Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Gerald Grey is a proud man.
He’ll probably work until he dies because he can’t stand not being useful. He’s been showing more signs of dementia since last year, and we don’t like to talk about it.
It’s so hard.
But he knows it’s there, just like I do.
I won’t hurt his pride by letting anybody see him when he’s not completely himself.
And I’m not going to upset him by arguing, either.
For now, I’ll be Serena, even if it shreds my heart.
“Sure, Dad,” I say cheerfully as I walk to the sink and fill a glass, then bring it back to him and press it into his wrinkled hands. “How’s work going?”
He takes the glass with a grateful nod, then scratches a hand through his sparse remaining hair. It’s tinged grey with a fading touch of the same red as mine.
We have the same eyes, too. His midnight-blue gaze darkens as he looks over the piece mounted on the lathe.
“Slow.” He draws the word out thoughtfully and takes a long sip from the glass. When he speaks again, his voice is smoother. “Then again, handcrafted’s always slow as molasses. It’ll come when it comes.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” I squeeze his shoulder.
“Eh, we’ll see.”
He looks down at his free hand, flexing it slowly. His knuckles are thick and swollen, his fingertips shaking slightly.
Dementia isn’t the only thing on his plate.
I know he’d rather die than admit his rheumatoid arthritis hurts him. God, if he’s mentally back in time right now to when my mother was my age, he probably doesn’t even understand why his hands hurt, so gnarled and broken.
Keeping my smile right now feels harder than it was with the Arrendell valet.
Seeing him like this, everything he is fading away…
It’s a blister on the soul.
Even worse because when he forgets himself, he’s still a brilliant craftsman. The bassinet leg on the lathe already looks like art, etched with delicate grooves. It’s like the Alzheimer’s patients you hear about who forget who they are, yet they can still play a full Mozart piece while swearing they’ve never touched a piano in their lives.
Even when Grandpa’s so far away, his talent still lives in his hands. Muscle memory.
No wonder someone like Xavier Arrendell wants his magic before it’s gone.
Like the mind reader he is, Grandpa glances at the thick envelope clutched in my fingers. “What’s that?”
“This?” I shrug, tucking it under my arm with a smile. “Invitation to a class reunion. I probably won’t go.”
He chuckles. “You were always so shy. Talia’s taking after you, ya know. I worry about her. The kids at school pick on her too damn much.”
Crap, crap.
No, I’m not going to cry.
My eyes sting anyway, but I bolt on my smile like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
“She’ll be okay,” I say faintly. “Talia, she can hold her own. I promise you she’s stronger than she looks.”
Right.
I definitely don’t feel strong right now.
Not when I’m completely helpless to do anything to set his mind straight today, much less stall the inevitable.
No matter how many custom orders we take in, no matter how much artisan furniture we ship out, we’ll never have enough money to buy real treatments for the disease destroying his hands.
Let alone the demon eating his mind.
Not that there’s any cure for dementia, but it can be slowed, minimized—if you pay through the nose. There’s even a promising new study out of Minnesota that’s seen better results than any of the treatments on the market.
But it’s funded by big corporate sponsors.
And it costs a lot of money to buy a spot for late-stage human trials.
Money we’ll never have.
Still, if the richest family in town wants to hire us, that might help a little. At least we could keep his hands working for a few more months.
Am I in the mood for a deal with the devil?
I bite my lip and tighten my fingers against the invitation, watching Grandpa as he sets the half-empty glass down and bows over the lathe again, already hyperfocused, losing himself in work and forgetting I’m even here.
I don’t want to put the burden of this meeting with the Arrendells on him.
But I can go, can’t I?
I’ve been working under him my entire life. Learning his trade. One day, this shop and the entire business will be mine.
My stomach churns at the thought. I don’t usually do customer-facing things, and dealing with people like them—
No, you can do it.
He’s worth it.
And he absolutely is.
Fine, whatever.
If the Arrendells really want us, they’ll just have to settle for the lesser Grey.
My bravado’s not holding up as well the following morning.
The very first thing I do is check my purse for my inhaler.
I throw on a smart pink skirt suit—the only nice outfit I really have in my favorite color—and low heels, then pin my hair up before heading out, kissing Grandpa on the cheek as he hovers over his morning coffee in the kitchen of our loft above the shop.