Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“You mean you don’t cook them dinner too?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes I have to. I make a mean box of mac and cheese. But the housekeeper usually does that. Her name is Marian. But I think today’s her day off. I haven’t seen her around.”
“They’ve got a full-time nanny and a full-time housekeeper?”
“Yeah, and the dad has a full-time driver too.”
“Damn.”
She strokes her chin. “Not a lot different from how you grew up.”
I gaze out a large living-room window. “I suppose not.”
She’s right in that we never had to worry about money. Our ranch is very successful, but our real money comes from my father’s mother, Sandra Cooper Bellamy, the Cooper Steel heiress. She passed away while Falcon was in prison. He was able to come to the funeral on furlough, but then he had to go back.
That was a little over a year ago.
She was never the same once Falcon went away. I just thought it was her age, but now that I know that Falcon went to her for the money Eagle needed, I realize that she must have been utterly brokenhearted. She went to her grave thinking that she was responsible for her grandson’s imprisonment. If only there were a way to tell her that Falcon was just trying to do right by his family.
All that money couldn’t save her from dying in sorrow. Money can’t save you from a lot of things. I still got cancer, still nearly died. Falcon still went to jail. Eagle still got involved in a drug ring.
Hawk and Robin seem to be okay, but who the hell knows anymore?
But now isn’t the time to think about this. I’m catching up with an old friend.
“Let’s have a look around anyway,” I say.
“Not until you tell me about what you’ve been through,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Ray.”
I shrug. “Please, don’t be. I’m going to be fine, and for that I’m truly grateful. I could tell you all about it, but it will make me sound like a Debbie Downer. I try to dwell on the fact that I got through it and made it to the other side.”
“That’s amazing,” CJ says. “I wish I’d been here to help.”
I shake my head. “I had my family. My brothers and sister. And frankly I wasn’t big on other visitors. But let’s talk about something else. Show me around this fabulous house.”
CJ flashes a smile. “Gladly. Follow me.”
CJ’s employers’ mansion is about the same size as my parents’, but while the Bellamys built their home with the express purpose of raising a family in mind, these people seem to have designed their home with nothing but pure lavishness as the main objective. CJ takes me to the home theater adorned with rich velvet drapes and outfitted with plush reclining seats, surround sound, and even an old-fashioned popcorn maker. Then she shows me the indoor pool, complete with lounge chairs, a luxurious cedar sauna, and a jetted jacuzzi.
Onward to the library, the billiard room—I feel like I’m playing a game of Clue—and we finish out the tour in the music room, which is bedecked with a nine-foot Steinway grand piano, acoustic and electric guitars, a violin, and a drum set.
“Do your employers play a lot of music?” I ask. “They nearly have an entire orchestra in this room alone.”
CJ scoffs. “Not a one. People like this own musical instruments because they’re supposed to, not because they actually use them.” She giggles and punches me in the arm. “Get with the program, Ray.”
I laugh, but seeing this room full of beautiful instruments cursed to a life of complete silence makes me a little sad.
“But I still have to show you the best part,” CJ goes on. “Follow me.”
She leads me to a closed door on the mansion’s third floor.
“This,” she says, opening the door, “is my room.”
I nearly drop my jaw. It’s gorgeous. CJ has a king-sized bed with a tufted headboard upholstered in a cream-colored fabric. The bed itself is covered in what I think are silk sheets in a sweet baby blue. Flanking her bed are matching nightstands made of dark wood, each topped with a sleek, modern lamp. A large mirror hangs above an antique wooden dresser. A comfortable reading nook sits on one side of the room, featuring a plush armchair upholstered in a muted floral fabric beside a small bookshelf filled with an array of romance novels—CJ’s favorite. She used to read them all the time back in school. The walls are painted the same color as her bedsheets, enhanced by elegant crown molding, and are adorned with a few serene watercolor landscapes depicting tranquil countryside scenes, as well as a striking abstract piece in shades of blue and gold.
I walk up to the abstract piece and notice the autograph in the bottom right corner. “Is this a genuine Roy Wolfe painting?”