Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Those of us left in the newsroom after six at night are only there to write. It’s quiet then, and I like looking through the windows at the bright city lights as I file my stories. I got all my pending stories finished tonight, which was worth skipping dinner and staying until 8:30.
Once inside Gram’s apartment, I drop my wet coat, hat and gloves on the mat, then slide off my boots. An episode of Law and Order is playing on TV, and Gram is asleep in her recliner, her fake fireplace casting a warm glow over the darkened room.
Mr. Darcy is thrilled to see me, as usual. My English bulldog approaches, his whole back end wagging with excitement. I sit down on the floor and he climbs into my lap.
“I missed you, my love,” I tell him, snuggling my face against the fur of his neck. “How was your day, sweet boy?”
He nuzzles my face, making his happy snorting sound, and I warm my hands up while giving him a full body rub.
“Molly?” Gram squints at me from beneath her afghan.
“Hi, Gram. Sorry I woke you.”
“That’s okay. How was your day?”
She uncovers herself and folds down the bottom of her recliner as I say, “It was productive. It’s nasty outside, though.”
“Oh, honey, your hair is soaked. Go get a hot shower and I’ll make you some decaf tea. Have you had dinner?”
“No, but I’ll find something.”
“Mr. Darcy and I had pot roast. Why don’t I heat some up for you?”
I don’t like pot roast, but Gram’s voice is so hopeful that I can’t refuse her.
“That sounds great, thank you. I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”
I hear pans clanking in the kitchen as I search through a pile of clean laundry in my tiny bedroom. It has a twin bed, a small chair and a closet. There are two prints of paintings by one of my favorite artists on the wall—one of a bear riding a bicycle and the other of a fox walking a tightrope. A wooden bookcase is situated in the corner of the room, the shelves brimming with paperbacks, and Mr. Darcy’s cushy dog bed with his favorite blanket sits at the end of my bed.
It’s not much, but at least everything in this room is mine. When I got divorced a year and a half ago, I sold my half of the furnishings I got. I couldn’t keep a single thing—it was just too painful. Every piece of furniture had memories I wanted to forget. Some of those memories are good, others are bad, but I despise every single one. Once someone who’s supposed to love you tells you they can’t stand the sight of you anymore, it’s hard to believe the good was ever real, anyway.
The only thing I kept was Mr. Darcy. My ex-husband Zach told me I could either have our $14,236 savings account or our dog. He knew that for me, it wasn’t even a choice. Mr. Darcy and I moved in with my gram because I was flat broke. I’ve managed to rebuild some savings since then, but since Gram likes having us here and I like being here, I’m staying in the cozy little apartment that smells like lemons and gets drafty in the winter.
“How was work?” Gram asks as I walk back into the kitchen, dressed in flannel pants, a sweatshirt and thick, fuzzy socks.
“The city’s financial state is downright depressing. I wrote a story about the effects of revenue shortages and another about the increasing costs of worker’s comp insurance. Went to a press conference about a new property tax program. Had all my pens stolen. Walked home in an icy monsoon. That’s about it.”
Gram sets one of her old, flower-covered bowls down in front of me, steam rising from the pot roast and potatoes inside.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the mug of tea she passes me.
“Mr. Darcy and I did our usual. We took a couple slow walks, did some housework and watched our shows. Wheel of Fortune was quite exciting tonight.”
Gram says that often, because she thinks Pat Sajak is sexy. My grandpa’s been gone for twelve years now, and Gram says she never plans to remarry as long as she can see keep seeing Pat Sajak five nights a week.
“I hired that dog walker for you, Gram. You just call him in the morning and tell him you want him to come and he’ll let Mr. Darcy out. I don’t think you should be walking up and down the outside stairs in this weather.”
“Molly, I’m seventy-four, not ninety-four,” Gram says in a crisp tone.
“It’s not about your age. Those stairs get icy and slick. Anyone could fall.”
Gram gives me a pointed look. “Mr. Darcy and I do just fine. We’re both a little slower than we used to be, but we like to get out all the same.”