Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“You named me after your dad,” I point out.
Crickets.
In the foyer, my mom takes the presents out of Scarlett’s arms and dumps them in mine. “Are you hungry, Scarlett? Here, come in the kitchen and I’ll make you whatever you want.”
Scarlett laughs as she follows after her. “It’s your birthday—I should be making you something to eat!”
“No, no, come on.”
She bands her arm around Scarlett’s shoulders and starts to lead her down the hall, but Scarlett stops abruptly in front of the landscape painting that has hung there in the same spot since I was a child. If I lifted the frame, I’m sure the paint behind it would be three shades lighter than the surrounding wall. It was the first piece my mom ever did, a lot moodier than the ones she paints now.
Painting has always been her hobby of choice. And though she’s never listened to my sister and me when we tell her how talented she is, how much people love her work, she did relent and let me commission a dozen pieces for my corner of the Elwood Hoyt offices.
“Oh, these are just like the ones Hudson has at work,” Scarlett notes. “I love them.”
My mom looks taken aback for a moment. “Oh.” Then she laughs. “They’re nothing. Little abstracts.”
“Did you…” Scarlett turns to her with nothing short of awe. “Are these yours?”
A shake of her head, a bashful little laugh. My mom is so used to slithering her way out of a compliment about her art, but Scarlett won’t let her.
“I love them, truly.”
She nods, taking it in. “Well thank you. I do like this one in particular.”
“You’ll have to show me any others you have around the house,” Scarlett insists before continuing on into the kitchen.
Before she follows, my mom looks at me over her shoulder and gives me an emphatic thumbs-up when Scarlett isn’t looking.
For the record, I do try to go into the kitchen to join in their conversation, but my mom makes it clear she wants one-on-one time with Scarlett. “Hudson, can you go see why that toilet in the hall upstairs won’t flush?”
Sure.
Then, “Also, there’re some flowers outside that need water, I bet.”
Surprised she didn’t say, And you might as well mow the grass while you’re out there.
My sister, Corinne, arrives thirty minutes late with a cacophony of screaming children and a slew of apologies. “It took us forever to get on the road and then my gas light came on, and then Wren had a blowout that almost got all over her car seat.” She suddenly grips her baby bump. “Holy shhhh—if I don’t make it to a bathroom in the next five seconds, I’m going to pee all over Mom’s floor.”
I point up. “Upstairs hall bathroom is working again.”
“Oh thank god.”
My nephew, Jack, already dashed past me and beat her to the downstairs one.
Then, from the kitchen, I hear my niece Annabelle ask Scarlett, “Who are you?” Then, “Do you have any makeup?”
Scarlett should have listened to me when I warned her about this. I hop up to save her, but it’s too late. She opened Pandora’s box the second she agreed to check her purse. She’s lucky she only had a tube of lip gloss and some powder because they both belong to Annabelle now.
My sister is absolutely mortified when she makes it down from the restroom. My family is probably under strict orders to impress Scarlett by any means necessary. I can imagine my mom running everyone through drills: “He’s finally brought a woman home! Places! Places, everyone!”
Instead of being the perfect family with perfect manners, we’re five minutes in and Annabelle’s already rooting around in Scarlett’s bag.
Corinne tries apologizing, but Scarlett laughs it off. “Truly, had I known, I would have brought more.”
Annabelle’s eyes light up. Her newly pink glossy lips split into a smile. “There’s more?!”
Corinne sighs and tries to shoo her out of the kitchen. “Annabelle, go. Be a kid. Find a stick or something.”
“Later, Mom.” My six-year-old niece refuses to leave the barstool next to Scarlett. She’s looking my date over with a shrewd eye. “What kind of eyeshadow palette did you use this morning?”
She’s inspecting Scarlett’s makeup carefully, getting right up close to her face. Too close. Kids have no concept of personal space.
Scarlett has to think for a second. “Oh. It’s just one I picked up at Sephora. I can’t even remember the brand. You like it?”
Annabelle scrunches her nose and tips her hand back and forth like, Ehh. “I think you should go with more of a matte finish for everyday.”
Scarlett, immediately trusting the judgment of a first grader, pulls out her phone. “Okay. Which one should I buy?”
I have no frame of reference for whether this is all normal or not, the way Scarlett just assimilates into our family as if she’s always been a part of our gatherings. She helps my mom with lunch, insisting she’d rather be put to work than waited on hand and foot. My mom puts her on drink duty and Scarlett asks if there are any oranges or lemons. My mom has both, and Scarlett whips up a citrus-infused ice tea that blows my mom’s socks off.