Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Hannah snickered. “Ohmygod, the evil laughing is to die for.”
“You’re both bad people,” I assured her.
She grunted.
We got video of a Toyota Sequoia then that was on top of a portion of white picket fence because it had clearly run into and over it, had then decimated a boxwood at the end of the drive—like it looked like the truck was a giant planter, that’s how embedded the shrub was—and killed a mailbox.
“Now, here is the man in question,” Kola announced, “Conor Murray.”
He was handsome, built muscular with a golden tan, and had the same blond hair as Finn except there was some silver in his. Apparently, all the Murray men were a fetching lot.
“The good news is, the lady responsible for the cold-blooded murder of a boxwood is not, in fact, drunk, just really mad. Let’s listen in, shall we?”
“He’s being so snide,” Sam said through his own chuckle.
“You’re not any better,” I assured him.
Up the front walkway came a very tall, very beautiful redhead, who, in my opinion, being maybe all of twenty-six if I had to venture a guess, was far too young for the aforementioned Conor.
She had an aluminum baseball bat in her right hand and was swinging it as she closed in on an unassuming garden gnome. “Motherfucking, cheating ass Conor Murray, you better get your ass out here!”
“Wait.” I was confused and looked over at Hannah.
“Oh, the gnome just got it,” Sam announced, keeping me apprised of the play-by-play.
“That is Christine,” Hannah began, “and she’s the one who owns the Toyota Sequoia, and she’s one of the two affairs he’s having, though she’s not the wife of Conor’s best friend.”
“This is nuts,” Sam told her.
“Just keep watching.”
Back with my head on Sam’s shoulder, I regarded the devastation of lawn ornaments that included a metallic peacock, a couple of tall flower wind spinners, the Virgin Mary—which I thought was in especially poor taste to reduce to rubble—a wooden giraffe, and various sized plastic flamingos.
“She’s going to hell for what she did to Mother Mary,” Sam pointed out.
We had a close-up of Finn’s father, Eammon, who was standing there, on the front lawn, with his mouth open and his hands laced together on top of his head. We then moved to Finn’s mother, Anne, standing, gobsmacked on the stairs, and finally to Finn, who was shaking his head at Kola.
“But wait, there’s more,” Kola announced cheerfully, as a cherry-red 1967 Chevrolet Impala, a four-door hardtop sedan, which was Dean’s car from Supernatural, came to a screeching stop in front of the house. Out of that hopped a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, who was carrying, I was guessing, an extra fifteen to twenty pounds on him. He came charging up the drive, and someone said, “Oh shit,” near Kola.
“You’re a son of a whore, Murray! You’re supposed to be my best motherfucking mate!” he yelled at Conor, who had just appeared out on the lawn beside Finn’s father. I noted that he immediately tried to run before the man dived at him.
Funny to see Finn’s father move around to get out of the way of the grappling men.
“What does son of a whore mean?” a little voice asked.
“Oh, honey,” a woman replied shakily.
“He said son of a horse,” Kola enunciated for whatever child was there. “Horse. We just didn’t hear the S and the E very well.”
“That’s what I thought,” a little voice confirmed. “What about the mother one?”
“Not even a real word,” he said in that tone he had that conveyed absolute conviction. He’d been using it since he was five.
“Okay,” the little voice said, taking his word, as most did, as gospel.
A whispered thank-you then, and Kola’s husky, “No worries,” in return.
“Let’s go, angel.”
“But I want Auntie Anne’s cinnamon rolls.”
“Okay. Let’s go get some.”
“And we’re back,” Kola announced acerbically, and in the frame, another car parked behind the Impala, in the middle of the street, this one a newer Ford Bronco that a woman got out of, probably in her early forties, wearing a gorgeous navy dress with white polka dots.
“Oh no,” I groaned.
“That’s Finn’s aunt Gabrielle, Gabby,” Jake told us, having finished the sandwich he’d been making and holding it out for Hannah, who darted over.
“Thank you,” she said with a sigh. “It’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” he praised her, smiling as he started on his own.
“You’re ridiculous, but I love you, and I have strawberry pie chilling in the refrigerator ready for consumption.”
“Because you’re beautiful and a good person,” he made sure she knew.
Her giggle made me smile.
“You do?” Sam asked her.
“I do what, sir?” she questioned him, batting her eyelashes.
“Have pie in the fridge.”
“I do.” She beamed at him. “And while Jake’s pie has a heretical chocolate crust, yours has a traditional graham cracker one, as you would rather, and I quote, gargle glass than eat any kind of chocolate with strawberries.”