Total pages in book: 248
Estimated words: 236036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1180(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 787(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1180(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 787(@300wpm)
Still, once naked as the day I’d been born, I forgot about cats and clubs and was far more focused on getting into the tub. But first, I stopped by the kitchen, grabbed a semi-cool bottle of grape soda from the ancient fridge and removed the cap with a strike against the countertop whose chipped surface was testimony that mine wasn’t the first soda opened the good old-fashioned way. I added a granola bar as well as a package of fig bars to my haul as I headed down the hall.
My mood improved as the gurgle and rumbling of the hot water tank worked toward heating enough water to fill the clawfoot tub. When I’d last sunk into it, I’d thought it was as big as the swimming hole in the bend of the river at the back of the property. The memory of that bath had me glancing into the cabinet beneath the single sink. I was rewarded with a huge smile on a cartoonish pink face.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Bubbles,” I said as I shook the bottle. With a grin, I poured the last of its contents beneath the water as it flowed. When bubbles began frothing, I forgot the storm outside and smiled while I sat on the stool I’d once stood on in order to reach the sink.
Squeaky clean make angels sing,
I smiled even as I felt my eyes well.
“I miss you, Grammie O, but I know that you and Grandpops are among those angels now,” I whispered softly, the words lost in the empty house but filling my heart. Memories were funny that way. Poignant enough to make one want to curl up into a ball and bawl, and yet powerful enough to have me stop thinking about how much easier it would be to get back in my car and head home.
“Home is where the heart is,” I reminded myself. “Tomorrow is another day and I’m going to enjoy it!”
With that determined, I stood and moved the stool closer to the tub, set my dinner on its surface, shut off the tap and stepped into the water. As warmth enveloped me, I sighed and when I ripped open my first fig bar, I thought of my new friend. I really hoped she’d enjoyed her own snack after getting home in time to have her baby in a nice, dry barn.
I wasn’t sure if it had been exhaustion or the sound of the rain on the metal roof overhead that had lulled me to sleep, but I’d slept like the dead. The storm had passed sometime during the night and I woke to sun beaming through the windows. I didn’t even let the fact that the light illuminated all those dust bunnies waiting to be captured dim my happiness.
My dinner last night had been yummy but hadn’t ticked even a single item on any nutritional food pyramid. I’d never even eaten the granola bar. Instead, I’d nibbled on cookies and sipped cola until the only fizzies left were in my tummy and not the tub and the water had gotten chilly. Which reminded me to add Mr. Bubbles to the ever-growing shopping list in my head as I stabbed at the slice of bacon sizzling in the pan. After I’d successfully turned it over, I cracked an egg and added it to the same pan.
The yolk hadn’t yet settled before a face wearing a look of disgust flashed in my mind’s eye as it replayed Roland’s critique number five hundred eighty-seven.
“Olivia, you already have the table manners of a heathen. Must you cook like one as well? Have some class, for fuck’s sake.”
“If talking to me like that is class then I’m dropping out of school!”
Of course, I hadn’t had the guts to actually say that. Instead, I’d apologized, emptied the skillet into the trash bin and was about to start over when his heavy sigh and pointed glance at the sink told me that classy folks never ever began with a dirty pan. Especially not in the state-of-the-art chef kitchen in their multi-million-dollar mansion.
A pop of grease brought me back to a kitchen that was far better simply because it had always been a place where love was so thick, it became part of every dish prepared in it.
“Bite me, Ro, it all goes to the same place, and my name is Livvy, you prick!”
Only my father and ex-fiancé Roland called me Olivia. To everyone else—well, everyone I cared about—I was Liv or Livvy. My father hated any version of the name since I’d been named after Grammie O and I could see the disdain on his face every time he said it. As for Roland, he was basically a carbon copy of his mentor and ignored my request he needn’t be so formal. The man had spoken to me with a patronizing tone that dripped with scorn, informing me I was far too unsophisticated and simpleminded to understand silly nicknames didn’t belong in the business world.