Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
He seemed happy here.
And now he’s back in New York. Even though it’s where I met him, and I know it’s where he grew up, it’s so difficult to picture him there.
He seemed so at home in Star Falls. With me.
The sound of the first truck of the day’s tires on the dirt entryway pulls me out of my thoughts. But when I look up, it’s not a truck. It’s a shiny black limo.
That’s weird. We don’t have anything that isn’t a truck coming to the farm.
It parks in front of the barn, just a few feet away from me. The windows are blacked out, so I can’t see anything. The driver steps out, but I don’t recognize him. There’re a few people milling around but the driver ignores me.
“Can I help you?” I ask. He heads to the back door of the limo and opens it.
I peer into the car, and it takes my brain a few seconds to realize that the person in the back, getting out of the car, is Jack’s mother.
“Mrs. Alden?” I say.
“Iris,” she says, offering me a little smile. “Is Jack here?”
My heart starts to pound. Why would she think he was here? Has something happened? My brain whirs through the possibilities of what might have happened to Jack to bring Mrs. Alden to my door.
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him since he went back after your husband’s stroke.” It’s been nearly a month since Jack has been here. I’m not sure why she would come looking for him here.
“Can we go somewhere and talk privately?” she asks.
She must see the confusion on my face, but she doesn’t offer me any explanation.
“Of course. Why don’t you come up to the house?” I suggest. I can’t imagine what she’s going to say to me. My entire body tenses. I want to demand she tell me what’s going on immediately, but I know it won’t do any good. I have to be patient. Follow her timeline.
She nods very slightly and we walk silently up the path that joins the house to the rest of the farm.
Once we’re inside, I offer her a beverage but she refuses everything.
“May I sit?” she asks, tilting her chin at the dining table.
“Of course.” I just want her to tell me what’s going on.
We both take seats at the table. I’ve never been very good at small talk—especially with a woman like Mrs. Alden. She’s completely intimidating. I hope she cuts to the chase.
“I want to tell you how I came to marry Mr. Alden,” she says. “Maybe your judgement of me will be less harsh when you hear my story.”
“My judgement of you? I never…”
What’s she talking about?
“If you would listen to me for just a few minutes, I would be very grateful.”
She’s firm, and I’m not going to mess with her. I give her a half shrug and she continues.
She sighs and places her hands in her lap. “No one apart from my husband knows this. Not even Jack. But it’s the truth.”
I nod, not quite knowing what to say, other than why are you here? On Wilde’s Farm? You look like a bumblebee on a glacier. Where’s Jack? Is he okay?
“I met Mr. Alden when I worked at Saks.” She pulls in a breath like she’s just confessed to a murder and it’s taking everything in her to say the words. “I sold small leather goods. Gloves. Wallets. Glasses cases. That sort of thing. He came in looking for a pair of gloves for his mother.”
For some reason, I’d expected Mrs. Alden to have been from a wealthy New York family. But apparently she was a sales assistant.
“You have an excellent poker face,” she says.
“I’m not trying to hide any reactions. I’m just trying to listen to your story.”
She nods slowly. “Well, we were instantly taken with each other. James wined and dined me. Took me dancing. But always back where I lived in New Jersey. As our relationship progressed, I came to know who he was, and what the expectations of his family were for his future wife.”
This sounds like a familiar story. If she was here to warn me not to get involved with her son, she’s way too late. He’s gone. “You know Jack and I are no longer together?” I ask her.
She ignores me. “But Mr. Alden and I were in love, and we wanted to be together. Back in those days, the people who fit into New York society were more easily identifiable. Deportment. Conversation. Clothes, hair, nails. Everything told a story.”
I glance down self-consciously at my unmanicured nails.
“Things were less fluid then. People didn’t cross the class barrier so easily as they do now.” She sighs. “Anyway, I knew I wanted to be with Mr. Alden—James. And he wanted to be with me. But we both knew his family wouldn’t approve. So we concocted a story about my background. About how I was from an upper-class family in England, but I’d come to New York for summers and was living with some friends of the family.