Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I find Jason in his den, sprawled on a sofa, his small frame hunched over a handheld game. He looks up briefly, a smile breaking his focused concentration, before he returns his attention to his screen.
“Hey, Aunt Amelia.”
My heart tugs, a tender ache for this boy who’s become so quickly dear to me. He’s such a good kid. “Hey, Jason,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Wanna help me in the garden? I’m going to cut some flowers for the house.”
I really thought he would say he had to finish his game, or he’ll join me later, but to my surprise, he immediately looks up, his game forgotten, and scrambles to his feet.
“Yeah!” he says, his keenness a spark that lights me up. I didn’t really expect this much enthusiasm from a boy his age. “I’ll show you where the purple ones grow. You can put them in your room?”
I laugh, nodding, and take his hand, his small fingers warm and trusting in mine. “Definitely. Let’s see what we can find.”
We step outside. The sprawling garden is a riot of color under the midday sun. The air is heavy, scented with honeysuckle and warm earth, the buzz of bees a soft hum beneath the rustle of leaves. The lawn stretches wide, dotted with flower beds bursting with roses, lavender, and vibrant zinnias, their petals swaying in a gentle breeze. I spot a gardener in the distance, his weathered hands busy with a pair of shears, his straw hat tipped low against the sun. I thought Max had given all the staff a vacation. Maybe he will leave later.
“Good morning!” I call, waving, and he straightens, his lined face creasing into a grin as he wipes sweat from his brow with a bandana.
“Good morning, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he calls back, his voice gruff but warm, his eyes crinkling at Jason. “You’re here, too. Have you come to make trouble in my garden, young man?”
Jason giggles. “We’re here to pick flowers, Mr Hill,” he says, bright and happy.
“Is it okay if we cut some flowers, Mr Hill?” I ask politely.
“Call me Tom. Of course, you can. That’s what they’re here for,” he says with a nod. “Here, you’ll need this.” He hands me a small pair of secateurs.
I smile and take the tool. “Thank you, Tom. And you must call me Amelia.”
Jason leads me toward a bed of purple dahlias, their blooms bold and velvety. I kneel, the grass tickling my knees through the sundress.
“Okay, Jason, you can pick the ones you like, but be gentle—cut just above the leaf node, like this.” I demonstrate, snipping a stem with a soft snap, the dahlia’s head heavy in my hand, its scent earthy and sweet.
Jason watches, his gray eyes wide with focus, and mimics me, his small hands careful but unsteady. “Like this?” he asks, proudly holding up a long flower stem.
“Perfect,” I say, ruffling his curls, my heart swelling at his effort. I’ve tended the garden back home for years, a quiet ritual to comfort myself after Max left, and this feels familiar, healing—kneeling in the dirt, the sun warming my shoulders. We move through the beds, collecting a bouquet of dahlias, lavender sprigs, and a few white roses, their petals soft as silk. Tom joins us, his gruff voice offering tips, pointing out a patch of marigolds that “need a bit of love.” I nod, listening, my hands brushing Jason’s as we work together, the flowers piling up in the basket.
Jason holds up a lavender sprig, sniffs it deeply, and sneezes, a tiny, adorable sound that makes me laugh.
“That’s enough now. Let’s take them inside and find a vase,” I say, brushing dirt from my hands.
“These are gonna look awesome on the table,” he says, his cheeks flushed from the sun.
“They will,” I agree, gathering the flowers in my arms.
We wave goodbye to Tom, who tips his hat in response, and heads back to the house. The kitchen is cool, the air is still scented with the morning’s coffee, and I love it. I pull a vase from one of the cabinets, and Jason helps me arrange the flowers. His fingers are clumsy but eager.
“You’re good at this,” I say, nudging his shoulder, and he beams, his shy smile breaking wide, a rare glimpse of the boy beneath the quiet.
My chest aches with a fierce, protective warmth, but as always. it’s laced with guilt. Jason, Max’s son, is the most important piece of the family I’m endangering with every stolen moment.
“Okay, buddy, you did great. Thank you for your help. Want a sandwich ? I promise, even with my terrible cooking skills, I can make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich. »
He brightens. "Really? Mummy doesn't like it when I have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
I grin. "But you're on vacation, aren't you?"