Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

the bottle looked dangerously low. Her forehead matched the yellowish tint of the white wine and had an oily sheen to it. This family descended from colonial landowners, probably a mix of Spanish and Danish ancestry.

“Hey man, let’s hear what the little dude has to say. So, Junior, what’s the haps? Why’d you bring Private Dick Boise by?”

“I think grandma’s missing. Something’s not right. You know we talk regularly and she didn’t say nothing about a trip or ... ” He paused, seeming to search for more things she could be doing on the sly. “ ... I dunno. What do you think Uncle Harold?”

“Well, little man, you’re a thinker and a damn observant hombre. You had your ear to the ground on mama. If you say something’s amiss, I’m inclined to give it a ride.”

“Good God, Harold. You’re stoned. What do you know?”

Harold belted out a plume of grayish smoke and declared into the cloud, “And you’re drunk.”

At this Hillary shot off the bench, knocking the wine bottle to the floor. The bottle didn’t break, but white wine seeped out onto the baby blue rug. That rug probably cost more than I made in a year.

“Look what you made me do!” She marched away calling for Wilma. The wine bottle remained on the carpet, the buttery smell of chardonnay melding with the cigarette smoke.

“See, Junior, it’s never too late to act like a child,” Harold said with mock enthusiasm. “Mr. Montague, welcome to our slappy home!” He lifted his arms and slouched against the stairs, taking another drag. “So, what are we talking about, Junior and Boise? You guys sound like a dream team. The Samoan and the Southerner. Like some kinda movie.”

“I wanna hire Boise to find grandma. I miss her and I’m missing school on account of I can’t focus with this on my mind.”

Herbie sneered and wrung his hands. Hatred dotted his cheeks like acne as he glowered at his younger brother while addressing his son.

“Oh no. Junior, this ends now. Your grandma has been doing shit like this our whole lives. We are not ... ”

“I dunno, man,” interrupted Harold. “She hasn’t done this since I was in my twenties.” He threw me a sideways look. “That was a while ago. Definitely since before Junior was conceived, which is why he doesn’t know about that side of her. Give the kid a break. Let him have some ideals.” As he finished this last plea, he mouthed at Junior and me, fuck ‘em, then stuck out his tongue.

“I saw that,” Herbie declared. “F-you too little brother. You always did lack class.”

Harold put his hand over his open mouth in mock shock. “My virgin ears are burning! Three business degrees and that’s the best you can do, dude?”

Hillary charged back into the room, arms akimbo, the now empty wine glass clutched in her right hand by the stem. As she rounded the corner, the top of the glass struck the wall and shattered.

“Ahhh! That woman’s crazy! She means to bash me. Help! Help!”

Behind her, Wilma held a wooden rolling pin still covered with flour aloft, while casually following the hysterical Hillary. Not quite as threatening as Medusa, but I suppose close enough for Hillary.

“I ask her leave me alone. Jus’ leave me be. I making food and she want me to drop everyt’ing to come clean she mess.” Wilma pointed the rolling pin at the bottle Hillary had left on the carpet. Flour dusted the bottle like a snowfall. “You mean to tell me you can’t pick that up by yourself, Miss Hillary?”

Hillary cowered behind Herbie. Harold let out a peal of giggling that matched his stoned demeanor. The only sane ones seemed to be the eighteen-year-old and the housekeeper brandishing the rolling pin.

“What do we pay you for?” asked Herbie with solemn authority. The volume on Harold’s giggling turned off abruptly. His torso became rigid as he rose off the steps and moved to his brother. Harold cocked a fist at Herbie’s flushed face. Their noses nearly touched. I could almost feel the steamy warmth of Harold’s bull-snorts from the sofa. The physical contrast between Harold’s muscled and tanned body and Herbie’s lithe, pale features belied the stereotypical differences. A man of the earth who on some level detested his wealth and a colonial invader hell-bent on keeping the European family fortune intact. I wondered which son Francine felt closer to.

“You do not pay anyone, Herbie,” Harold growled. “All of this. All of it. Is paid for by mama. We are tenants, and poor excuses at that.”

A whimpering sound emerged from Hillary as she held the broken glass by the stem out to ward off her enraged younger brother.

“And you, Hill, what are you gonna do with that?” Harold ripped open his shirt, a white button landed on the smooth black surface of the baby-grand, spinning like a top before settling. He stuck out his chest, daring her to stab him with the shattered tip. “Maybe you’ll whine and dine me to death.” He let out another peal of laughter.

“Crazy people,” muttered Wilma. She picked up the wine bottle and headed back into the kitchen, her head shaking as she continued to mutter the word “crazy.”

Then, as if things could get any stranger, Hillary fainted. The wine stem bounced across the carpet, rolling to a stop under the piano.

Harold insisted she was faking it to get attention, that she’d done the same sort of thing a thousand times whenever she didn’t get her way. Herbie and I carried her upstairs and lay her down in bed. When I returned, Junior and Harold stood outside in the orchard dropping bits of bread into a koi pond as a dozen of the bulbous fish lazily gulped the proffered crumbs. An open field with arrow bullseyes mounted at the far end stretched off to my right. The field was also marked with soccer goals at each end. It appeared to be a regulation sized soccer field. The place reminded