Page 10 of A Little Too Late
It’s so homey. And so unexpected. It would make more sense to my broken heart if the place had crumbled down to its foundations.
I make the mistake of glancing up at a long shelf that runs toward the kitchen. Dad built that shelf to display my mother’s pottery.
Now the shelf is bare. Every piece of pottery is gone.
I knew it would be, but it still hurts to see it.
Ten minutes later, I’m seated at the kitchen table with a cup of mint tea in my hand and two lavender shortbread cookies on a plate in front of me. There are purplish flower petals visible in the shortbread.
That isn’t even the weirdest thing about this moment. It’s like I’ve entered an alternative universe. The kitchen has all new lighting. The appliances gleam. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the air smells like butter and sugar.
Melody sits across from me, studying me with bright green, curious eyes. I’m trying to carry on a conversation, but I’m not doing my best work. She’s distractingly smiley and probably too young for my father. I can’t imagine what she sees in my grump of a father, except for his wealth.
Selling Madigan Mountain was probably her idea.
“Do you, um, have any children?” I ask. The question sounds polite enough, but I’m actually fishing for more details about her life.
“No, I don’t,” she says. “And I’m fifty-five years old, so that ship has sailed.”
She’s not too young for him, then. My mother would have been fifty-seven this year, and my dad is sixty. That’s not exactly scandalous.
“I have a horse named Baylor and an ex-husband who’s a waste of space. That’s it for me. And I signed a prenuptial agreement, Reed, so you don’t have to worry about the future. Your dad is right to protect his children’s legacy.”
Well, fuck. I rub the back of my neck and try not to appear flustered. “That’s not a cheery topic, is it?” I break off a corner of a cookie and shove it into my mouth, flowers and all.
She shrugs. “The older you get, the more frank you become. I don’t want money or anything else to get between us, Reed. I hope you’ll come to visit often, wherever we end up.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “Do you have plans to leave Colorado?”
“We’re going to travel theworld,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Our first destination is Australia, by way of Hawaii. We’re planning to go in January.”
“That’s soon,” I say stupidly.
She shrugs. “We haven’t booked it yet, because your father isn’t quite sure how long it will take to negotiate with the buyer. But we’re very excited. I have a whole binder full of articles about the places we’re going to visit.”
I struggle for something to say. “This cookie isreallygood.”
“Don’t get used to them,” she says. “I won’t be making them again.”
“Why not?” I break off another piece. It’s tempting to just shove the whole thing in my mouth. The shortbread is crisp, and the butter gives it a rich crunch. The lavender is subtle, giving the cookie a whiff of floral top notes.
It’s first rate. My dad married a woman who doesn’t plan to divorce him for profit and knows how to bake. That’s two points in her favor already.
“I like to mix things up, so I never get bored. If you’re still here next week, I’m going to do an oatmeal cookie with dried cherries.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I admit. “But I won’t be here next week. My job is very demanding.” I sound like a dickwad right now, but she already knows the score. What kind of family is so broken that the dad doesn’t bother inviting his sons to the wedding?
This kind. And I honestly don’t know how I would have responded if he’d invited me.
I guess we’ll never find out.
Here comes the man himself, carrying a sheaf of papers. He sits down in the chair beside mine and grabs the remaining cookie off my plate. He takes a bite of it.
“Hey!” I complain. “I was going to eat that.”
“There’s more,” he says while chewing. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to choke.”
“Why would I choke?”
