Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Mama sighs. “Of course it does. She’s my baby girl. Just as you are.”
“True. But, Mama, there might be a time when she can’t wiggle her way out of a fix.”
Say, like when Macon Saint throws her little ass in jail. If I didn’t hate Macon so much, I might find it in me to applaud him on that one.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I continue cautiously, “if you resign yourself to that inevitability.”
I close my eyes against the surge of anger and disappointment I feel for my sister.
“I am a mother, Delilah,” Mama says in a tired voice. “I will never give up on my children. And it will always cut to the bone when either of you are hurting. You two girls are all I have left. After your daddy . . . when I lost him . . .” Her voice breaks on a weak breath.
“I know,” I rush to tell her.
We fall silent. Then my mother speaks in a halting voice. “I miss him. When you give your heart to someone, they become a part of you. And when they’re gone, you feel the hole they left behind.”
“Mama . . .” She’s killing me.
“I’m all right,” she says softly. “I’m only trying to explain that I am comprised of parts. Your father was a big piece of me. But there is also you and Sam. I could never give up on either of you; it would be like giving up on myself, losing another piece of myself. You understand?”
The last of my strength leaves me, and I sink to the floor to lean against the cabinets. The sick twist in my insides hurts so badly that I press a hand to my middle. “Yes, Mama, I understand you perfectly.”
This is going to suck.
My hands are downright clammy as I drive along the Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu. Normally, I love this road with the endless glittering ocean on one side and sloping wild mountains on the other. Now, it’s simply the route taking me to misery.
For three days I’ve searched. I’ve made calls to all the best resorts within reasonable driving distance—Sam hates to fly, but she also loves her comfort. I’ve even tried to look under her aliases. It hit me like a brick to realize that for years, I’ve known my sister uses aliases, and I never thought twice about it. Talk about willful ignorance.
Fuming over that uncomfortable nugget of truth, I even went as far as to break into my sister’s old laptop she left behind in the guesthouse in the hopes there’d be some clue to what she’d been doing with her life. All that I came away with is that she has a thing for lumberjack porn and has amassed an impressive collection of hot bearded man gifs.
By one o’clock, I conceded defeat, and—God help me for this—I called my hairstylist to book an emergency cut and color. Okay, maybe it’s vain, but if I have to drive all the way out to Macon’s place by myself and somehow convince him not to press charges, I need to look as good as possible.
So here I am, hair beautifully styled and angled just so around my face with pretty caramel and golden highlights designed to make my nut-brown hair look sun kissed. I went full out at the salon and had my brows shaped and a mani-pedi as well.
Yes, I am guilty of primping, but it’s not vanity; it’s war paint. One does not go into battle without armor. To that end, I put on my favorite short-sleeve cream knit top that clings in all the good places but flows around my less desirable spots and an ink-blue skirt that hugs my hips and gently flares around my knees.
Maybe it’s overkill, but at least I look put together yet no nonsense. Unflappable. Professional.
“Who the hell am I kidding?” I yell at the road before me. “It won’t make a lick of difference. I’m so screwed.”
Perspiration tickles my spine as I drive onto a smaller road, heading closer to the shore. Despite all my years living in LA, I haven’t visited this part of Malibu. The narrow coastal road is utterly unfamiliar, but the car navigation informs me that the address Macon texted me is six hundred feet to my left. Of course Macon would live right on the beach.
With a lot of work and a dash of luck, one day I might become a famous chef and be able to afford to live out here. Right now, I couldn’t even rent a guesthouse in this neighborhood.
My lips pinch as I finally turn into a driveway blocked by a big wooden gate. The thing about the Malibu coast is that curb appeal means little more than having a nice garage or a big gate. The true beauty of the houses is saved for the owners. And while most of Malibu is an ever-shrinking strip of space squeezed between the mountains and the ocean, Macon’s property is on a rare bluff of flat land that juts out and curves back toward Los Angeles.