Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“So . . . you guys are dating?”
“No,” I say at the same time as Matt retorts:
“Nosy much?”
“Don’t be giving out to me,” she says with a laugh.
“My family,” he begins with a pained glance my way. “Sadly, they’re as mad as a bag of spiders.”
“And he’s the king of them,” she says, leaning in. “You should see how smart he looks in his frock coat with the fancy golden epaulets.”
“Sounds like something I ought to see,” I say, like this is the first time I’m hearing this.
The pair begins to bicker in a way that makes me both happy and sad. They say you’re not supposed to miss what you haven’t had, but I’m not sure that’s true. There are plenty of times I’ve yearned for a connection. For family. And just as many times I have thanked Providence there wasn’t an us to suffer.
“Uncle Matty, may I pleath have a hot chocolate?” Clodagh asks from the huge sectional on the other side of the room. Which is pretty much where Matt led her the minute she appeared at the bottom of the stairs. So much for cartoons being a perfect distraction as she kneels on the cushions to wave at me. I wave back and hope she’s not in the mood for asking more awkward questions. Because kids aren’t dumb. They’re perceptive.
“Why not,” Matt says. “But we’re out of marshmallows.”
“This house is bullthip!” Clodagh playfully thumps the back of the sectional.
“Excuse me?” her mother demands. “What did you just say, young lady?”
“This house is bullthip,” she replies happily.
“Where on earth did you learn that?”
“Uncle Seb. When he was back from university.”
“Your brother is at university?”
“He’s the baby of the family,” Letty replies.
“A happy surprise,” Matt murmurs. “Or so the story goes.”
That look. I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling back at him.
“At least he’s no longer a teenager,” Letty says, oblivious to the look that passes between us. “They’re God’s cruelest gift to parents, I’m sure.”
“He was a pain in the arse for us all,” Matt interjects. “You’re not gonna be a rotten teenager, are you, Clo?”
“No, I’m gonna be a printheth!”
“Good girl.”
“God, I hope so,” Letty mutters. “Because it seems unusually unfair to spend the first twelve or thirteen years learning on the job. You don’t drop them on their head, they learn to speak, to say nice things, and become tiny, funny humans.” She glances her daughter’s way, her eyes soft. “You think you’ve got the job cracked—you’re nearly there. Then puberty hits. And you realize you’re rubbish after all. Because they tell you so. Often.”
“Wow, that sounds rough.”
“It is. I’ve watched friends deal with theirs. Teenagers,” she adds with a sigh. “You can understand why some animals eat their young.”
“I couldn’t eat Seb. He stinks,” Matt says, as he sets a fancy cup and saucer in front of Letty.
“Not anymore. Not now that he’s into girls. Thirteen-year-old boys think a bar of soap is for hiding their pocket money under,” Letty says, turning my way as though the information might be useful. Good thing we’re having a little girl. “Then at sixteen, they seem to remember what sopa is actually for.”
“Not me. I didn’t stink,” Matt insists.
“You’re the eldest, so who would tell?”
“Have a pastry,” he says, sliding the box her way. In other words, shut up about smelly boys.
She gives a slight lift of her hand. “Thanks, but no.”
“Clo can have one, though?” He glances his niece’s way.
“Sure.” Her mother shrugs. “Why not.”
“Yum!” the little girl hollers as she clambers over the back of the sofa.
“Clodagh,” her mother scolds. “You know better than that.”
“Ah, leave her. It’s only furniture. Ryan?” Matt kind of pivots on his heels to face me. “Would you get me the hot chocolate out of the pantry, please?”
“The pantry?” The pantry in a house I have never been in before now. But I guess I now know why there aren’t appliances (or pretty much anything) cluttering the countertops.
“Yeah.” He jerks his head left like he’s trying to send me a signal. “I think I left it next to the mixer.”
“Cool beans.” Is something I’ve never ever said in my life as I slide from the stool. But he obviously wants me out of the way. As I cross behind Leticia, I point to the only solid door I can see, the other one glass and clearly leading to a fancy-schmancy wine cellar, one that seems to contain a decent amount of whiskey too. Anyway, Matt nods, so into the pantry I go.
It turns out not to be anything as simple as a pantry but a whole other room—a whole other kitchen, almost. Maybe Matt preps meals in here. He did say he could cook, as I recall. Or maybe he has a fancy chef and this is his domain. I can’t decide if the setup is excessive or a really good idea as I make my way to the shelf at the end, where the fancy-looking mixer seems to be stored.