Bones and Roses Read Online Free

conclusion: She’d abandoned us. Maybe it was out of shame that she hadn’t contacted us. Maybe her drinking had gotten out of control, like mine was starting to. Whatever the reason, it hurt all the same.
    To this day I can’t think about it without feeling as if I’ve had the air knocked out of my lungs. Lighting a candle or saying a prayer wasn’t going to change a damn thing. I stare down at the sandwich on my plate, oozing hummus and bristling with sprouts. Suddenly I want to throw up.
    I must look a little green, because Ivy takes pity on me. She steers the conversation onto other topics. We talk about her show at the Headwinds Gallery in two weeks’ time, for which she’s been frantically preparing. I tell her about my fun morning getting sprayed with woodchips at the Caswells’—the tree-trimmer I hired to limb their trees wielded his chainsaw as if it were a six-shooter and he a Wild West gunslinger—and then fishing a dead possum out of the swimming pool at the Russos.’ Finally I get around to dishing the latest on the Trousdale divorce.
    Douglas and Joan Trousdale are the wealthiest of my clients by a couple of zeros. Douglas is CEO of Trousdale Realty, where I worked as a broker; it’s easily the most successful realty in town, judging by the signs with his grinning mug marking every other property for sale in these parts. He also owns the Fontana Spa and Wellness Center, where my mom worked, which he inherited from his father when the old man died ten years ago, and which is now world renowned due to his promotional efforts, with franchises in several other locations—Palm Springs, La Jolla, and Las Vegas. Joan is a prominent socialite and on the board of several charities.
    They own three homes: their primary residence in the tony San Francisco neighborhood of Pacific Heights, where Joan now lives alone; the condo in Pacifica, where Douglas is currently shacked up with his twenty-five-year-old mistress; and the oceanfront estate in La Mar that I manage. The latter sits on ten acres and boasts an Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis court, and not one but two guesthouses, one of which my boyfriend Daniel occupies rent-free in exchange for maintaining the grounds. (His meager salary as a tenure track assistant professor at the university wouldn’t cover his living expenses otherwise). Meanwhile, Douglas and Joan are so busy fighting over who gets what and when each should have use of it—in a divorce so epic it makes all others seem like minor squabbles in comparison—the La Mar house sits empty for the most part. Not for much longer, however; their son Bradley is due to arrive soon for an extended stay.
    I have yet to meet the man. All I know about him is that he’s a combat cameraman for CNN based in the Middle East—and an only child, the apple of his mother’s eye. He’s flying in tomorrow from New York, after three months in Afghanistan. One of the items on my to-do list for today is to ready the house for his arrival.
    â€œWho cares if he’s stuck up? He’s hot,” says Ivy after I’ve expressed my low expectations regarding the only son of billionaires. A while back, I made the mistake of mentioning he was good-looking, which I know from the photos of him scattered throughout the house.
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with it?”
    â€œEverything. But if you two fall in love, it’ll be kind of awkward with him and Daniel living on the same property. Then I guess he’ll have to find another place to live. Daniel, I mean.”
    I frown at her. “Seriously, what has he ever done to make you dislike him?”
    â€œNothing. And I repeat, I don’t dislike him.” She retrieves a piece of bacon that’s fallen out of her sandwich and pops it in her mouth. “He’s a perfectly nice guy. He’s also intelligent and kindhearted and environmentally conscious. But face it, Tish,