Black Widower Thomas Randolph Novels & Stories

But the office didn’t seem the same without her, and Rand’s body ached for her touch. “There she is.” Andy nodded his head toward the dance floor. “She’s with a tall, blond man.” “Tom, he owns a large ranch to the north of town. Inherited it from his parents. They got killed in a car wreck about a year ago.” Rand never thought he was the jealous type, but he wanted to walk across the dance floor and pull her out of Tom’s arms. They seemed to be having a spirited conversation. Marian was smiling. “Ask someone to dance. A lot of the ladies are looking our way. I’m going to.” Andy strolled off toward a line of pretty ladies smiling at him.

Sarah was worried and asked, “Mr. Thomas, what’s the matter with you?” “Nothing, I’m ok. I think I have a cold, and it’s probably because of the changing weather. I’ll take some medicine, and then I will be fine.” Mr. Thomas was still violently coughing as he said this, and Sarah suspected that this was not merely the symptom of a common cold. He was looking even thinner than the last time they met. However, it would be impolite for her to ask more, so she suggested that she should accompany him to go to the hospital. Mr. Thomas refused, however, explaining that his driver could take him to the hospital. Thus, Sarah had no option other than to drop it. Before Mr. Thomas left, he said to Sara

“Thomas, how many girls are you going to hook up with until you’ve stopped?” “Which rumor spread this time? Thomas Brooke seen walking out of the club with a mysterious girl, is she his girlfriend? Or simply another one of his hook ups?” I rolled my eyes and I could practically see mum rolling her eyes as she tried calming herself from answering me. But in reality, I didn’t care about anything now, I knew that every man, married or single, eventually hooks, hooked up, or is hooking with a random mistress somewhere, and somehow. Even my father had a mistress, and I only knew about one, and she was not mum who was also once his mistress.

He whispered, still offering her the book. “What do you mean?” She asked innocently to which he chuckled. “My parents fought the world, got married, they lived a happy married life yet.. Yet he left my mother and she waited for him… She hopelessly waited for someone who is never going to return…” Randall told her hesitantly, gritting his teeth, infuriated at his father.

Creak… The door opened. A skinny old man walked out. His face was timeworn and wrinkled, and he seemed a bit spiritless as if life and old age were getting the better of him. The man walked over to Thomas and took a seat. “Thomas…” His soulless eyes suddenly lit up. Watching the old man intently, Thomas grinned. “Winston, to think that you were able to make a breakthrough into the eighth rank before your death. Congratulations, you get to live for a few decades or so.”

So, he found comfort with other women. Tyler’s earlier words played in my mind. His denial of me as his wife felt like a sharp bone lodged in my throat. Before I realized it, tears silently spilled from the corners of my eyes. Just then, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from Tyler. [I couldn’t find you, so I left first. [I’ve got a surprise waiting at home. Don’t be mad, okay? [Oh, and Mom says she misses us. Let’s visit her when we get the chance.]

When your son's bedtime stories came from mommy because daddy was always at another business dinner? "Ladies." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "If you'll excuse me, I have another appointment." "Of course! Don't let us keep you from that perfect life of yours!" Mrs. Whitmore's laugh tinkled like breaking champagne flutes. I made it to the elevator before the words really hit. Perfect life. They saw what I let them see. The authentic Sera Blackwood, wife of Jonathan Blackwood, old money, new success. Mother to Oliver, the sweetest eight year old who still believed in magic and happy endings. Part-time art authenticator who worked "for fun" because surely Jonathan pr

Grace in the yard with Thomas, Sophie's son, who was five now and followed her everywhere with absolute devotion. Nathaniel beside me on the porch steps. My parents visible through the kitchen window. My mother talking, my father listening, the particular ease of thirty-five years. "What are you thinking," Nathaniel said. "That it's enough," I said. "All of it. More than." He looked at the yard. Thomas had fallen over and Grace was helping him up with the matter-of-fact efficiency she brought to everything. "Yes," he said. The evening was warm. The garden was full. The tree stood in it enormous and permanent, same tree it had always been.

I weep for that foolish belief that love is sometimes born of the everyday, that it can grow where nothing was ever sown. I am tired. My phone vibrates. I ignore it at first. Then I look. And the screen explodes in my face. Divorce petition initiated by MARIUS D. via e-Divorce. Not a word. Not a call. Not even a message. Just that. A notification. A cold, impersonal sentence. I stand too quickly. The chair tips, falls. I stagger. People turn their heads. But I don't care. I want to flee. To get out.