Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“That ‘jelly stuff’ would be my secret-recipe pear preserves,” I tell her, scooping more of it onto her plate. “And getting back to my second point, my life is falling apart, yes, but not ruined.” I grimace and sip my pinot grigio. “At least I hope not. Thank you, guys, for coming over to take my mind off all this for a bit.”
“Are you kidding?” Hendrix cackles. “You went all Angela Bassett Waiting to Exhale on Edward’s clothes and his man cave. We had to see the damage unhinged Soledad could do.”
“It’s pretty spectacular.” Yasmen raises her wineglass in a toast. “To you, Sol. You did that. If Edward does manage to slither his way out of prison time, he won’t have a stitch to cover his pasty ass, and you’ve taken all his toys away.”
“My favorite is the Boston Celtics jersey.” Hendrix pauses to sip, then giggle. “The irony of him hiding the drive there and you taking a machete to it. Girl, classic.”
“It felt good in the moment,” I say, sighing and scooping up a handful of almonds from the board. “But if I’d been thinking, I would have sold all his shit instead of destroying it. I’ll need every spare penny. Plus now I have to clean it up.”
“Get them girls out there helping you,” Hendrix says. “It’ll take no time.”
“I hate for them to see just how enraged I was.” I give a wry smile and shake my head. “I think it’s the clap that pushed me over.”
Their smiles dim when I mention the STI. I had to tell them, and their anger rose even higher than mine. I had to physically restrain Hendrix from setting Edward’s golf clubs on fire in the cul-de-sac.
“I’m so glad he’ll get what’s coming to him,” Hendrix says now. “And know what you’ll be having while his lying, cheating ass is behind bars?”
“What?” I ask with a smile queued up because I know this will be good.
“A big ol’ pan of peace cobbler!” Hendrix raises her wineglass and then downs every drop.
“I like that!” Yasmen scoops up some more preserves. “Sol, you should totally make a peace cobbler. I’d eat it.”
“You eat everything,” Hendrix laughs.
“Truth.” Yasmen grins, popping some Gouda into her mouth.
“You know what I’ve really been thinking about doing?” I ask, not waiting for them to guess. “Clearing out Edward’s newly demolished man cave and making it my space. My she shed. You know I love a good DIY. Maybe claiming that space will help me reclaim myself. I didn’t even realize Edward was taking so much from me. I want all my power back.”
“I love that idea,” Yasmen says. “And I like you planning as if this house will remain yours, because it will. It’s gonna work out. I feel it in my bones.”
“So we’re waiting on the accountant to confirm what CalPot wants to do?” Hendrix asks. “When will we know if they’re gonna take the evidence in exchange for leaving you alone?”
“He thought it might be today.” I take a long gulp of my drink. “I guess it’s tonight now, so maybe tomorrow? Whatever he says, it only relieves the pressure temporarily. It unfreezes our accounts and whatever money is there. We actually sometimes make two mortgage payments at once, so I have a little cushion on the house. And the court-assigned trustee says until there’s a conviction, they can help some with the house payments. All in the name of reducing the impact on the girls. But with Edward’s job gone, I need to find steady income long term. I’ll need a way to support us once Edward is behind bars.”
“Oh, you have a lot of income, honey.” Hendrix gestures to the charcuterie board and my living room. “Everything you cook, the house you decorate, the life hacks for cleaning, and all you know about domestic world domination is your income waiting to happen.”
“Yeah, Sol.” Yasmen licks preserves from the corner of her mouth. “Your business is right here under your roof. This life you’ve made for your family has been a labor of love. Why not start actually getting paid for it?”
“You know,” I say, brushing crumbs from my jeans, “even when I was at Cornell getting my degree, I knew I wanted to be home someday—that when I started having kids, I wanted to stay home with them.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Hendrix says. “But someone as driven as you, as ambitious as you, it surprises me that you didn’t want more.”
“More than what?” I ask, injecting the words with a slight challenge. “Giving shelter to the people you love most, making sure they are well fed, well adjusted, happy? Ready to navigate the world? That has been fulfilling to me.”
I shrug and go on.
“I know neither of you are wired this way, but I always have been. We used to split the summers, my sisters and me, between my abuela in Puerto Rico and Lola’s grandmother—Grammy we called her—in South Carolina. Grammy told us that back in the day in Greenville, it was illegal for Black women to stay at home.”