Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Sam: Of course.
Hannah: And I didn’t want you to kill Mr. Chambers.
Sam: Never worry that I’ll kill anyone. As long as you can voice to me your feelings and explain what you want and don’t want, I’ll listen to reason.
Kola: Now if he’d slapped you across the face and accidentally knocked you out…then Dad would kill him.
Sam: That statement is a hundred percent accurate.
Hannah: I know you wouldn’t actually kill anyone, but you’d hurt them.
Sam: I can hide bodies, sweetie. I have a lot of power at my disposal.
Kola: Laugh it up, B, he’s serious.
Hannah: I can’t even breathe.
Sam: Anyway, it sounds like your uncle Dane took care of things.
Hannah: …
Kola: Take a breath.
Hannah: He did. Uncle Dane was epic. And me and Damien are working here now, even though it’s farther from school. It’s easier for Mr. Chambers to pick him up on the way home.
Sam: Does your Pa know that Uncle Dane talked to Mr. Chambers?
Hannah: I think maybe, because he went out there when I got home and chatted with him for a bit and took him a loaf of zucchini bread.
Sam: I’m going with yes, he knows.
Hannah: Are you mad I didn’t tell you? Or are you mad at Pa?
Sam: No. I’m not mad at either of you. But I need you to tell me if anything like that ever happens again, all right?
Hannah: Yes.
Sam: I need to thank your uncle Dane.
Hannah: He really stuck up for me.
Sam: Of course he did. You’re family.
Hannah: So, we did pretty good with the He Said, he said.
Sam: Yes, we did.
Kola: And now Pa can keep freaking out about Thanksgiving.
Hannah: Where are you going?
Sam: I’ll be right back. I just need to go check on something.
Hannah: Wow, he left fast.
Kola: You realize he’s going to go and talk to Damien’s dad, right?
Hannah: He has no idea where he lives.
Kola: You told him Mr. Chambers, and he knows his son’s name is Damien. You don’t think the marshals service can figure it out with that?
Hannah: That’s naughty.
Kola: But expected. You’re his kid. He has to check.
Hannah: Because he trusts that Uncle Dane took care of it, but he also has to verify it for himself.
Kola: Exactly. Now wrap it up.
Hannah: Thank you, everyone, for spending time with us. Have a wonderful November, enjoy Thanksgiving if you celebrate it, and relax in front of the fire. See you next month!
Kola: Ugh.
Hannah: One exclamation point won’t kill you.
Kola: Says you.
Peace out, everyone. Pa will see you in December.
DECEMBER 2019
Hello, all, welcome to the December 2019 He Said, he said. I’m Jory Harcourt, and I’m here to tell you about winter formals and shopping and horrors like that.
This past Saturday, in the snow, we ventured down to Michigan Avenue because Hannah needed a dress for a dance she was invited to, and Kola needed clothes, period, because suddenly all his cold-weather clothes don’t fit at all.
Deciding to divide and conquer, Sam took Hannah with him and I grabbed Kola, and we agreed to meet for lunch at The Cheesecake Factory because it was Hannah’s pick, and the fresh banana was her favorite. She always ordered it with hot fudge on the side and dunked each bite. I had no idea where my kids picked up their weird food preferences.
I was pulling things off the rack for Kola to try on, happy to be in Nordstrom, where I at least knew the layout, when I heard my name. Turning, I looked around and saw a man smiling at me.
“Did you call me?” I asked him.
His smile was bright as he walked over to me. “It is you. I thought so but I wasn’t sure.”
I waited, unsure, because I had no clue who I was looking at.
“Oh God,” he said, clutching at his chest. “You’re killing me that you don’t remember, though it was a long time ago and very brief.”
“Well, you know, age,” I said, making the excuse.
He offered me his hand. “I’m Trip Ward. I’m Truman Ward’s son, who was a client––”
“Of Dane’s,” I sighed, happy to know who I was looking at. “I remember spending a wonderful Thanksgiving with you and your family at your home in Highland Park.”
“Yes,” he said, relieved.
“Yeah, my brain still works. Just need a second sometimes. So, how are you?”
“Good,” he assured me, still holding my hand, covering it with his other. “And you?”
“Great. I’m great. How are your folks?”
“Well, sadly, my father passed away about––” He thought a moment. “––three years ago now. My mother moved in with my sister––”
“Cretia,” I offered, remembering.
“Yes, wow,” he said, grinning at me, letting go of my hand. “That’s impressive.”
“And you, did you become the plastic surgeon you wanted to be?”
“I did, yes. And what do you do now? I can’t imagine you still work for Dane Harcourt.”
Too much to tell there. “No,” I told him, simply because it was easier than recounting my life over a chance meeting in the men’s department of Nordstrom. “I own a graphic design company with two friends.”