Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
The driver unloads the trunk, assembling a line of luggage and baby gear while we head in.
“Oh, guess what?” Rossi slips her arm around my lower back as we walk side-by-side. “You’re never going to believe this.”
“What?”
“We were leaving today when I saw a Realtor putting a sign in Dan’s front yard.” She bites her lip. “So I guess he’s moving?”
“Actually, I do believe that.” After the stunt he pulled two weeks ago, I pulled one of my own. Turns out I know someone who knows someone who knows Dan’s boss in the accounting division of the large “Fortune 500” corporation where he works.
All it took was a couple of phone calls and the bastard was canned.
“Wonder where he’s going to go?” she muses, a hint of sadness in her tone.
But I don’t feel bad for him. He got exactly what he deserved.
“As long as he keeps his delusional string-bean ass out of California, I don’t care where he goes,” I say.
Rossi swats me as we step over the landing and into the foyer of the expansive home that will no longer be quiet and smudge-free from this moment forward—something I’m one-million-percent okay with.
Gasping, she stops, clasping a hand over her chest. “Oh, my god.”
“What?”
“This view …” She takes a couple of steps before stopping, transfixed by the rolling ocean view out the two-story window ahead. “How do you live here? How is this real life?”
She chuckles ambling into the next room, her pretty mouth agape.
I’d given her a handful of tours over FaceTime, but apparently I didn’t do this place justice.
“Welcome home,” I say to my girls.
I think they’re going to love it here.
And how could they not?
It’s truly paradise on earth; nirvana.
Epilogue
Five Years Later
* * *
Rossi
* * *
“Where would you like this, ma’am?” A uniformed mover hoists a small box labeled BARBIES on his shoulder.
“Top of the stairs, second room on the right.” I point. “Oh, have you seen my husband? And was he with a miniature version of himself, by chance?”
“Just saw him out back on the court with the little guy,” he says before climbing the stairs to deliver the dolls to Lucia’s room.
I waddle toward the back sliding door, peering out onto the expansive grassy acre nestled under a shady grove.
For the past several years, we called his Malibu house our home, and we fell asleep every night to the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the shore, but with Lucia and little Frankie getting older and the newest baby Catalano on the way, we wanted more greenspace for them to run around, an extra bedroom, and a second office for me.
We also managed to find a smaller house a few blocks from here in an adjacent neighborhood. Fabian purchased the place as an anniversary present for my parents, who moved out here with us five years ago without giving it a second thought. No convincing necessary. My father’s in heaven with this weather, bragging to his friends back home that it’s like “being on vacation 24/7.” Mom has happily taken over Carina’s nanny duties while she gets her first Plant Parenthood location off the ground.
Chuckling, I watch my husband attempt to place a miniature tennis racket into our two-year-old son’s chubby fists. He’s determined to make him the next Catalano tennis champ, but only time will tell.
Checking my watch, I head to the front of the house to wait for Mom to pull up with Lucia, stopping first to set out an afterschool butterscotch pudding cup for my busy, curious, pig-tailed kindergartener.
In a few short months, we’ll be a family of five—something I never dreamed possible.
“Mom! I’m home!” The sound of tiny sneakers tromping through the front door of our new house is music to my ears.
“In the kitchen,” I call out.
“I don’t know where that is …” she shouts back, sing-songing. Always yelling, this one. Like her father. I’m finding she’s got a temper to match, too.
“Follow my voice,” I sing-song in response.
A second later, she barrels around the corner, her glittery purple backpack bouncing as the biggest grin takes up half of her face.
“Did you remember to pack my pudding cups?” she asks.
I point to the one sitting on the island. “One step ahead of you, Luc.”
Ditching her bag, she sidles up to a bar stool and digs in as movers shuffle in and out of our house with boxes and sofas and questions.