The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ they were kids. Birdie wasn’t sure if Jilly was happy, or merely drunk.

      “Missed you, sis,” Jilly said soberly, still looking into her eyes with a wistfulness that was endearing. She reached up to swipe away a chunk of snow from Birdie’s collar. “You always made the best snow angels, remember? The snow was just like this, too. Soft, like powder. Remember?” Then with a cocky smirk she added, “But I always had to drag you out here, even then.”

      Though the words were slurred, Birdie smiled and nodded, remembering it all.

      Hannah sat up and howled with laughter at seeing her mother dumped in the snow. There was a look of awe on her face; she couldn’t believe anyone would really dare to do that to her mother. Beside her, Rose, the traitor, was laughing so hard tears were icing on her lashes and she clapped her hands in the same spontaneous manner she used to when she was little.

      Something deep within Birdie pinged; she could hear the sound in her mind as clearly as she heard the laughing of the three women she loved most in the world. It was a rare moment of intense beauty and joy. Their world, their senses, felt heightened. She breathed in the cool air, slowly and deeply, feeling the moisture slide down her throat and enter her lungs. The snow made her cheeks burn with cold. She imagined they were cherry red, like Hannah’s, and the sting made her feel alive.

      What small miracle had transpired that allowed her to be kneeling in the new-fallen snow in the moonlight with her sisters, laughing like children. Playing, rather than fussing over details of the funeral?

      She knew the answer, of course. Jilly. It had always been Jilly who started the games.

      Ah, but it was cold, and late, her mind rushed to warn her. They couldn’t stay out here forever. Reality interfered. Suddenly, she was no longer a child but a grown-up, with an adult’s sensibilities. She knew that a drunk could get hypothermia and not even know it. She knew that there were countless details to be sorted out before the funeral tomorrow. The dinner had to be served. Jilly probably needed to get some food in her. And unlike her sisters, Birdie was a mother. A wife. A doctor. She had responsibilities.

      In a flash, she felt herself projected out from the scene, becoming an outsider, looking in. She couldn’t play. She pushed a hand through her hair and looked again at Jilly, then at Rose, and finally her own daughter, Hannah, still making snow angels. Birdie felt very cold. Her fingertips were flaming red and her toes were numb. “Okay, everybody, time to go in.”

      “Okay, Mom,” Rose called back, giggling at her own joke.

      Birdie wanted to shout back that she wasn’t her mother. She didn’t want to be the mother. Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet, feeling every one of her forty-one years.

      “I said, everybody up. Time to go in.”

      Ever the cooperative one, Rose climbed to her feet and offered her hand to Jilly. This time, Jilly went along, allowing Rose to take one hand and Hannah the other as they hauled her to her feet. She rose like a beautifully plumed bird, graceful, arms outstretched. A phoenix, Birdie thought with a wry smile.

      “I think I’m going to be sick,” Jilly moaned once she was on her feet, weaving.

      “Too much booze,” Birdie said matter-of-factly as she stepped forward to grab hold of Jilly’s arm. “Can you walk?”

      “I’m a model, chérie. I’ve strolled down runways in a lot worse condition than this.”

      “Spare me the details. Okay then, one foot after another.”

      Like a trooper, Jilly straightened her shoulders, fixed her direction. Then, releasing her sister’s hand, she paced through the snow with remarkable grace.

      “You didn’t tell me your sister was so cool,” Hannah said, coming to her side.

      Birdie saw the admiration in Hannah’s eyes and felt a sting of jealousy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen anything but scorn in her daughter’s eyes.

      A squeal caught her attention. She looked up in time to see Jilly wobble on some ice in the ridiculous spiked heels, then fall flat back into a snowdrift. Birdie hated herself for it, but a part of her was glad to see Jilly knocked off the pedestal a notch. She stifled her smile and hurried to help Jilly to her feet with Rose catching the slack. Jilly seemed to have used the last of her steam to make the distance to the porch; she was like a rag doll now.

      In the light of the front porch, Birdie studied her sister with a physician’s eye. It had been ten years since she’d last seen her. Jilly still possessed a sultry sexiness that even women turned their heads to admire. Her hair was the color of flame and as thick and wild as ever. She wore much less makeup now so her face appeared more pleasing and natural. But Birdie didn’t like its pallor and gauntness, nor the puffy eyelids and the blueness of her lips. And Jilly was thinner. The bones of her face and even her hands appeared sharp under blue-veined skin. Intuition bred from years of training and experience recognized excessive fatigue and possible illness.

      “Help me get her up, Rose,” she murmured.

      Rose and Hannah both responded to the serious tone in Birdie’s request. The sisters each shouldered part of Jilly’s weight while Hannah opened the front door.

      “I’m okay….” Jilly muttered.

      “Sure you are. Now, take another step. Up, up, up,” and so on as they made their way up the front steps.

      “Welcome home, Jilly,” Rose murmured as they ushered her into the warmth of their old family house.

      

      Hours later, the dishes were washed and put away, the lights turned off and everyone settled into their respective rooms. The whole house seemed to sigh in peace. Rose sat before her computer, wide-awake. Coffee had been served when they all came in from the cold. Though she didn’t usually drink caffeine at night, that wasn’t what stirred her blood. There had been too much emotion and tomorrow promised more.

      These dark hours were her favorite, when no one needed her or called her name. They were hers alone. Merry had always fallen asleep quickly and early and slept untroubled through the night. Occasionally illness would rouse her, but usually her breath purred and she dreamed of happy things. Rose knew this because she’d sit by her bed and watch her, envious of the gentle smile that curved Merry’s lips.

      Her bedroom had once been their parents’ room. Rose had offered this largest bedroom to Merry after their mother died but Merry had rejected it, preferring the familiarity of her own lavender-and-lace-filled room. So Rose had moved in, using her old room as an office for her part-time job as a word processor. There were twelve rooms in the house, but her office was hers alone, filled with things that she had chosen for herself rather than inherited. Her desk was designed for her new computer. The bookshelves were installed to house her personal library. Everything here was here only because she wished it to be. She could come into this room, close the door and be free to explore her own interests, either through books or, more recently, the Internet.

      She turned on the computer and, as she waited for it to boot, thought that Birdie was wrong to say chat rooms were only for lonely shut-ins. She knew this wasn’t true because her Internet friend, DannyBoy, traveled all across the country as a trucker. They didn’t go into personal details, didn’t exchange pictures or such, but she gleaned from what he wrote that being on the road so much was the reason he couldn’t meet nice young ladies. He wasn’t some pervert. He was kind and caring. A real gentleman who СКАЧАТЬ