Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
It was a giant house on a huge piece of land - at least for this area - somewhere near three acres. In today's market, this place would likely go for something close to eight-hundred thousand for just the hugeness of it. I figured that Rey had likely inherited it because she did not strike me as some high-paid CEO type.
It was a three-story building with a porch that wrapped the entire first floor, complete with old-timey rocking chairs and several large picture windows. The entire thing was still painted the same as it had been when I was a kid - a muted yellow with mint green accents.
Beside the front steps to the porch were two massive stick-filled bushes that I knew from my past would be teeming with lilacs in the spring, making the whole area buzz with bees that Cy had always been allergic to, so we had needed to keep a wide berth in the spring.
"Come on, Ford," she said, reaching for the door, moving out. "I will give you some hot chocolate," she said as she moved out the door, making me open my mouth to tell her that cats couldn't have chocolate before she went on, "and give you your coat back."
Christ.
There was trusting.
Then there was just foolish.
But I did kind of want my coat back, cat hair and all.
I cut the engine, following her as she moved confidently up her snow-covered steps, opening a door that was not - of course - locked.
I took a breath, wondering what the fuck I might be walking into for a split second before walking across the threshold.
It was like stepping back in time. The space was packed with sofas and chairs - Chesterfields, wingback, fainting couches, and even a Louis XVI style settee - styles I knew because my mother had been obsessed with antique stores all her life. The coffee table was modern, clearly Rey's doing, a set of shipping pallets compiled into a rectangle and painted a bright turquoise that in no way matched the beige and brown wall and trim or the muted classic colors of the other furniture - emerald green, royal blue, mauve.
My eyes were just about done looking at the odd mismatch of art on the walls, everything from a Klimt print to what seemed like Rey's old finger paintings framed on the wall when I heard nails on the hardwood floors.
Like many sets of them.
From four-legged creatures.
My head turned, watching five dogs barreling into the room, making a beeline for me since Rey was already somehow missing.
"Hey guys," I greeted them as they came up, completely devoid of manners, jumping up on me, butting their heads under my hands, begging for head rubs.
It was about then that I realized each one of them was a various state of pound-dog undesirable. And judging by Rey's rescue the kitten adventure, they probably were from the pound, likely taken off of doggie death row.
One, a white dog with giant brown spots was missing a back leg. Another, a small little yippy thing with grayish hair, was missing an eye. Another, some hound mix that almost was as high as my thigh, was white-faced with age. Another one had patches of long hair sticking up all over with all his teeth somehow hanging out of his mouth even with it closed. Finally, there was one that had hair on his head. And only his head. The rest of his body was bare spotted skin.
I had just managed to give everyone a pet when another creature made its way into the room walking sideways, big feet flopping on the floor audibly, huge white crest raised as it eyed me up. Why the fuck was a bird walking on the floor instead of flying?
That was answered a moment later when it turned to face me fully, and I could see one of his wings wrapped with what seemed like Ninja Turtles gauze bandages. Like maybe it was broken, and Rey had set it.
"I'm in the kitchen," Rey's voice called, making me carefully sidestep the bird who was shaking its head up and down at me, something I had no experience with, so had no way to interpret.
"I think your parrot is having some kind of fit," I told her as I moved into the kitchen, complete with a dated floral backdrop and a collection of blue China plates on a wall.
"Cockatoo," she said, rummaging into a closet that looked like it was full of animal - not human - food.
"Sorry?" I asked, walking over to the stove where a small pot of water was starting to overflow. I wondered a bit fleetingly if the smoke alarms in the house were up-to-date.
"Charlie is a cockatoo. Umbrella. He's forty-seven," she declared, turning back around with two plastic containers, a heating pad, and a pile of towels. "Can you hand me a knife?"