Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I throw up a hand in resignation. “Fair point.”
“You have her last name.”
“Mom changed my name to hers after the divorce— My father is Douglas Merriweather. He treaded the boards as well. But his career fizzled after he ran off with my nanny.”
“Karma,” Monica says succinctly. “Were you okay with your mom changing your name like that?”
“I wasn’t asked. At any rate, I didn’t mind. My father left us. Mom wanted to be a united family of two after that. Felt reasonable.”
“But this was his parents’ house?” She follows me through the living room and past the breakfast porch.
“They left it to me. He’s a bit of a shit.”
“His loss. I’d rather have my daughter’s love.”
Me too.
We enter the kitchen, and Monica does a slow spin, taking in the spreading wings of the house and the pool courtyard. “It’s beautiful, this house. Really beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I heft the bag on top of the island. “I can’t take any credit for it, though. My grandmother updated and redecorated the whole place a few years back.”
“She did a great job. It’s so restful.” Monica opens the bag and starts pulling out bottles. Gold bangles chime musically on her slim brown wrists. “I just had my place done. Hired a designer to do everything. Asked for Boho cottage core. Though I think it’s giving more eccentric cat lady. Which is cool. Only I don’t own a cat. Anyway, I can’t pretend that I had much to do with the process either.”
There’s something mesmerizing about the way she moves about like a dancer, chattering with cheerful self-deprecation.
“I can tell just by the way you put yourself together that you have great taste.”
She’s wearing scuffed black motto boots with brown linen bubble shorts and a draping pale pink T with Chanel printed across the chest in bold black. It’s not something I could pull off if I tried. But she looks great.
Monica, however, snorts. “Girl, I have a stylist to pick my clothes too.” With a shrug, she deftly sorts through her supplies. “I’m a manufactured image. It goes with the territory.”
“Do you like it,” I ask her quietly. “The life? The job?”
She looks up, her face familiar and yet still startling to see in my kitchen.
“I do.” Her tension eases with a real smile, her trademark scarlet lips pulling wide. “I really fucking do.”
“Well, that’s good, then.”
“Yes, it is. I didn’t bring glasses.”
“Oh, I have a ton of those.” I show her the butler’s pantry off the kitchen. It’s a long room, surrounded on three sides by glass-fronted cabinetry displaying china, serving ware and glassware of various styles and ages. The whole room is cream white with pale marble counters and a copper bowl sink for prep.
“Damn,” Monica murmurs. “People like me hire designers to attempt to re-create spaces like this, and here’s the real deal.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I open a cabinet and pull down two Deco-era martini glasses. “My grandmother was a set designer. Her job was to help people like you re-create fantasy spaces.” I glance around. “She liked white in the house because it was restful to the eye. But for some reason, I see it painted a glossy lipstick red so the china patterns pop.”
“Oh, I like that idea. Sexy-cool. You should do it.”
Change things? Here? A flicker of disloyalty dances at the edges of my mind, but it’s pushed back by a barrage of little tweaks and fixes I picture every time I think of the house.
“Maybe I will.” Slowly, I run a hand over an upper cabinet door, imagining it cool and smooth with lacquer. “Be a hell of a job.”
“I can almost see the wheels turning,” Monica says. “You ever think of following her footsteps?”
“I inherited her love of design and the appreciation of beautiful spaces, but I’m not sure about the talent.”
“Won’t know unless you try.”
I make a noncommittal sound. “I really do wish I had your emphatic drive to do something. Whatever that might be. I envy those who know exactly what they want to do.”
We take the glasses back to the kitchen.
“I’d say both sides have their pitfalls.” Monica opens a cocktail shaker. “People like me, my man and yours? Sure, we know what we want. But on the heels of that is a relentless drive to be the best at our chosen profession and the utter terror that it might not happen.”
“Sometimes I think—” I bite my lip and grimace.
“Oh, no,” she says with a laugh. “You can’t leave that hanging.”
“It’s not anything big. I just realized it might sound disloyal to August.”
Her eyes light with approval. “Loyalty is a good thing. Now spill.”
Laughing, I slide onto a stool. “I wondered if that’s what had August climbing onto a table and making an ass of himself. Because he’s not like that usually.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re right. Trent worries about him because he knows all too well how much pressure they’re under. And your man?” Glossy black hair tumbles around her shoulders as she tuts. “He’s the number one pick. People are either desperate for him to give them everything or waiting for him to fail. Or maybe both.”