Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
It was the first time I’d watched TV since I came to England.
There was something freeing about that. Something even triumphant, living a life so full you didn’t turn to mindless things like the telly to fill it.
But it was still nice to laze on a comfy couch with a friend, sharing a bowl of after-dinner popcorn that Fitzy brought us and watching old episodes of Rosemary and Thyme.
I’d never seen it.
It had broad hints of goofy, but it was also very charming, and Laura was a scream.
We were at the end of one episode, waiting for the next one to come up, when I broached it.
“I saw the portrait of Battle you painted in his bedroom.”
I did it casually, not even looking at her, but I felt the tenseness in the air after I said it.
“Girl, that portrait is unbelievable,” I enthused “I, like, instantly started weeping when I saw it. Battle had to comfort me. It’s so beautiful, and it captures him so perfectly. It’s the epitome of why abstract art is so powerful. If you understand the meaning, it will blow you away.”
“You started weeping?”
I turned to her. “Totally. Battle told me he was moved by it, and it hangs in his room, he sees it all the time. But I could tell, he wasn’t moved by it. He’s moved by it. Still. And sister,”—I smiled at her—“that room is as minimalist as it comes, and the man displays it there. Pride of place. The focal point of the whole room. I would say not only does it move him, he treasures it. I had no idea you painted. But you’ve immense talent.”
I was hoping this didn’t come off as a why-didn’t-you-tell-me whine.
I was also hoping it would open the door to her sharing more.
“I love it that you reacted so strongly to it, Vivi,” she said timidly.
“I hope you have more,” I said leadingly.
“I…fiddle.”
“Well, if you ever want to show me, I want to see it.”
She curled her shoulders in.
Shit.
“Your stuff, your decision,” I mumbled.
The next episode had started playing, and to end this discussion, Prue asked, “Do you want me to rewind? It’s a mystery. We shouldn’t miss anything.”
“Yeah, honey, let’s rewind.”
I was disappointed she wasn’t ready to go there with me.
But I didn’t lie.
Her stuff, her decision.
That said, if her novels were even remotely as imaginative, original and thoughtful as that portrait, they should be seen, and she should get the accolades for them.
Baby steps.
I was falling in love with a duke.
Chastity was emerging.
Tempie needed to be encouraged to get on with her life.
And Prue needed to embrace her talent.
All in good time, I told myself.
All in good time.
The next morning, Scotty said to me, “Repetition is key. It becomes second nature. Like driving a car. And the more you work with the same animal, the more your minds meld. I know that sounds barmy, but it’s true. She’ll sense what you need from the barest movement of your hands on the reins or your legs on her barrel.”
I nodded.
“So stop and start,” he instructed. “In a circle. If you feel it, kick her up to a trot or even a canter. If you go canter, lean into it. Reduce your center of gravity to give you balance. Stop and start again.”
I nodded a second time and was about to do that, when my phone at my ass rang.
“Hang on,” I said.
This time, he nodded.
I pulled it out and saw it was Battle.
“Hey there,” I greeted after I took the call.
“Hullo, sweetheart. How’s your morning?”
“I’m going to go in and saddle Troilus,” Scotty called. “After you do more circles, we’ll head to the field.”
“Okay,” I said to him.
“Is that Scotty?” Battle said in my ear.
Well, crap.
“Yes.”
“Troilus?” he asked.
“You all seem to have a thing for Shakespeare,” I mumbled.
“Vivienne, what are you doing?”
I’d wanted it to be a surprise.
Though I didn’t want to let him go to voicemail.
However, I probably should have given Scotty the heads up about that.
“Scotty is giving me another riding lesson,” I admitted.
Total silence.
Complete.
I attempted to read it and said quickly, “Don’t be mad. You’re a good teacher. It’s just that I wanted to get more practice so I wasn’t such a dud, and we didn’t have to walk the horses so much when you got back home. I hope you don’t mind I asked him, and he’s teaching me, and I’m riding without you.”
“Stop speaking,” he commanded.
I stopped speaking.
“I do not mind.”
Oh boy.
He was enunciating every word very clearly, and his voice was so far from a purr, it wasn’t funny.
It was gravel.
“All is good there?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered quietly.
“Good. I’ll leave you to your lesson, and Vivi?”
“Yes, honey?”
“My father loved my mother. My mother used my father. As I was a young boy, even as I felt it, I had no idea I lived shrouded in his devastating heartbreak that she loved the title he gave her and the life he gave her more than anything, and she felt nothing for him at all. It was only when I was older that it came to me. It helped me to understand a little why he was so distant, formal, unapproachable, and eventually bitter. It didn’t excuse it. But it helped me understand it.”