Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
And here came the grief, my old faithful companion. It never failed that when I thought about Rome having a baby and it not being me giving birth to it, that I’d never have a baby to hold in my arms that was mine, the grief that was always present stretched and lifted its head to roar loudly in my ears. I was in one constant turn of pain, misery, grief, heartache, and now sickness that felt like a never-ending merry-go-round. The ride from hell.
I closed the book in my lap, giving up on attempting to read again today and failing by page two. Focusing on the words were too hard. It also made my nausea worse.
I had tried eating more at breakfast to see if it would help, and it did not help. Not at all. I stood over the toilet in a cold sweat for thirty minutes, but I didn’t throw up. Which told me this was all in my head. The depression was doing this to me. Thankfully, the nausea had eased some, but then I’d barely touched my lunch.
My gaze drifted around the room at the floor-to-ceiling books. There was only one wall without books, and it consisted of the oval window I stared out of daily and a family portrait, minus Brady. Which was odd. It was Keira, Cormac, and Eamon sitting in one of the fancy rooms downstairs—I forgot what Maeve had called it. Anyway, Eamon was an older teenager in the photo, so Brady had been alive. He’d have been a teenager too. When he had said his mother didn’t like him, I hadn’t imagined it was that intense. Leaving him out of a family portrait was cold. Even for her. I’d yet to find one photo in this house that he was in. There were several of Eamon though.
When I had asked Maeve about it, she’d smiled and shrugged, then walked away. I let it go because I honestly didn’t really care. I’d just been curious. It was weird.
What was also unexpected was that I had been given the master suite. It was on the third floor, and almost the entire floor consisted of it. Why would I have been given all that space in Brady’s house? I didn’t even know where his room was, but I doubted it was more impressive than the group of rooms given to me, which Maeve had called the master suites.
One of my and Eamon’s wedding portraits hung over the white marble fireplace in my sitting room, which was attached to the bedroom. I wouldn’t go in there after seeing it staring down at me the first time. I wanted to ask for it to be removed, but instead of making a fuss, I just stayed out of that particular room. That photo was one of a girl who trusted the man she was marrying. She thought he loved her. She believed a lie.
There was a sharp tap on the door before it opened, and Shara, one of the two maids, stepped into the room. She was a petite blonde who I’d guess was close to thirty. Like Maeve, she wore a knee-length black service dress with a white apron. It was all very lofty and annoyed me that the employees had a uniform like that to wear.
“Mrs. Murphy,” she said with her pleasant Irish lilt. “I hope yer havin’ a nice afternoon.”
I’d tried to get her to call me Salem, but she, Maeve, and the other maid, Elva—who was around my age—all refused. Brady had said to call me Mrs. Murphy, and that was what they’d do.
I chose not to lie to the women, and when they said things such as this, I always responded honestly.
“No, Shara, I’m afraid I’m still a miserable soul who misses her home and hates everything to do with Ireland.” I paused, feeling bad about speaking poorly of her country. “I’m sorry. I know, to you, it’s a lovely place, and it’s home. You’d likely hate America.”
She laughed softly. “I’d like to visit though. But, yes, Ireland is home.”
“And everyone longs for home. This will never be mine.”
Her usually chipper expression faded. “I can understand that,” she replied. “But does it help at all that yer husband stayed here when he visited? He grew up in these halls, ye know.”
Yes, I knew.
Maeve had told me all about it. She’d taken the job when the boys were teenagers. Even when I didn’t respond to her stories that she thought were funny, she continued telling them to me. As if, one day, I’d throw my head back and cackle. It wouldn’t happen. I didn’t care to know about Eamon’s life. Not anymore.
Saying nothing, I gave her a nod and waited for her to tell me what she needed.
“Yes, uh…” She sounded nervous, and again, I felt bad about that.