Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
“Only twice.” She snickers and I laugh. “Do you remember when he took us out on Delphi to watch the seals?”
Oh, yes.
I have very vivid memories of our excursions on his luxury yacht. The large sailboat had everything you could imagine—a fully outfitted kitchen, several widescreen TVs, plush leather seats built like clouds. Forget the hot tub when it had its own sauna.
Most of the time, we hung out on the deck, throwing our hands out to catch the wind while Leo told stories about his worldly travels or pointed out wildlife.
When it got dark, sometimes we’d sit there and look at the lighthouses glowing in the distance. It made the world feel endless when the engine cut and there was nothing but stars and sea and silence all around us.
My chest aches at the memory.
I wonder who gets the old boat?
“So many seals that time. I’ve never seen so many since, even up in Bar Harbor,” I say, trying to focus on the happy memories.
“They were so close. They didn’t care that we were right there. That little pup swam right up to the boat.” Margot gives another tired smile, though this one doesn’t reach her eyes. “PopPop was pumped. Honestly, it might’ve been the last time I saw him laugh like that.”
“In another life, he could’ve been one of those crazy globe-trekker wildlife photographers.”
Margot shakes her head. “Nah, he was too impatient for that. He could’ve never stayed still long enough.”
I laugh because it’s true.
Leonidas Blackthorn lived as long as he did because he was always moving. Bustling around making food, building elaborate sandcastles with us on the beach, taking us sailing, or just handling one of the thousand things that kept his moneymaking empire intact.
“Remember when Gramps loaned me Ares the first weekend at college?” Margot asks.
“Ares!” I smile affectionately.
Leonidas’ dog was a chill companion, a grumpy old basset hound who loves only one thing more than pets—sleeping.
At least, he was Leonidas’ dog. I don’t know who’ll own him now. Margot, hopefully.
“He wouldn’t budge no matter what we did, and he was a lot younger then,” she says, taking another sip of her drink and sighing when the caffeine hits her veins.
“Cubed carrots, chicken, steak. Those were good bribes.” I count the food on my fingers with a smile.
“That dog lives to nap.”
“Relatable.” I snort. “Remember that time I crawled around the garden for like half an hour, hoping he’d follow me?”
“You looked like Cousin Itt.” Margot’s face screws up.
“Or something out of a Japanese horror movie, I guess. All part of the charm.”
“Ares didn’t think so.”
“Excuse me,” I huff. “He finally got up and shuffled after me so he could lick my face.”
“Well, yeah. You made that peanut butter pie.”
I sniff, tossing my head to the side in mock outrage. “Ares and I understand each other, okay? We’re both peanut butter motivated.”
“If Ares could read, we’d really be in trouble,” Margot jokes.
“Yes. I’ll learn ten new tricks if there’s a book involved. If only it motivated me to walk more.” I sigh.
“Walking isn’t a trick, Hattie. But you look good. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She’s too generous.
We both know I could stand to shed some pounds and finding motivation is harder than the workout itself.
I pull out my phone and do a quick search.
“Actually,” I say, holding up a finger, “Merriam-Webster defines a trick as a deceptive, dexterous, or ingenious feat.”
Margot folds her arms, but she’s smiling.
Another surge of victory.
Keeping her smiling today is a huge accomplishment.
“Walking isn’t exactly ingenious or dexterous or whatever,” she says.
“Actually, I would say that when I’m walking, I’m being deceptively healthy.”
She gives up and leans back in her chair, covering her face.
I grin as I take another long pull of my drink, giving myself a whipped cream mustache I wipe off with the back of my hand.
But when her laughter dies down and her eyes turn pensive again, I know we can’t avoid dancing around the pissed off elephant in the room forever.
Neither of us wants to avoid it, really. It’s the whole reason we’re meeting this morning.
“So, how are you doing?” I level a gentle look. “I mean… really?”
“The polite answer? I’m coping, Hattie.” She exhales until her shoulders slump. “The reality is, total shit show.”
“I can only imagine.” I wince in sympathy.
“We had hyper-demanding dickheads on six different continents beating down our doors so they could be seen paying their respects. Rich people are so fucking obnoxious.”
I keep my mouth shut, because it’s true.
But seeing as she’s rich—and my personal exception to the rule—I don’t agree too enthusiastically.
“And let’s not even talk about the scammers. Holy shit, now that he’s dead, everyone wants to swoop in for a few crumbs of his pie. Dad had to throw this guy out who showed up all the way from Boston, trying to sell handcrafted funeral wreaths.”