Page 66 of The Curveball
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“This is your dad’s house?”I gape at the mansion—no—not a mansion; this bad boy is a freaking estate.
White, stucco walls carve through a maze of desert trees and plants in sharp angles and modern edges. The driveway is a wrap around with a crystal blue pond surrounded by aloe and stubby bottle palms like a miniature oasis. This thing would fit at least five of my duplexes, and my place isn’t tiny. There is a five-car garage, not including the extra two-car garage with what looks like an apartment over the top.
Probably a penthouse. Not an apartment.
Gold lights sparkle along the wrought iron gates and shrubs like a fairy tale.
Wren sighs and adjusts the hem of her dress. “This is it.”
I switch the big gift bag into my opposite hand, waiting patiently with an open palm until she slips her fingers into mine and forces a smile.
I can tell it’s forced. Her eyes are absent the joy lines in the corners.
“Ready?” she asks for the tenth time.
“No. I’m disappointed I’m not the richest person you know.”
Ah, there it is. The real smile.
“If it makes you feel better, you’re my favorite rich person.”
“It does. Thank you. I can breathe again.”
Wren shakes her head, but keeps me close as she rings the bell. A man in a fancy suit answers. Her dad is older than I expected, and smiles at Wren with too much affection. I start to wonder if she’s overplaying his jerkish behavior until . . .
“Miss Wren. Come in.”
“Thank you, Christopher. So good to see you again. How is Maisie?”
The guy’s eyes brighten. “Doing well. Thank you for asking. Your family is in the dining room. Here, allow me to take the gift and place it with the others.”
He takes my gift bag with a nod. I’m still a little stunned and mutter a slurred thanks. Wren pulls me down a long corridor, and I stare at the man over my shoulder as he turns on his polished heels and heads in the opposite direction.
Wren stops us in the middle of the hall and tugs on my arm so I lean closer. “Don’t stare at people. It’s rude.”
“Was that a butler?”
“My dad has a full-time staff, yes.”
I grip her hand tighter. Now, I’m not joking about her holding tight to me. This is a different world I’m not used to. I might make amazing money, but I still do barbecues in the backyard of a hometown bakery.
And we answer our own door.
The house is made of glass and tile. Folding doors with heavy panes of glass divide areas. Wren pulls me past a sitting area with a fireplace and stiff, cold chairs. Everything seems cold here. Black and white décor sucks the personalization out of the rooms.
It’s massive, but empty in the same breath.
We’re here for an eight-year-old’s birthday. Maybe her old man will surprise me and have the backyard littered in blow-up houses, balloons, and creepy clowns doing magic tricks. But the second Wren leads us into a long, open dining room, all hopes of fun are dashed.
This is a birthday for a child?
A long mahogany table with high-backed chairs fills the center of the room, the style I’d imagine in a palace. I catch sight of Darren, Emma, and Carter first. Emma looks like she’s about to lie and say one of her absent children is sick. She keeps tucking her curly brown hair behind her ears. Darren looks strange all stuffed in a suit and tie, but at least he cracks a miniscule smile when we walk in the room.
Carter has his shoulder length hair down, his tie loose, and he keeps passing a piece of paper back and forth with a little girl.
She’s cute. A gold headband keeps her red hair tucked back, and her pink, frilly dress probably costs as much as my car. I’m pretty sure those are real sapphires on the hem.