Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“Didn’t I say explanations later?” Jacqueline says with mock sternness. With one hand, she plucks the papers from me and turns them face down before anyone can see more than a flash of the covers. With the other hand, she scoops up a huge serving of steaming, cheese-threaded, bacon-flecked scrambled eggs onto my plate. “Don’t be rude, now. Eat.”
Sighing, I glance skeptically at Miss Lark.
She flashes me the same sunny smile and plunks a muffin down on my plate. “Don’t be such a grouch. If you really want me to marry you, she’s going to be your grandmother-in-law.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I scowl.
The giggle she can’t suppress says everything.
I hate my life.
Across the table, Miss Joly had started to pick up her fork as Jacqueline Lark served her. Now it drops to the plate with a clatter. She stares at us with her jaw hanging open.
“Okay. No. Explanations now. Elle, you—I thought you didn’t know each other! He proposed?” Her jaw hangs open.
“Guess so,” Miss Lark answers with a shrug as she reaches for the pan of eggs to serve herself a heap. “No idea why, but he’ll explain after we eat, won’t he?”
Jacqueline chortles and scoops up a forkful of her own eggs right before she drops a second muffin on my plate and fills my cup with a rich, orange-brown tea with a citrus scent.
“Imagine that. My little Ellie, my first grandchild to get married. And to bring me such a handsome grandson-in-law too!”
Fuck.
My lips work incoherently, then slump.
I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I’m shocked it doesn’t bleed.
How did I lose all control of this situation so catastrophically and so fast?
They’ve cornered me.
I don’t normally bother with breakfast, considering how late I sleep, but I’ll indulge this once since it seems to be the only way I’m getting through this alive.
I pick up the little sugar shaker on the table and dash some into my tea, just the way I like it.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I say grudgingly. If only because the woman Jacqueline Lark reminds me of would rap my knuckles red for forgetting my manners.
I settle in to eat, remembering my manners only because I won’t embarrass myself by wolfing down the food in order to get this over with ASAP.
Miss Joly clearly has no reservations.
She stuffs enough muffin into her mouth to look like a chipmunk, still watching me and Miss Lark with wide, curious eyes.
It’s a textbook case of awkward silence, broken only by clinking forks and teacups plinking on the dark cherrywood table.
The food is good.
The tea, a delicate Ceylon with hibiscus.
Once again, it reminds me of better times.
I wasn’t always a C-level corporate consultant.
The Fixer, I’m called in some circles. Less kind four-letter names in others.
Regardless, I’ve staked my name on working corporate miracles.
Before that, there was a time when I was a boy sitting around a table in a homey kitchen just like this, watching the rain patter against a different set of windows while a gentle reminder told me to tuck my napkin in my lap, keep my elbows off the table, and always thank the chef for the food.
After a few bites of flavorful eggs, I look up. “Delicious, Mrs. Lark. Thanks for sharing your table with me. It makes this easier.”
I’m not sure there’s any way this could ever be easy, but it’s a start.
I’m surprised to feel a wizened hand patting my knee. Jacqueline Lark smiles at me, her wrinkled face creasing up, and in that moment I can see the resemblance between her and Eleanor quite strongly.
“There now, isn’t the morning nicer when you slow down?”
“I’m not a morning person,” I say. “So I don’t really have anything to compare it to.”
“Oh, I love a good morning,” Jacqueline says. “Right at dawn, before the morning glories get frightened and curl up. They’re gorgeous with fresh dew gleaming on their petals. Perfect little magnifying glasses that highlight every delicate color.”
To my other side, Miss Lark laughs softly. Somehow it evokes the image Jacqueline just described: morning glories in the palest blue violet, a few diamond dewdrops along the rim of their trumpets, enhancing every subtle detail until it shines.
I shake myself from my thoughts.
Where the fuck is my head?
I don’t daydream. The creative, artsy gene in the family skipped my DNA, and so did any special appreciation for delicate, breakable things.
If anything, they’ve been my curse.
But when I glance at Miss Lark, she’s smiling at her grandmother with an affection that makes her ivory face shine. “Don’t mind my grandmother, Mr. Marshall. She loves her flowers more than she could ever love any human after Gramps. She used to be a botanical illustrator before she retired.”
“Nonsense,” Jacqueline chides with an amused cluck of her tongue, pointing her fork at Miss Lark. “I certainly love you as much as I love my begonias.” She frowns, tapping her lower lip. “Almost. On a good day.”