Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
But we’d had this conversation many times before, so I just ignored her, turning to my dad.
“Listen Dad, I really need to get to the library, it closes at five,” I said, sneaking a peek at my watch. “There’s a rare book that I really want to check out and someone just returned it. It’s my chance,” I said.
Usually my dad backs me, he’s proud of my interest in literature and history even if my mom saw it as a waste of time. But this time, he agreed with my mom.
“Maybe you should listen to Mary,” he said slowly. “Maybe go shopping a little more often, buy something, ah, a little more flattering?” he suggested, eyeing my outfit hesitantly.
And I was so hurt that I didn’t even reply at first, my cheeks coloring, eyes shocked. Usually my dad and I are tight, he would never criticize my clothing choices. But before I could say anything, Mom cut in again.
“Tina,” she said sternly, “you know the Sterlings have been in Andorra for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, don’t you?” she said with a frown.
I nodded, confused. What did this have to do with my outfit?
“Sure, our lineage is noble, I need to behave like a lady, uphold our honor, all that stuff,” I agreed, still looking at my dad for clarification, my eyes quizzical. But his eyes just pleaded with me to understand, to listen to the coming lecture.
“The Sterlings have been an aristocratic family in Europe for generations now,” my mom droned on. “Our power and privilege comes from the land itself, which your ancestors rented to tenant farmers, taking a portion of their crops as rent. All of our land and assorted real estate holdings are held in trust, with personal accounts for family members.”
I nodded. This was old family history, and of course, I’d been reading up on this stuff exactly. Nothing new here, move on folks.
This was when my dad cleared his throat.
“Well your trust fund is ah, how do I say this,” he said delicately, “is at a minimal level,” he managed, clearing his throat.
A minimal level? What did that mean? I shot them a quizzical look, confused.
My mom was more blunt.
“Your trust fund is depleted,” she said harshly, “as are mine and your father’s.”
My mouth gaped open. Holy cow, could that even happen? It was true I’d never bothered to monitor our money, always believing that the family firm had everything in hand. But now, it seemed that we were in dire financial straits.
“Can we replace the money? Where did it all go?” I asked incredulously. “I thought there was a ton stashed away in a bunch of different accounts, how can we have nothing left?”
But as you can tell from my questions, I had no idea how much money we had, where it was invested, or in what shape, matter or form it existed. I was just so clueless at seventeen, so self-absorbed, walking among clouds while spending money like water, believing there was an unlimited supply. Well, reality had come crashing down and it wasn’t pretty.
“What do we do?” I asked, panicked, bolting upright. “Are we going to have to move? Am I going to have to sell Dolly?” Dolly was my dog, a mutt I’d picked up at a shelter years ago on a whim. And it sounds lame, but my little dog was one of the most important things to me, one of the first things to come to mind when my world seemed in jeopardy. Dolly was my security blanket, my anchor in rough seas when times were bad.
“No honey, we have enough money to last a couple more years,” said my dad shame-facedly, “but we need you to pitch in with the family finances.”
I looked at him confusedly.
“You mean, find a job?” I said, looking at him askance. Sure, I could work at the mall or something, I didn’t mind doing that, but I was a teen. What could I possibly do to replenish our family bank account? We needed a lot more than a minimum wage take.
It was here that my mom cut in again with brutal reality.
“We need you to marry rich,” she said flatly. “We need you to find a husband with a fortune who doesn’t mind investing it in the Sterling estate, and that means improving your looks so that you can snag a wealthy man.”
And here, my eyes practically bugged out. It was like I was living in a modern version of Downton Abbey, the British-American mini-series. In the show, the fictional Earl of Grantham marries Cora Leventhal, an American heiress, to support his family’s flagging fortunes, and evidently now I was being asked to do the same. I had to find some rich dude who could provide an infusion of badly needed cash, who could bring some much-needed liquidity to a noble, but impoverished family.