Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Ahh! The printer sent me the digital proof!” I tell Grandma.
Mom looks up and asks, “What proof?” at which point I remember I hadn’t told her about my foray into the world of children’s book authorship. Wasn’t planning on it, either.
But it’s too late now.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” I say, downplaying the project. “I put together a little illustrated book for Roxanne and Monique. You know, for their birthday.” I shrug. “It’s cute. I wrote the story, and asked Robb to do the illustrations—”
Shit.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m two for two now with boneheaded slipups.
“Robb?” Mom is visibly displeased. “Robb Sheffield?”
“Yeah.” I tear a piece off my croissant and shove it into my mouth. Maybe if I’m chewing she’ll stop questioning me.
“I didn’t realize you two kept in touch.”
“Oh. Yes. Here and there.”
“Here and there,” she echoes.
“Uh-huh.” I chew extra slowly. “We exchange the occasional message on social media, just to say what’s up.”
Her lips flatten as she picks up her coffee cup. “You know how I feel about that, Cassie.”
Well, too frickin’ bad. You can’t give me a stepbrother for five years and then expect me to never speak to him again just because you got another divorce.
I don’t say that out loud.
Honestly, though, I genuinely liked the man Mom remarried. Stuart Sheffield. Filthy rich, of course. I mean, with a name like that, of course he’s wealthy. Stu was more serious than my dad, stricter as well, but he was kind. Sucks that he fell for my mother’s Ms. Congeniality act, but I don’t blame him for that. She’s very skilled at charming people. And seeing as how the world revolves around her, the moment she decided Stu and Robb didn’t exist, I was expected to follow suit.
“It’s not a big deal,” I repeat. “Not like Robb and I are vacationing together in the Hamptons. I just asked him to do a few drawings for me.”
“And what’s this, you’re writing a children’s book now?” She sounds irritated. “That’s what my big, fancy college tuition check is going toward?”
“It’s just a birthday present. The twins love the bedtime stories I make up for them. Dad suggested I put one in a book.”
“Of course he did.”
I grit my teeth, then force myself to release the tension in my jaw.
It tightens right back up when Mom coolly inquires, “And what is your father’s nurse planning for the birthday celebrations?”
“Victoria,” my grandmother snaps.
“What?” She flicks up an eyebrow.
“I thought I instilled better manners in you than that.”
“Seriously, Mother? You’re siding with Clayton’s trophy wife?”
I swallow a laugh, because Nia is the furthest thing from a trophy wife. Nia doesn’t care about image, about money, about clothes, about status. She’s everything that my mother isn’t.
“There’s a party for the twins during the day,” I say, ignoring the jab about Nia. “All their friends will be there. And afterward we’re having dinner, just the five of us.” Then, since I anticipate a bitchy comment about being left out of her own daughter’s momentous twenty-first birthday, I add, “You and I are still going to Charleston that weekend, right? Spending all of Sunday there? I’m so excited for that.”
Making it about her has the desired effect. She smiles warmly. “I’m looking forward to it too.” She rises from her chair. “Anyway. We have the fitting in an hour, and I’d like to get there a bit early. Will you be ready to leave after you eat?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, great. I need to make a phone call before we go.” She saunters out of the kitchen.
I don’t know why, but I have a feeling she’s off to call my former stepfather to gripe about the fact that their kids are still in contact.
And speaking of that … I quickly click on the email and open the attachment.
“Let me see too,” Grandma urges, so I drag my chair closer to hers and together we ooh and aah over the final product. “Oh, Cassie, you did a tremendous job.”
“It was a team effort.” I’m not being humble—it really had been. I wrote the story. Robb did the drawings. And Peyton, who works for a graphic design firm in Boston, put together the layout that I sent to the printer.
I pinch the screen to zoom in on an illustration. Robb’s creative interpretation of Kit the dragon is remarkable. Somehow, he found the perfect balance between scary and cutesy. He brought Kit to life.
“He is so talented,” I marvel. “They look like real characters, don’t they?”
“They are real characters. You created them, dear.”
“I know, but now I can see them. This is so cool.” I feel myself beaming.
“There’s that smile.” Grandma leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Cassandra …” Her voice softens. “I know your mother is … difficult. To say the least. I hope you don’t hold some of the things she says too close to your heart. And I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the woman you’re becoming and I think you are absolutely wonderful.”