moment."
I looked up with a polite smile but begged him with my eyes to stay.
He ignored the request. "Restroom," he explained.
I watched him as he headed out of the dining room, mentally pulling on his red polo shirt to no avail. I turned my gaze back to his parents and found both of their attention on me. Not chewing, just staring. I cleared my throat. "I love your home. The fact that this is where Brant—"
"Ms. Fairmont," Brant's father spoke in a thick and strained voice, one of a man older than his years.
I smoothed my napkin in my lap and waited for him to continue. Smiled. God, I hated using that smile. "Yes, Mr. Sharp?"
"You should probably know that we don't think it is a good idea for Brant to be in a relationship. You seem like a very nice girl, but you should think about moving on."
It was a good thing I'd mastered the expression. Knew how to keep my eyes relaxed, my face muscles loose so the smile looked natural, not forced or tight. You could tell so much about a person from the way they smiled. But not me. My smile gave away nothing and it now worked in overtime to maintain my composure. "Why is that?" I asked lightly as I cut another wedge of the chicken and glanced at Brant's mother, whose gaze was now down, her hands fighting with her napkin.
"Brant's done better in life when he hasn't had a girlfriend."
Brant's a grown man. I kept the smile in place but brought it down a level, so I didn't look deranged. "I care very much for your son. He's a brilliant man. You should be very proud of where he is in life."
His father gave me an exasperated smile, as if he was ready for the bullshit to be over. "We'd just like it if you could keep your distance. Restrict your time with him to a minimum. Let him focus on work. He does best when he does that."
There was the sound of a door and then the soft thud of Brant’s steps. When he re-appeared in the doorway, I placed my fork down. "Dinner was delicious, Mrs. Sharp. Thank you both for having me over. Brant?” I met his eyes. “Do you mind showing me the basement? I'd love to see your old workshop."
His mother's mouth twisted, his father's hardened, and they could both kiss my ass because Brant was an adult, one more intelligent than the rest of this house put together, myself included. The woman rose and snagged my plate, a glance at my half-eaten meal not going unnoticed.
Brant seemed oblivious, breezing through the room and grabbing my hand on his way. As we walked through the living room and down a short hall, I tried to understand why this family seemed to dislike me so much. Was it me? Or just any woman in Brant’s life? Had Jillian gotten to them? Did they know about the unaccepted bribe? He swung open a door and gestured me forward. I stepped down a dusty flight of stairs and into the basement.
It was small—roughly six hundred square feet of dimly lit space, the back wall illuminated by a single fluorescent. An unimpressive setting for impressive feats. He sat on a stool and spun to one side as he stretched out his arms and leaned back. "This is it. My home for almost a decade."
"Fancy." I walked slowly along the counter, a drag of my finger bringing up enough dust to choke a horsefly. I looked at the wall, which held a meticulous system of cubbies and cubes, but no photos or mementos stuck to its hole-dotted surface. "Has this place changed since you lived here?"
Looking over the room, he shook his head. "Looks about the same." He ran his hand over the grid work of storage. "I put all of this in place. Looks like Dad hasn't touched it." Reaching out, he patted the worn wood counter. "This is where I built Sheila."
"Sheila?" I grinned at the fond look in his eyes and took a seat on the stool next to him. The room felt good. Lived in, despite its decades of unuse.