Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
“I have a woman to keep me company on cold nights. I’m here with you.” I wink at her.
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Shameless flirt. And if I were forty years younger, you wouldn’t know what hit you.”
I believe that. There are photos of Maddy and her late husband Jerry all over the apartment. She was a total Lauren Bacall. She’s beautiful now, frankly.
“You ever think about finding someone yourself?” I ask her.
Maddy sets her hands in her lap and looks out the window. In profile, the lines of her life’s experience are stronger, deeper. My world is dominated by youth. Even gray-haired rock legends with artificial hips try to look as though they’re still in their thirties. But old age is something I aspire to. Eventually, I’ll buy a house with a porch and wave my cane at foul-mouthed youths who dare walk too close to my lawn.
Maddy sighs and it rattles in her chest. When she looks back at me, her expression is composed but her eyes are sad. “When you find your person, and live forty-seven years with them, moving on feels more like biding your time. I have my children, grandchildren, and friends. I suppose I could find a man. Maybe one day I will. But I had the one I wanted for a long time. Whoever comes along would have to be something special.”
Slowly, I nod in understanding. But it’s a lie. The idea of giving that much power to another person is unfathomable. Life is hard enough as it is without worrying about someone else in the process. Sure, I see Killian and Scottie happy now. But I’ve also seen them sink lower than dirt, sick with heartache. And all because they’d been on the outs with their women. What’s to say that won’t happen again? What happens if someone dies?
Suppressing a shudder, I shove a heaping spoonful of stew into my mouth.
Across from me, Maddy laughs. “Dear boy, the face you’re making. Is old age so distasteful to you?”
It takes me a moment to respond because I’m still chewing. “I wasn’t thinking about age. You know me better than that.”
Her dark eyes gleam. And I realize I’ve fallen into her trap. Like a sucker.
“Don’t knock love till you try it, kid. Rejecting something out of fear only paints you a fool.”
My smile is tilted and pained. “Ah, Maddy darlin’, no one ever accused me of making smart choices in life.”
Her look is without pity, and I love her better for it. “So start.”
Stella
* * *
By the time I get in a cab, it’s snowing. My new place is close enough to my old one that I could have walked, but I’m hauling two big duffels, one with clothes, the other with my pillow and personal supplies, as well as my groceries. I’d wanted to leave the ice cream behind—I still haven’t been able to bring myself to open the carton—but we’re talking mint chip, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave something so tasty behind.
If only the ice cream wasn’t indelibly linked with him. I’ve been thinking too much about Mr. Mint Outrage and the soft press of my lips to his, wanting to go back to that small moment when life was simple and unexpected.
But he’s gone, lost to the flow that is Manhattan. I’ll never see him again. I allow myself a moment to mourn, and then tuck away thoughts of irate green eyes and evil smiles as the cab pulls up in front of my new building. For a long moment, I just stare up, not sure I’m at the right place. But the address is correct.
“You getting out?” the cabby asks over his shoulder.
“I’m going.” I pay him and grab my bags.
Snow falls in heavy, wet flakes that land with icy kisses on my cheeks. I blink rapidly when they cling to my lashes, and keep looking up. Because this building isn’t a regular building at all. It’s a massive old church.
Made of smooth limestone and rising five stories, it’s been converted to condos. It doesn’t look much like a church midway up. Big grid windows have been cut into the walls. Except for the top, where a huge, round stained-glass window remains with two bell towers on each side.
I trudge up the wide front steps. The old carved wood church doors are flanked by iron lanterns. Now there is a key pad and a series of door buzzers. Cameras peer down at me as I take out my instruction pack.
True to his word, Mr. Scott had a package couriered to me within an hour of accepting his offer. And the contents are extensive. I have a set of keys, an alarm code for the front door, an open code for the condo, and a detailed list of instructions for basically everything I can think of, down to Stevens’s and Hawn’s likes and dislikes.