Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
One word from him and my blood threatens to burst through my veins. I can’t look up despite feeling everyone’s gaze on me.
Collins and Bruce save the day with offerings of wine and champagne. Nicholas asks for a finger of whiskey, and I sit there, numb.
“And for you, ma’am?” Bruce asks.
His voice shocks me out of my stupor.
“Oh, water is fine. Thank you.”
I don’t trust myself with anything else.
“Tell me more about your upbringing, Maren,” Dr. Reynolds goads. “I’m curious. What school did you attend in Providence?”
“I moved schools a few times,” I say with a tight smile, hoping someone will pick up the conversation and run with it.
Alas, Lydia pipes up. “St. Andrew’s is in Providence—didn’t you have a friend who went there?” she asks Tori.
“Cassie, yes. She liked it a lot.”
“I didn’t attend St. Andrew’s,” I say, putting the question to rest. “Or any other private school, for that matter.”
The table goes silent.
“And what about your parents?” Dr. Reynolds presses. “Did they not value your education?”
I laugh at the ridiculous question but then restrain myself once I see she’s absolutely serious. “Of course they did. They simply couldn’t afford to send me to any of those schools.”
“What do they do for a living?” Lydia asks.
Had I known I’d be on the receiving end of 21 questions, I wouldn’t have come down for dinner. Still, I force myself to answer, not wanting to offend Cornelia’s guests. Besides, they’re only curious. I would be too. It’s obvious I’m the odd man out in this room.
“My parents were bohemians, I guess you could say. My mother was a writer, though she never had anything published, and my father was a musician. Between them, I don’t think they had two nickels to rub together. I learned from them, though—more than I ever did at school. We were one of those odd families that didn’t have a TV at home. Looking back, they probably couldn’t afford it.” I look up, somewhat expecting no one to be paying me any attention, but everyone stares, enraptured, so I continue, “No TV meant there was more time for everything else, reading, mostly. We had stacks of old books lining the walls in our living room. My mom had an arrangement with the public library. Every few months, she’d buy a box of books they were trying to get rid of for $5, sight unseen. It was so fun to open that box because we were never quite sure what would be inside. Cookbooks, children’s books, old textbooks barely held together with tape, encyclopedias, erotica…” There are a few titters around the table and a pointed smile from Cornelia. “Anyway, we’d rifle through it together, laying claim. I wasn’t picky. I couldn’t afford to be, I guess.”
“Sounds wonderful. You must have really fostered a love for the written word,” Dr. Reynolds tells me with a smile.
“I did.”
“Reminds me of my Nicky,” Cornelia says. “He was such a voracious reader growing up. Sometimes we couldn’t even get him to come down to dinner he was so absorbed in whatever book had caught his attention that day.”
He doesn’t speak up to confirm the statement, his presence a silent force so easily molded by my own insecurities. I take his quiet perusal of me as judgment, his stern expression to mean he was disappointed to have arrived and found me still here, in his realm. I feel distinctly other sitting at the table with the rest of them, unsure of myself as I reach for my water glass, embarrassed to find that my hand is shaky with nerves.
I only work up the courage to glance in his direction a few times during dinner, and it’s only when I’m confident his attention is pulled elsewhere. I watch while he leans in to say something to Tori, and her resulting smile is an enigma to me. I want to lean forward and plead with her to share his words. Tell me what he said. Tell me what it’s like to sit there and have him lean in close to you like that. I don’t think I’d survive.
When the final course is cleared, Cornelia looks to me with a pleading expression. “Maren, if you’re feeling up for it, I was hoping you’d play a song or two for us on the piano.”
“Oh please do! I love the piano and I’m horrible at it,” Tori says, clasping her hands together hopefully.
I look to Cornelia and nod. “Of course. I’d love to.”
Everyone files out of the dining room, Cornelia and Lydia first, then Dr. Reynolds and Tori. I’m the last one in the room besides Nicholas. I think he hovers near the rear to be polite, but then I’m left with him trailing in my shadow down the long hallway between the dining room and the blue drawing room. I want to turn around and talk to him. I want to ask him if he really is shy and if that’s why he didn’t talk at dinner, or maybe he has something on his mind? His hatred of me, perhaps?