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"Oh," she said, sounding solemn. "Why not?"
"My father’s wives didn't tend to stick around long enough to form attachments."
"That's why you were in Vegas, though. For your father's wedding, right?"
"Yes. Wife number eight."
"Oh. Wow."
Oh, wow, indeed. He felt much the same way. Eight marriages. Eight women willing to tie themselves to a man with a track record that proved the odds weren't in her favor.
Statistics stated a first marriage had a fifty-fifty chance of survival. A second marriage, forty-sixty. Third, thirty-seventy. The eighth…
Despite knowing it was his father's wealth that had at least partially attracted the last seven wives, Everett wanted more than that from a woman. From a relationship.
From Isabel.
"What about your mother?"
"She passed when I was eight. Breast cancer."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Thanks." That was the one thing he could say about his father, the man had loved his first wife. Those who'd come after?
Everett had to pass it off as a combination of loneliness, the desire to give him a mother figure, alcohol, and the general need to fill the void his mother's absence had left after she'd died.
"If I ask anything too personal, just say so," Isabel said.
"We're married, Isabel. Ask any questions you like."
"Okay... What was she like, your mom?"
He wrapped his arm around Isabel and snuggled her closer, sharing his body heat when he felt her shiver. He should probably insist they go inside the ferry so she’d be warmer, but he liked the sound of the water and the darkness and Isabel huddled at his side.
Rubbing his hand up and down her arm, he considered her question. "She smelled like flowers." It was the first thing that came to mind. "I don't know what kind. She had dark hair, blue eyes. And she laughed. A lot. Even when she was sick. I got a book of jokes at school once and raced home to read them to her. She laughed until she cried."
"Oh, Everett. That's so sweet. I'm sure she enjoyed every second of those jokes and her time with you."
He kissed the top of her head, his thoughts going back to better days, at least briefly. "I was sent off to boarding school not long after she passed. My father lost himself in grief and immediately began dating a wealthy woman who wanted nothing to do with a child who didn't want anyone but his mother. So off I went."
She inhaled sharply.
"That'scold. How could they do that to you?"
"My father said it was for the best, so he could build a new life for us."
Her eyebrows pinched over her nose as she stared up at him, concern written in every line of her face, eyes glassy with tears. "Did you like school? Any of it?"
The fact that she cried for the child he’d been tugged on his heartstrings. "I hated it. I was small for my age and got bullied by the older kids. It made me smarter, though."
"How so?"
He looked away from her to stare through the railings at the water drifting by. "I couldn't beat them physically, so I had to figure out ways to outsmart them. Or hide from them." He chuckled again and squeezed her tighter. "I remember the moment I realized that my bullies didn't like books. The school library became a refuge for me. So much so I wound up sneaking in a pillow and blanket one evening."
"That sounds innocent enough."
"It was. Until they sounded the alarm because the school thought I'd run away."
