Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
My options have always been that I can “have it all” or I can have nothing at all.
There was never an in between.
My eyes search Slade’s, though for what, I’m not entirely sure.
His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second, causing my heart to come to a dead stop when I’m almost certain he’s going to try and kiss me again.
“You can walk away,” he says, sparing me the kiss I did (and didn’t) want. “From me … from all of this.”
I exhale, releasing a lungful of tension. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that a thousand times.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Years ago, I asked my father what would happen to Slade’s inheritance if I chose not to marry him but he still wanted to go through with it. He told me more than likely his father would chose someone else for him to marry, that I’d be replaced in two seconds flat by someone who’d probably kill for the opportunity to be the next Mrs. Delacorte.
Despite not wanting to marry Slade in the first place, it was with those words that I experienced my first pang of jealousy—which disappeared as quickly as it showed up.
“I don’t know. I guess I made peace with this a long time ago, and I’m choosing to focus on the good that can come out of it,” I say. “What’s stopping you?”
“I think you already know.”
“You want your father’s company so badly you’re willing to trade your future for it? Your free will?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate, not for a millisecond.
“What’s it like not caring about anything except money?”
“Liberating.”
I wrinkle my nose. “From what?”
“From everything,” he says. “You should try it sometime.”
.
Slade—
My mom gave me a Pen Pal book with a list of things we can write about to get to know each other better because apparently we’ve been doing a bad job of it the last several years. I don’t really have anything else to say to you, so … whatever I guess I’ll do it.
Three words that describe me are: curious, amused, and easygoing.
My role model is: Harriet Tubman because no one is braver than she was.
One thing I like about where I live is that we can ski in the winter and boat in the summer. I guess that’s two things. Oh, well.
My favorite color is red.
Your turn.
Campbell (age 13)
Campbell—
That was probably the lamest letter you’ve ever sent me, and that’s saying a lot.
Slade (age 14)
10
Slade
“Where’s the old man?” I ask Oliver Sunday evening. An hour ago, I arrived at Palm Beach International, picked up my car from the valet, and drove straight to my parents’ house. The place is quieter than usual. No TV tuned into a steady stream of cable news. No classical music playing on hidden speakers throughout the entrance. No bustling sounds coming from the kitchen where the chef would normally be preparing an elaborate Sunday dinner.
“On the greens.” Oliver swirls his brandy in a Delacorte monogrammed crystal tumbler as he leans behind my parents’ bar. “Where else would he be?”
Four weeks ago, we got the unfortunate news that the rare neurological disorder my mother has been battling since I was a kid is back with a vengeance. This time it’s progressing faster than the best doctors can stop it. It won’t be long before it’ll steal her vision and language and eventually, her life.
I slam my fist on the counter. “What the hell is he doing golfing when—"
“—relax, sweetheart. I told him to go. I insisted, actually.” My mother shuffles in, her gaunt frame wrapped in a vibrant Pucci robe with a matching headscarf to disguise her thinning hair. Her sea glass eyes are especially shiny—a sign that she’s having one of her good days. “I thought some sunshine and fresh air would do him good. We could all use a little more of that, couldn’t we? Almost feels like springtime already.”
She slides onto a bar stool and gives me a sleepy smile.
“I thought the doctor hadn’t cleared him yet?” I ask. It’s one thing to take care of my ailing mother—it’s another to have to take care of a stubborn, sixty-five-year-old man who refuses to wait a second longer to get back on the golf course.
“Cleared him this morning, actually. How was your time with the Wakemonts?” she asks, cupping her pointed chin on her delicate hand. The woman is wasting away by the second. Every time I see her—which is daily when I’m not traveling—she’s smaller than the time before. The medications zap her appetite, she says, always followed by a comment about how she won’t need food where she’s going anyway.
At times, her dark humor reminds me of Campbell’s.
“Maine was good,” I tell her. Though I always tell her that. “We finished our registry and went over the guest list one last time. Did a tux fitting.”