Years ago, Mom and I had sat at her kitchen table, as wewere wont to do, drinking wine, as we were also wont to do, bent over laughingso hard (again, as was our wont) after she said she should have forgone thewhole dad thing and just gotten some guy’s sperm and a turkey baster.
We then went on to make up all sorts of ways we wouldrespect and honor said turkey baster, with shrines and offerings, giving it abirthday and presenting it with a cake (the baster, we decided, liked angelfood, which, obvs, was an excuse for us to make angel food cake).
Sadly, I was not conceived with a turkey baster.
Suffice it to say, Dad had broken Mom’s heart (repeatedly).
Mine (repeatedly).
And the last time he did that was three weeks ago when hesold us to his doppelganger from a parallel universe, me to stand in the steadof his daughter and act as brood mare to somedukeling,and Mom to be imprisoned so I’d do what I was told.
Oh yeah, right.
I forgot a part of my plan.
Once we got home, find my father, kick him in the gonads andspit in his face.
Only that man could discover there was a parallel universe(I mean,really?).Trust me, I could go the rest of my life notknowing this place existed andnever, evercoming here.I didn’t carehow many flowers there were and how cute it was to see a plethora ofcotton-tail bunnies scampering through the trees.And it was cute, believe me.
Not only did Dad discover it, but he found some way to gethimself something from it (in this instance, if what had been scattered on hiscoffee table along with beer cans and overflowing ashtrays was the telltalesign, it was a bag of emeralds).
Hanging me and Mom out to dry in the process.
“You know the consequences if you should do anythingfoolish,” Dad’s voice came from not-Dad-but-still-Dad’s stupid mouth.
I looked to him to see he was staring out the oppositewindow.
I looked out that window.
Oh boy.
That must bePinkwickHouse, thecountry seat of the House of Dalton.One of, apparently, a bunch of propertiesthese rich, royal dudes owned.
The big one?
DalwinCastle, which wassupposedly amazing and perched on a cliff.
But that might be for later, say, should I and my fiancédecide to be married there.
For now, things of note aboutPinkwickHouse.
One, it was pink.A mellow, precious, perfect pink that wasludicrously appealing.
Two, it was large.It was not a house.Unless you referredto Downton Abbey as a house, which you did not.Because it was a huge-ass abbeyturned into a house where rich people lived.
Three, it was so perfect, the air liked it better than otherplaces in this world, because the air glittered a ton more there.
Four, there was a creek up the hill at the side of it thatbroke off into four tributary streams that rushed in front of and behind thehouse, the water twinkling diamond-like in the bright sun, making thepicture-perfect scene evenmoreperfect.
Five, there were flowers freakingeverywhere.Profuse pink and white wisteria graced the arch above the front door and fellfrom the eaves of the house.Lush green ivy snaked up the walls.Huge urnsfilled with purple and blue blooms dotted all over the place.
Six, there were fountains flowing into baths on either sideof the front door.The front area was an elegantly curved drive, the lawnaround it manicured.But beyond that to the sides, and you could even see tothe back, was a riot of meandering gardens you could get lost in for days.
Even the quaint stone outbuildings crawling with ivy andwisteria looked out of a fairy tale.
Straight up, on the cobblestone courtyard in front of whathad to be stables, I’d lay money down Jaq and Gus were made into footmen theresometime in the last century.
It was gorgeous.It was exquisite.
