Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
She’s asleep on one of the couches, a blanket tucked around her shoulders. I settle down on the end, being quiet and moving her legs so they rest in my lap. Her face is pale and thin, but there’s a peace about her.
“You little devil,” she murmurs groggily as she stirs and opens her eyes.
“Yep. I have arrived,” I say grandly, sweeping my arms out. “The favorite son. Goldfish killer, skunk lover, and all-around troublemaker.”
She sits up and scoots closer to me, pulling the blanket around her. Her gaze runs over my face, searchingly. “You skied. Your face…” Her voice is full of wonder. “Thank you.”
“I’ve barely slept the past few days.” I grin.
“How was last night?”
I feel a slow blush rising up my cheeks. “Um…good?”
“I won’t ask for the details.” She laughs, the sound so free it hits me right in the gut.
I ease my arm around her shoulders and tug her against me.
“I want to meet her,” she murmurs.
“You’ll adore her.” My mind goes back to this morning when I left Anastasia in our bed. Walking out of that room and away from her wore me out mentally. It took the three-hour drive here in a rental car to get my head together, and even then, I only barely managed it. I could have asked her to come with me, I could have, but it wasn’t fair to take her away from Lila and Colette, plus she has to get back to her parents, and between the wedding and the holidays, the logistics wouldn’t have worked out.
Take care of your mom, be good to your sister, wait for Anastasia…
I’m doing it…
But Anastasia’s face when I left?
Devastated.
I mean, she didn’t say it—she wouldn’t, because she’s brave for me—but…
“She’s flying back after the ski trip to see her folks.”
“When will you see her again?”
I don’t know, and I hate it.
“We’re taking it day by day.”
“Because you want to be with me.” She bites her lip.
“For you, for football, for me. School was not my thing, Mom. You gonna get huffy on me?”
She looks out at the hills, and I see a glimmer of tears in her lashes. “No, my huffy vanished the moment I opened my eyes and saw you. I’m glad you’re here to stay.” Her shoulders hunch, a vulnerable bent to them as she faces me. “I just wanted things to be normal, but they aren’t. I’ve missed you so much. My spirit needs you, it does, and I haven’t seen you in months, and now you’re here and just seeing you in person…” She stops, her throat moving. “I need your three things to keep me going, son, every day.”
I hug her closer, and she presses her face to my chest and weeps.
“I’m here, Mom. Not leaving,” I murmur softly.
A few minutes later, she pulls away and takes my hand. Hers is thin, the veins blue and stark against her skin, the bones sharp. She laces our fingers together. “Tell me about her.”
“I will, I will, but first you tell me about how you are—”
“You are just like your daddy.”
“Mom, you have it wrong. He wasn’t stubborn. You are, and I’m just like you.” I chuckle through the tightness in my chest.
She smiles. “I have news. I spoke with my doctor today. There’s a clinical trial at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It’s not a sure thing, I need tests, but…”
Hope springs inside my chest. “When?”
“After Christmas. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but…” She pauses and squeezes my hand. “What do you see when you look at me?”
My eyes mist. “A fighter.”
“Damn straight. I’m a kickass bitch.”
I burst out with a laugh.
She smiles, then gets serious. “I have too much to let go, River—you and Rae and Callie, and even Anastasia. How on earth would I ever rest in peace knowing you haven’t given me a grandkid yet? I wouldn’t! I’d be pissed off, and God or the devil—it’s up for debate—would beg me to leave. I’m not going anywhere, not now, not now, not even when I’m at my lowest do I let myself consider it…” A tear drips down her cheek, but she’s smiling. “And I’ve got you home! I… It means so much to me, River, thank you so much…” She leans her head on my shoulder, and I hold her.
28
“Where do I set this sweet potato casserole?” my mom asks breezily as she turns around from the oven inside Carl’s kitchen. “The counters are covered, sunshine.” She hums. “Here!” She sets it on the small island in the middle. “Next to the rolls. What a feast! Thank goodness you’re a good cook.”
I cooked the turkey, mashed potatoes, and the casserole. She made the rolls. I laugh.
“I made that apple salad thing!” Carl calls out as he and Dad work at the table, placing Carl’s white, worn dishes next to the silverware and paper napkins. It’s such a stark difference from the table settings at Donovan’s this past summer that I blink. Wow, this is so much better.