Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Turning around at the top, she waits for me on the porch. She points at me, and says, “Don’t let that go to your head, Lieutenant.”
“Too late. My ego is already two sizes bigger.” So is my heart, but I’ll keep that to myself.
When I land on the porch next to her, I glance at the wooden door and the aged scuff marks that cover it now. Other than to use the bathroom, I’ve not spent any significant time in this house, not since I was younger and I came with my mom to drop off a casserole after the girls’ parents died.
“Ready?” she asks, pulling me out of a memory from that day so long ago.
“Lead the way.”
She opens the door, and calls out, “Hello?”
“Hello?” Dolly’s voice rings from the back of the house.
Glancing back at me, she whispers, “In a house full of women, a lot is happening with different schedules, combing through outfits, ironing, steaming, and getting dressed or undressed at any hour of day or night. Keep your eyes forward and stick with me, okay?”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. “Like glue.”
“What?”
“Sticking with you. You know, like glue? Sticky?” Not every joke lands. “Never mind.”
She blinks twice and yells, “Brandon Culver is with me. You’ve been warned.”
Dolly comes in so fast I think she’s about to tip forward over her toes. Grabbing hold of Autumn’s wrist, she says, “I didn’t know you were bringing company.”
As subtle as she can be, Autumn points at her grandmother’s head. Dolly reaches up to find a stray roller hanging out at the crown of her head. She peels it out of her silvery-white hair and tucks it in her pocket.
I can remember when her hair was blond. My mom says she could only dream of having that color.
Autumn replies, “I mentioned the job at Brandon’s house.”
“You make it sound like you’re a plumber, dear.” Patting her hand, Dolly adds, “Nurses are a godsend. Brandon is lucky to have you.” When her blue eyes land on me, she smiles like she already has me figured out. “Why don’t you come with me and have some iced tea while Autumn does what she needs to do?”
Latching her arm around mine, Autumn says, “Thank you, Dolly. That’s sweet, but I wanted to show him something in my room while I pack more clean clothes.”
Two things:
Autumn Season is packing clothes. That means she’s coming home with me.
She wants to show me something in her room. I can’t wait to be in her space to discover more about her.
I’m already being pulled up the stairs when I reply, “Thanks. I’ll take a rain check, Dolly.” By the third step, I’m released and chasing her up the stairs.
“Hello?” No one answers in return this time. When I hit the landing, she says, “Coast is clear. My room is this way.”
I walk into the tiny room at the end of the wide hallway to find her scurrying about and disappearing into the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, I duck to avoid hitting my head on the doorframe. It’s close when I step in, but now that I’m in here, I slow down to look around. The bed is too small for two people, but just right for one. The curtains keep the peepers out, but do allow the sun to shine in.
Tchotchkes cover the surfaces from a desk to shelves to a dresser. A rock with a smiley face painted on it is used as a paperweight. A blue first-place ribbon from field day in fifth grade hangs from one of the brackets holding up the shelf. I laugh quietly, knowing the second-place ribbon hangs from my corkboard at my mom’s house. A gold-capped perfume bottle with barely any left sits on a mirrored tray. I pick it up and take a sniff. It’s light and pretty, but it doesn’t smell like Autumn. Probably because she’s run out. Turning it over, I can still read the name, though the label is worn in spots.
I’d need days to sort through it properly, but every part of the room gives me insight into who she is. Maybe I can find some of my memories hiding out here.
The springs creak under my weight when I sit on the bed. Looking at the nightstand, I turn my head sideways to see what books she’s reading.
Spark.
The Resistance.
Swear on My Life.
Pride and Prejudice.
Little Women.
True Crimes of Winnipeg, Canada. Okay, that one is unexpected. “You have varied tastes in books,” I say to the bathroom door that’s cracked open. I pick up a pair of glasses lying on top of the stack.
“Yeah, I’m a mood reader.” She opens the door. “And if I find an author I like, I binge-read their catalog.” Her eyes shift to my hand. “Oh, my glasses. Where’d you find them?”