Those last two sentences also look lame.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
12:55 p.m.
New York City
Google has a lot of examples of people’s journals. Most of them are too... personal. But there was a nice example of a travel journal that a man did about his family’s journey across the States, so I will try to emulate him. He had conversations, and maps, and drawings, and lots of observations. I can’t draw, but I can find maps, and I have a good memory, so I should be able to write down conversations. Plus, I’m used to observing people.
OK. Decision made. I will make a travel journal.
I have to go back a little bit, though. Damn. I could have postdated this if I’d thought about it.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
1:01 p.m.
New York City, day one
“You need a vacation, Dix,” Elliott said in April. I was working on the projections for the upcoming wedding season, and although I’d already printed out the summary of our reservations for the Dower House bookings for the next six months, as well as the crop forecasts, livestock assessment, and income due in from tenants, I felt I was missing something.
“I had a vacation,” I said, hitting the print button on a pie chart illustration of the various sources of estate income. I hated pie charts. I also hated crop forecasts, livestock assessments, and tenant income schedules.
“Two years ago. It’s time for another.”
“I’m busy,” I said, waving my hand at the printer. “We’re coming up to summer, and you know how popular the Dower House is for weddings.”
“You have everything planned to an inch. Besides, Alice is itching for something to do.”
“Surely Jenna is keeping her busy?”
“Yes, but as Alice is the first to say, there’s more to life than chasing after our daughter.” Elliott gave me a look that was part pity and part warning. “I’m obligated by brotherly love to warn you that if Rupert continues to resist her attempts to make him settle down to just one woman, she’s planning on turning her sights on you.”
I dropped the printout I’d just plucked from the printer and spun around to face him fully. “What? Why? She knows about Rose, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but she considers nine years long enough to move past your grief at losing a fiancée to cancer and opening yourself up to love again. Those are her words, not mine, by the way.”
“She has nothing to do with the matter,” I said firmly. “My romantic life is none of her business.”
“Not strictly so, I agree, but you know Alice—she wantsallmy brothers happily paired up with the woman or man of their choice.”
“Choicebeing the key word of that statement,” I said with surly distaste, and typed furiously at a report on the status of the fields currently lying fallow.
“Which is why I suggest you take a vacation. For about six weeks.”
“What? I couldn’t possibly be away that long,” I said, waving my hand at the computer.
“Why?”
“I’m the estate manager,” I said, glaring a little at him. Elliott might have been my elder brother, but he was also woefully ignorant as to what it took to run an estate this size, especially since now we were focused on tourists. “I have things to manage.”
“Fine, but I warn you—Alice is already reaching out to friends to find someone for Rupert. She’s even drawn Mercy into the scheme, and you’re next.”
A sort of dread-riddled panic filled me at the thought of the two women joining forces to match me up. “But I don’t want to find a woman! I’m happy on my own. And I had a woman I wanted. She died. End of story.”
