Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I shrug on my coat, averting my gaze. I don’t want him to see the guilt I’m sure is plain in my eyes. “Maybe a little. Elaina was making the hot toddies and she’s a heavy pour.”
He grunts, his sharp blue eyes still fixed on my face. I can feel his attention prickling across my skin, even though I keep my gaze lowered as I tuck my keys and wallet into my pockets. “You know better, Gert,” he says. “Don’t let anyone pour for you, not even a friend.”
Gramps and I both enjoy a pint at the pub after work as much as the next harvester, but we’re careful to drink in moderation. Neither one of us wants to be like my father. We leave the pub by no later than six most nights and have a three-beer maximum, even on Saturdays.
But better he thinks I drank too much whiskey than had kinky sex with our family’s sworn enemy.
“You’re right,” I say, nodding as I rake a hand through my hair. “I’ll be sure to mix my own drink next time. See you later. I’m going to run over to Elaina’s for breakfast and cat therapy.”
He grunts again, but seems mollified. “Be sure to use the lint roller in the carport before you come back inside.”
“I know, I know. See you later,” I say as I back through the door and pound down the stairs into the cool morning air.
Gramps’ alleged “cat allergies” are the reason I don’t have a cat of my own to love and spoil. Funny how his “allergies” didn’t act up when I snuck a cat-hair-covered pillow into his bedroom a few weeks ago. Gramps slept just fine that night, and when we headed out to the boat in the morning, there wasn’t a red eye or stuffy old man nose in sight.
I’m ninety percent sure he’s been lying to me about his allergies since I was a kid who begged him ceaselessly for a cat. But considering what I did last night, I’m in no position to throw stones.
Fuck. Just thinking about it sends shame flooding into my stomach, making it so tight and heavy, it feels like it’s dragging behind me as I hustle down the sidewalk toward downtown. I pass the fisherman’s memorial on the way, a circular arrangement of stone plaques with a giant, wrought-iron wave in the middle. These plaques list the names of all the men lost to the sea from 1795 all the way to modern times.
When I was little, Gramps would take me there every Memorial Day and read the names of all the Sullivans who went to a watery grave. He knew which Sullivans were “our” Sullivans and which were from the other Sullivan family in town, the one that left Sea Breeze in the 1930s, looking for a better life out west. From 1930 on, all the lost Sullivans are ours. There are only two—my great-uncle and a second cousin who drowned when I was just a baby, but still…
I feel the weight of my legacy every time I pass the memorial. My ancestors gave everything for our family, sometimes even their lives. They’re the reason Gramps has enough money to pay for Dad’s bills and mortgage payment, even though my father hasn’t held down a job in years. They’re the reason we have enough left over to keep our gorgeous old Victorian in the family, instead of being forced to sell like so many of our friends who used to own waterfront homes.
I’m sure all the dead Sullivans are rolling over in their graves right now, ashamed to be related to such a Tripp-sexing, trash heap of a human being.
I walk faster, speeding past the memorial and the entrance to the docks, careful to not so much as glance toward the ice cream shack or the yacht behind it.
Past the hardware store, the fish market, the souvenir shops and the upscale resale shop, I push into Elaina’s café, my shoulders sagging with relief when I see that she’s alone at the counter and no one occupies the tables near the front.
Crossing the softly gleaming hardwood floor, I brace my hands on the counter and ask in a harsh whisper, “Do you think ghosts can see who we fuck?”
She cocks her head with a soft “thinking” sound, sending her sleek brown ponytail shifting to one side. “I don’t know. I mean, I hope not. My grandmother would be horrified that I’m such a slut, but…” She trails off with a wicked grin. “Does this mean you finally nailed your lobster Romeo, my sweet Juliet?”
I roll my eyes. Elaina has been calling Mark and me “Romeo and Juliet” ever since she found out we were hooking up. The bad blood between the Sullivans and the Tripps is public knowledge and Elaina loves drama.