Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“Did she seem…upset?”
My God. What if I was too rough with her last night?
My blood turns icy at the prospect. She seemed to enjoy my aggression and manhandling, but maybe I’m remembering it wrong. It was her first time with a man and I went hard on her innocent body, slapping her ass, riding her without mercy. Maybe I’m a horrible husband and she regrets marrying me. Has she left me?
A jagged sound escapes my mouth and I turn my back on Ben and Marla, spearing my fingers through my hair. Where has she gone? Where…
“She’s at the orphanage,” I say, before repeating myself, louder this time. “She went to check on the children.”
I hope.
“Didn’t you tell her we hired a new caretaker for the children yesterday?”
“We’ve been busy.”
“Did you mention to her that you threatened to kill the landlord unless he fixed the heat?”
“No,” I growl. “She’s supposed to simply trust me to take care of everything.”
“Ohhhh,” Marla says, looking anywhere but me. “Sure. That’s reasonable.”
A tic begins behind my eye. “It sounds like you’re implying the opposite.”
“Who me? No. I’m just the maid.”
“Ben, bring my car around. Have the sleigh pick us up outside of the orphanage in an hour,” I shout, storming up the stairs. I throw open the closet, which I had stocked with Blessing-sized clothes before the wedding and I rip out the dress I envisioned her wearing tonight for the opera. It’s made of ivory silk and has a long slit up the side. Thin straps. The color reminds me of her wedding dress and I want to remember yesterday at all costs.
Currently, I have a tailor repairing the dress she wore for the ceremony because I can’t bear to have that keepsake ruined. Maybe I’ll be able to convince her to wear it for me again, from time to time. Just so I can remember the moment she agreed to be my wife.
When I realize I’m staring into the distance like a lovesick sap, I growl behind my teeth, gathering a pair of shoes and a warm coat from the closet. With those items in hand, I tear out of the house and slide into my waiting car, speeding down the driveway and turning in the direction of the orphanage. It only takes me five minutes to get across town, thanks to the lack of traffic on Christmas Eve and as soon as I arrive, I enter the building without knocking.
After all, my goddamn wife is inside.
“Blessing!” I shout, striding down the narrow entryway into the kitchen, a change of clothes for my wayward spouse in hand.
I’m prepared to be angry, but I’m hit with nothing but relief when I see her stirring something that sits boiling on top of the stove, the new caretaker standing beside her looking impatient. It’s clear that Blessing is too distracted to hear me calling her name. Or perhaps she’s so accustomed to people shouting her name in this house that she’s learned to tune it out.
“You can’t add too much water or Jackie won’t eat it,” she explains to the caretaker in her patient, musical voice. “But if you don’t add enough, then Gunther won’t eat. It’s a very delicate balance, you see.”
“I think I can handle porridge, Mrs. Scrooge,” the caretaker sighs. “Just like I can handle making beds and administering medicine.”
“Of course you can,” Blessing assures her.
“I’m a certified caretaker. I have twenty years of experience.”
“Yes, I know, but these children are very special, you see—”
“Wife,” I say, my heart feeling awfully heavy. “Angel.”
Blessing drops the spoon and turns around. “Edison!” She glances at the window and seems to realize at once that she’s lost track of time. “Uh oh.”
Oh, dear God, she’s so beautiful, my chest can’t take it. “You didn’t inform anyone you were leaving,” I say, trying to be stern.
“Am I supposed to?”
“It would be ideal,” I say in a whopping understatement, closing the distance between us and tipping up her chin. “So I don’t worry that you’ve left me.”
A groove forms between her brows. “You thought I left you?”
My attention snags on her tone of voice. “Why do you say it like that?”
A child pipes up from an apparent hiding place beneath the kitchen table. “Because, mister, people usually leave us.”
I don’t like the uncomfortable way my pulse is rollicking.
Blessing won’t meet my eyes.
I don’t know my wife’s fears, I realize. And that is unacceptable. “Blessing.” I stoop down until she can’t avoid making eye contact. “You can’t possibly be worried that I’ll leave.”
Her bottom lip starts to tremble. She shrugs jerkily.
It costs me a serious effort not to pick her up and rock her, but I sense this moment requires a serious discussion. There is no way in hell my wife is going to be scared of me leaving. Doesn’t she realize how preposterous that is? Have I not made it clear that I’m obsessed with her? “How can I take away your fears if I don’t even know what they are?”