Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“Yes, and he’s been appropriately punished. No gold for a week.”
“He needs to be punched for a week,” she muttered, turning back to the counter. “Everybody, Solomon Finn is here to celebrate Hugo’s birthday. Be nice.”
Thoreau, who was in the middle of stealing a cookie that was still on the cooling rack, lifted his hand in greeting. “Seamus told me you were coming.”
It was nice to see someone he knew. On the other hand… “He did? That was nice and invasive of him.”
Thoreau shrugged. “He’s a dad. Anyway, I got a text to be on the lookout, but you took your time and the smell of baked goods distracted me.”
Austen snatched the cookie out of his hand. “He was delayed due to the guards at the gate, but he got in anyway, no thanks to you. And he passed my test with flying colors, in case we’re keeping score.”
Shit. Were they keeping score?
Thoreau’s embarrassed groan reminded him of his brother Wyatt. “You showed him the wall? Already?”
“Of course she did.” A tall man with glasses, a goatee and a burgundy sweater stood up from the table and held out his hand. “I’m Emerson. My sons told me we had company.”
“White Thor,” Bronte said chuckling as she put the flowers in a crystal vase on the counter. “That’s how they came in describing him. According to the boys, we have two Thors in the house now.”
Thoreau choked on the cookie he’d just bitten into, laughing with her. “Welcome to the club.”
Solomon wanted to tug on his collar, but that might make how nervous he was too obvious. “Proud to join you. And nice to meet you Emerson.”
White Thor. He definitely should have gotten his hair cut.
When he stepped away from the handshake, an older woman was standing in front of him, wiping her hands on a hand towel decorated with pumpkins and dinosaurs. He smiled, remembering Bronte’s explanation for her nickname.
Cassandra Wayne was smaller in stature than most of her children, looking like a slightly older version of Bronte. Honestly, she looked too young to have children in their forties, but from her expression there was no denying she was a natural nurturer. He already felt welcome. Like he’d known her all his life. It was a gift her son possessed, and one he’d always envied.
“It’s good to finally have you over, Solomon. We’ve been hearing about you for years now, but Hugo always said you were too busy taking care of your own family to make it to a meal.”
He’d never actually been invited, but he wouldn’t say that out loud. “I’m not as busy as I used to be, and it smells so good in here, if you invite me again I already know I’ll yes.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Hopefully you heard good things about me.”
“All good things, Solomon. He really admired the strides you were making in the community before he decided nursing was his true calling. We all did.”
He took her hand and she gripped his warmly, without hesitation. “He was the one with all the ideas and people skills,” he confided as sincerely as he could. “He left impossible shoes to fill.”
Cassandra’s smile was like a spotlight shining directly on his soul.
He heard Thoreau’s, “Nailed it.” Followed by Austen’s pleased chuckle.
Another test?
Just when he was starting to relax.
“Hush,” Cassandra said without looking behind her. “Sit down, Solomon. Emerson get up and give him your chair, he was just in the emergency room yesterday. Would you like something to drink?”
For the next few minutes he was introduced to most of the family, all of them named after well-known authors. Bronte, Austen, Emerson, Thoreau… Shelley was the third and youngest of the daughters, with several long, pink braids woven into her dark hair and a cellphone seemingly attached to her hand.
Emerson’s sons—he was divorced, with shared custody, according to Cassandra—were also named after authors. Lang and Barry, or Langston and Barack.
“After the forty-fourth President,” Barry said, having wandered into the kitchen with a handful of brightly colored markers, his eyes glued to Solomon’s cast.
“Who is also a fine writer,” Emerson added, an amused smile finally lighting his serious expression when Solomon laid his arm out on the table so the six-year-old could go to town.
He glanced around the room again, wondering where the guest of honor was. Cassandra handed a mixing bowl to Bronte and caught his eye, reading his mind. “Hugo is in the basement with my husband, Foster, his brother Robert and one of Robert’s friends from work. They were trying to get to the boxes where we keep our holiday decorations before dinner, but one of Thor’s experiments got in the way and they made a mess.”
He caught Thoreau’s look of irritation. “If they’d told me what they were doing I could have warned them not to jostle the fermentation bucket.”