Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
With a roll of my eyes, I start laughing. Jackson doesn’t. “I won’t, sir.” Now I’m laughing even harder.
“This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever been a part of.” I smile, but sadness still hangs in the air, knowing the outcome. “You need to be resting rather than intimidating the man I love, Dad.”
“They made me sleep for hours before calling you. I’m ready to bust out of this place and have a good cigar.”
The door opens, and dread sets in. The nurse says, “He needs rest.”
When I look at my dad like it might be the last time I see him, he says, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We have a lot to discuss. For instance, you saying ‘the man I love.’ I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Let’s not make it the last.”
“Ah.” My dad starts chuckling. “The girl’s got jokes. She takes after her old man.”
“Don’t push yourself, Mr. Marché,” the nurse cautions with a stern tone. “You need rest.”
Turning to me, my dad says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I don’t ask for a promise or anything at all. I stand in the contentment of the present instead. Leaning down, I kiss his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, Marlow. Always. Remember that. Okay?”
Nodding, I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As soon as I release the bedside railing, he says, “By the way, Lorie and I divorced a few months back. I heard she was trying to come in and claim she’s still my wife.”
The news comes as a shock. They’ve volleyed divorce around a couple of times in the past but never followed through. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs but winces right after. “We weren’t on speaking terms. I’m telling you now because she will start making claims on properties and assets as soon as I’m in the ground.”
“Dad . . .” He speaks of death so freely when I’m still hoping for a miracle to save him.
Jackson’s brows knit together. “Has a settlement been made in the bankruptcy case?” Someone else might be bothered that he’s talking finances, but I know Jackson always has my best interest at heart.
My dad replies, “They got their money from selling the other properties and even the artwork Marlow acquired for me. It was worth a fortune and went up for auction. The house and what’s left in it all goes to my daughter.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do you want me to leave it to an ex-wife? I have a lot of those to choose from, but none that I’m particularly fond of.” He smiles. It’s always been the one thing we had in common. “Except maybe your mom. I live with a lot of regret when it comes to Talia, but I’m too old and out of shape to catch her eye like I once did.” Seemingly caught up in a memory, he smiles to himself and then snaps out of it, and says, “It’s a house. Sell it and buy a place you love in New York City. You two can start your family there.”
My eyes latch onto Jackson’s the moment family is mentioned. I struggle to read the undercurrent between us and take a sobering breath.
The nurse clears her throat, which helps break the thickening air, and holds the door open in a not-so-subtle hint.
“Take care of yourself, Mr. Marché,” Jackson says.
“Take care of my daughter. That’s all that matters.”
I know Jackson. He’s always believed in me, but there’s nothing to prove to my father, so he moves to the door and waits for me. “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, Princess.”
When I reach the door, Jackson holds his hand between us palm up in offering. When our hands come together, my heart skips a beat. It always does with him.
I look back once more to see my dad smiling. Guess he caught that shared moment as well.
Walking out of the hospital this time feels different than before. Peace has washed through me, calming the anxiety I was feeling earlier. “He was telling me goodbye,” I say, walking toward the garage. We keep walking, our hands clasped like we’ll lose sight of one another if we don’t hold on this tight. When Jackson doesn’t say anything, I ask, “What do you think?”
“I think I could get into trouble no matter how I answer. But if you pressed—”
“I’m pressing you,” I say, poking him. I’d normally get a chuckle or a wayward grin out of him, but his mind seems to be deeper in thought for me to pull him from. “Jackson?”
The name catches his attention, and he glances at me. “He looks and sounds like he’s not going down without a fight. Maybe it won’t take a miracle. Maybe it just took you showing up for him.”
The thought grows my smile. “I’ll take whatever days I get with him. Not only do I get a chance to rebuild my relationship with him but I also need to take care of my family.” The meaning behind the squeeze of his hand is lost. I don’t know what he’s sensing, keeping his feelings to himself or burying them.