Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I cradle the hot bowl and slowly sip the soup, its heat spreading through me. Peace sinks in, and I let my eyes drift upwards towards the sounds of the birds. And that’s when I see the red squirrel. He is sitting on the branch of a tree, and watching me with intelligent, inquisitive eyes. I have never seen a squirrel in real life and I stare at it fascinated. I wonder whether it is male or female. Male, I think. Too bold to be a girl.
“Hello,” I call softly.
He makes a little clicking sound and with a swish of his extravagantly bushy tail, scampers off, disappearing between the dense leaves. Suddenly, I’m glad I didn’t go for tea at the manor. I’m happy I stayed and met my adorable tenant. I decide to win him over with lots of nuts and call him Jimmy.
Earlier, I rescued an old photo album tucked under a pile of books. I head back in to grab it. The cover’s cracked and peeling at the spine. I open the stiff pages slowly, and a past I never knew stares back at me.
My mom, young, maybe sixteen, her hair wild and blonde like mine, laughing in a sundress by a river. She looks so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this carefree. This is well before she married my dad, before Grandma and her stopped talking, before everything went cold and silent between them. I trace her face with my fingertip, the plastic covering cool and smooth.
She looks very much like Megan, my older sister.
The air is heavy with the smell of earth, and I sit there, alone, and remember Megan—how she’d hum off-key in the kitchen, how she’d hug me tight even when I squirmed away. She’s been gone a few years now from cancer, and the ache is dull but steady, like a bruise I keep pressing. I miss her so goddamn much it hurts, but I didn’t come here to wallow and be sad. I quickly shut the album. Later. I will look at the photos later.
I let my mind drift, and it instantly sets sail towards him—Hugh, the Duke, or whatever the hell he is. I caught a glimpse through my upstairs window of his car peeling out of the manor grounds hours ago, that zippy Aston Martin roaring down the lane. A flash of bright yellow against a background of green and brown. I didn’t even know they made Aston Martins in that cheeky color. I thought they only came in classy gray or black.
This image has flashed more times in my head than I care to admit but I really can’t help it. I am curious about him. I’d expected him to roll in a long black car, sleek and serious like his attitude, but that yellow? It’s bold and fun. Perhaps it’s a crack in the icy wall he puts up, and that makes him interesting, more than I want him to be.
I try to shove him out of my head, the birds, the house, the grass, anything other than him, but he keeps creeping back—those gray eyes, that dreamy accent. I blame that stupid dream. That’s what has got me all twisted up. He’s handsome. Actually, he’s too handsome. I catch myself wondering why I’m dodging him so hard if he is so irresistible to me.
What’s the point?
Leaning back in the chair, I ponder the reason why I’m so dead set against him even for a meaningless fling. Probably because I came here for a change and I’m serious about it. I’m dead-set on shaking off the old me, the one who was stuck in a tiny apartment, in a dead-end job.
This unfortunately, means no leaning on men or relationships as a distraction, no matter how tempting he is to me. This, I'm sure, is the way to go.
For instance, today, even though I’m bone-tired—muscles sore, hands raw—I feel something else, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Peace. It’s a sort of freedom to do my own thing in this messy, foreign place. It’s still small and fragile, but it’s there, and it makes me believe that maybe coming here wasn’t the worst call I’ve ever made.
The sky has still got a lot of light in it, and I check my phone to see just how far the town is from my cottage. More than anything, I would like some snacks and maybe even a bottle of white wine. I see that it is twenty-five minutes by bicycle, which is honestly not too bad, because I found an old blue and white bicycle while investigating the shed. It was under some tarp, propped up against a wall, rusted but intact.
Excitedly, I jump up and head to the shed to fish it out. I wheel it into the yard and examine it closely. The tires are a little flat, and the chain is clinking loose, but it’s still very usable. I grab a rag, some oil from a shelf in the shed, and spend time cleaning it carefully—wiping down the frame, coaxing the pedals to turn. Then I pump up the tires.