Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry, but I have bad news,” he says.
And my heart sinks, heavy as a stone, dread pooling cold in my gut. “Why? What happened?” I wail, gripping the phone. The cottage feels too quiet now.
“I’m afraid it fell this morning. It was an accident. One of the lads bumped the shelf, and it’s smashed beyond repair.” He sighs heavily like he’s picturing the shards all over his floor. “I’ve already refunded the full amount to your credit card, and I’ll keep an eye out for another one. I’ve got a contact in London who might have something similar for you in a few weeks.”
Disappointment crashes over me, sharp and bitter, stealing the air from my lungs. “Okay,” I mumble. “It’s okay. Please let me know when you have another one like it.’
“Of course I will.”
After Mr. Sherridan tenders another apology, I hang up the phone and let it clatter onto the counter.
I stare at the sander, the paint cans, the walls I was so ready to transform, and it all feels heavier now, like the cottage is laughing at me, daring me to keep going when even the small wins slip away.
I have no choice but to keep going regardless because I need somewhere to sleep tonight, and I grab the sander agai and attack the floors harder than I need to, dust clouding around me like my mood.
By evening, I’m aching, arms sore, the hallway half-prepped, paint cans lined up like soldiers. I’m brushing sweat off my forehead when a van’s rumble pulls me up short. Its tires crunch on the gravel outside. Who can that be? I’ve got everything I ordered. Why is everyone bothering me today? I stomp to the door, ready to wave off whoever it is. I open my door and find a courier, clipboard in hand, a box at his feet marked ‘Fragile.’
“Delivery for Lauren Hutton,” he announces, thrusting the clipboard at me. “Sign here.”
“But I’m not expecting anything,” I say, frowning.
He shrugs, unbothered. “It says Lauren Hutton, and it’s this address. You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, signing, curiosity nudging past my irritation.
He’s gone before I can ask more; the van’s tires squealing away. I look at the box inquisitively. How strange. I drag the box inside. Whatever is inside has some weight and solidity to it. The box is well packed too. I get a knife from the kitchen and slice it open. Tissue paper rustles under my fingers as I lift it.
Suddenly, my breath catches.
What?
A Tiffany lamp sits inside! I sit back in amazement and stare at it. Not even daring to breathe, I carefully pull it out of the cardboard box and set it on the floor. Blues and greens swirl on a heavy and intricate bronze base, exactly like the one I lost. This one however, is even better. The colors are even more translucent and vibrant, and it’s in pristine condition. No cracks at all. It’s breathtaking. Every tiny detail screams of the finest craftsmanship and intention. This is no reproduction, but an original worth many thousands of pounds.
I can’t believe it.
How has it been delivered to me? Did the man in the antique shop make a mistake and send me an original instead of a reproduction? My heart races, disbelief mixing with awe. This isn’t mine. No way.
I seize my phone from the counter and dial the antique shop, my fingers trembling as I press the screen, each ring stretching my nerves tighter. Mr. Sherridan answers, his voice traced with confusion. In the background I can hear the faint clatter of his shop—glass clinking, a distant customer’s voice.
“Hello, Miss Hutton? Is this about the refund?”
I explain about the new Tiffany lamp that has just arrived.
There is a pause, then his words come out slow and suspicious. “Another lamp? Uh- I’m afraid I don’t understand. We didn’t send anything to you, Miss Hutton. The one you purchased was destroyed, as I explained. I have no record of a replacement.” His tone carries a trace of unease, as if he fears I am accusing him of some error.
My breath catches, a cold certainty settling in my chest. “You’re sure? Nothing at all?” I press, needing him to confirm what I am beginning to suspect.
“I’m certain,” he replies more firmly now. “We didn’t send any lamps. Maybe it is from another shop?”
“No, I haven’t been in contact with any other shop. Anyway, if it’s not you who sent it then it’s fine. I… uh… thank you for clarifying.” I end the call and slowly set the phone down on the counter, my brain racing.
Then my eyes swivel and lock on the lamp, and the undeniable realization crystalizes in my mind, like a lock snapping shut in a quiet room. The lamp is from Hugh. It has to be from him. Who else would be this creepy, intrusive, bothersome, and manipulative as this? He knows I can’t possibly keep such an expensive gift, and I’ll have to return it. So really, it’s just an opportunity to rub my nose in his wealth without having to actually spend any money. Cruel man! Or it is a calculated move by a man for whom money is no object, a bribe wrapped in beauty, meant to soften me, to buy my compliance, my land, my surrender.