Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“I’ll be sure to do that.” I wink, and she checks that Mom isn’t looking at her in the rearview before she winks back.
I’m disappointed that there is basically going to be no Christmas for me this year, but in another way, having them leave is a relief. I have things going on in my life that I’m not ready to talk about, and the likelihood that said things would remain hidden, so to speak, if we were all together for the next two weeks would be slim.
Two valets in burgundy western-style blazers and tan cowboy hats open each of the front doors. I step out, my black Uggs squishing in the gathering muck on the street.
The tickle of falling snowflakes hits my cheeks as Mom comes around the front of the car in her Burberry tan jacket, waving for Isabel to come hold her hand. And then we walk across the snowy sidewalk to the front door, which is already being held open by another of the burgundy-jacketed attendants who I’ve come to believe must be cloned in some mad science lab in the basement at The Cobalt Club.
They’re all chiseled jaws and dark hair, eyes just friendly enough, but not so much that you’d think to engage them in conversation.
Inside, the walls are dark, ten-inch-thick logs, the air warm and scented with piped-in evergreen and leather. It’s decked out for the holidays with the kind of understated luxury only a private Montana club can manage. If you threw a snowball across the restaurant, you’d likely hit at least one billionaire and a few millionaires.
Lots of money hides under those cowboy hats.
Inside, the maitre d’ sweeps his arm forward, ushering us to our usual table right in the center of the front window, so anyone walking down the sidewalk in downtown Bremmer, Montana will see the perfect Houser family, dining and chatting so casually in a club where ordering a steak ‘well done’ will get you kicked out, the hundred-thousand dollar a year membership dues keep the riff raff out.
“The usual,” my mom says, as a waiter appears out of thin air to pull her chair back, offering to take her coat which she refuses because she’s always freezing. “Girls? What would you like to drink?”
“Two Shirley Temples,” Isabel chirps, pulling her shoulders back to stand up straight as I bump her with my hip. “Four cherries in each.”
“Four?” I mouth as she looks up at me with those same blue eyes I see when I look at myself in the mirror. A genetic trait all three of the women in the Houser family share.
She snorts a little giggle and nods, then slips into the chair next to Mom, while I step toward the one across from her next to the window which offers a perfect view of the evergreen and gold garland that’s draped and wrapped around everything in downtown that would hold still.
“Your father will be along in a few minutes.” Mom smiles, her teeth as white as the snow coming down outside the window. “Even with the less-than-ideal circumstances, it’s nice to share a meal with the whole family before we head to the airport.”
The whole family. Right.
I unwrap my pink and lavender anti-Burberry scarf from around my neck, and before I can hang it on the back of the chair, another of the dark-haired cowboy clones appears.
“Ma’am. Let me check that in the coat closet for you.” He holds out a numbered ticket, then nods toward the oversized fleece jacket I’ve kept securely buttoned around myself since I got out of the car at the ranch.
“Let him take it dear.” Mom’s hushed voice tells me something I’m doing is embarrassing her. “Why didn’t you wear the Double D coat I got you last year? That fleece is—” She trails off with a sigh.
I bite back the silent groan, press a smile to my lips, and let him slip it off my shoulders. My mother’s new lash extensions flutter, her eyes rolling back for a second before she rests two manicured, red-tipped fingernails against the bridge of her nose.
“Thank you,” I say as the cowboy-clone scurries off with my invisibility cloak I would keep me from having to see that look in my mom’s eyes.
I drop into the wooden chair as her eyes track up and down my body.
“Dear.” She only uses that term when what comes next is going to be something I don’t want to hear. “I told you, my doctor would gladly get you on one of the GLP medications. They are like magic. I mean, look.” She turns her palms up, leaning back in her chair. “Even me, I’ve lost fifteen pounds.”
“You need to gain it back, Mom,” I retort. “This is Montana, not Orange County, and not everyone needs to be a size zero.”