Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
"Finally." Ivy's eyes light up as she spots the tea. "I need this." She motions to Mom's giant mug of coffee. "I don't even like coffee, and I've been staring longing at that cup all morning."
"Is that really going to work?" Cynthia teases. "If you don't like coffee and your boyfriend opens a coffee shop?" She shoots me a wink. An I'm working on this sort of wink.
Is Ivy working on her? I try to find some clue in her eyes.
She shrugs as if it's no big deal.
She knows what she's doing.
She's good at this.
"I'll advise on tea," Ivy says. "That could set you apart."
"The Mexican and Italian mix of flavors will do that," Cynthia says. "But it is always good to have a product for the friend, girlfriend, colleague. It's like a vegetarian option at a restaurant. It's not the focus, but it's necessary."
"You see? This is the life for us tea lovers." Ivy shakes her head with mock outrage, though, with her dry delivery, it comes across, well… deadpan, which somehow makes it seem more intense. "We're always the afterthought."
"Are you a vegetarian as well?" Cynthia asks. "Then you'd really be fucked."
"No, thankfully." She laughs.
"Okay, ladies, let's not bore ourselves with talk of business. Let’s score this thing. Ladies first.." Mom holds up a folded piece of paper. She asked them to guess and wrote it down. Not that she mentioned this part of the game to us. "What are your favorite breakfasts?"
"You know that answer, Mama." Daniel says.
She nods of course. "Still. For the record."
Daniel says his favorite breakfast. A vegetable omelet and a cafe au lait.
And I say mine. "Black coffee."
Ivy's lips curl into a smile.
"We have a winner." Mom unfolds the paper theatrically. "Miss Ivy Vaughn was right on the money. Black coffee." She looks to the breakfast. "You were close too, Daniel. Cynthia."
She named a cheddar omelet as her favorite. Guessed scrambled eggs with chorizo and salsa as his.
That's probably his favorite. She knows him better than he knows himself.
And I…
Wasn't close.
Oatmeal with raisins and cinnamon.
"Sorry, sweetheart." Mom takes a long sip of her coffee. "But I'll give you points for how high she rates it."
"It is good." Ivy digs into the omelet. "But a little dry for me. I like my eggs wet. We always argue about that." She continues the story.
"She likes them raw," I play into the supposed conflict. Maybe it's true. I like my eggs over medium.
"They're inedible the way he eats them," she says.
"And these?" Mom points to the plate.
"A compromise," she says. "I do love a caprese salad."
"Who doesn't?" Cynthia asks. I'm sure she's not trying to say you don't know shit, but it still fills the air.
"Okay, boys, dig in." Mom smiles. "You'll need your strength for our next exercise."
"What's that?" I ask.
"Oh, nothing too dramatic," Mom says. "Just a game where you share your deepest, darkest secrets."
Chapter Eighteen
Romeo
"The premise of the game is simple." Mom points to a stack of note cards. "You write down something your partner doesn't know about you and put it in the hat." She does, in fact, have a hat sitting on the dining table. "I'll take items out of the hat, and we'll all guess who wrote the item."
We're inside now. On the couches in the living room. It's too early for cocktails, so we're filling up on coffee and tea.
Even with the air conditioning on high, the space feels warm. Too warm. It's still late morning. With the breeze from the ocean, it's not even hot outside.
Why am I sweating?
I take another sip of coffee. It doesn't help with my temperature, but the familiar rich flavor steadies my nerves. Ivy did well with the first game. She'll do well with this one.
Really, we should have the advantage here.
We know a lot less about each other.
"Are you going to play too, Amara?" Cynthia asks. She's sitting on the couch opposite us and she's in the position opposite Ivy.
Cynthia and Daniel on one side.
Ivy and I on the other.
Mom on the armchair in between us.
Like we're playing Family Feud.
"Who will guess mine?" She tries to play it off as a lighthearted comment, but there's sadness in her voice. She misses Dad. She always does.
Thankfully, she doesn't take the opportunity to pontificate on the beauty love, or love after death, or marriage.
There's more time for that later. After all, the entire day is filled with silly pre-marriage exercises.
And more tomorrow.
Or is it actual wedding planning?
There isn't too much to plan. The ceremony is family in the backyard. But knowing Cynthia, she probably hasn't picked out a dress, or shoes—whereas Daniel probably has his outfit moodboard framed.
Mom planned most of the ceremony. She has the time and the inclination. No doubt Daniel helped—he’s far more detailed oriented—and Cynthia happily let him take charge. What does she care about the exact shade of flowers in the bouquet? That sort of obsession is my brother’s domain.