The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ both smiled, yet measured each other like pugilists sizing up an opponent. He seemed as intrigued by her comment as she was that he could identify the rare German china.

      She waved her hand toward the heavy mahogany table, chairs covered in needlepoint, and tall chests filled with china. “All this came from Oma’s house—Oma is German for grand mother.” Her eyes softened as she recalled the thin gray-haired woman with the unassuming manner and endless depth of love.

      “My happiest childhood memories came from her kitchen. It was among these things here that I learned science, math, and reading. Not from textbooks, mind you, but from baking. The wonder of carbon dioxide from yeast, the fractions of a measuring spoon, and reading endless recipes in both English and German.

      “That old oven over there,” she said, indicating an iron industrial oven in the corner, “was always hot and filled with loaves and loaves of dark bread.”

      She closed her eyes and sniffed the air, but instead of fresh bread she smelled smoke from the wood stove. When she opened her eyes, she saw C.W. watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. Nora blushed and wiped an imaginary tendril from her brow.

      “Anyway, that was how I always wanted my own kitchen to be. Busy and warm. That wouldn’t be a bad description for a person either, would it?” she added.

      He gave her a wry smile. “Nope. It sure wouldn’t.”

      For a moment their eyes met and revealed their private yearning for a home and a family and a simpler life. Then they both quickly averted their eyes, as though they had both opened a hidden box and exposed their most private secret, before snapping it shut again in fear it would be stolen.

      Glancing around, she found reassurance in the familiarity of Oma’s things: lemon squeezers, metal sifters, can openers, paring knives. Near the oven, the shelves overflowed with an odd collection of battered pots and pans, large flour bins, wooden spoons with chipped porcelain handles, and oddshaped bottles and baskets. Yet, it was all surprisingly efficient.

      “Function, not aesthetics,” she murmured.

      “What’s that?”

      “Oh, I was just thinking how this kitchen reflects the code of farm life.”

      “Did you live on a farm?”

      She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. But I’m originally from Wisconsin. My father was a baker and owned part of a dairy farm. I used to love to go out and visit the cows and hunt for barn kittens. We didn’t go that often, though. Mother found it boring and Oma didn’t drive. So…” She sighed, running her hands across a tall cherry armoire. “No, I love these things because they belonged to Oma. This is her legacy. Each item is more precious to me than a jewel.”

      The bittersweet memories of her childhood played upon her features. C.W. watched with fascination, remaining silent, listening. She had no idea of the effect she was having on him as she spoke simply about her childhood. There was no subterfuge, no name-dropping, not a hint of the pretension he was accustomed to. Nor, he suspected, did she have any idea of the sexual magnetism he felt. For under his impassive exterior he was struggling to deny it.

      She turned her head away and wrapped her arms around her chest. Her wrists were frail and her long fingers with their short, unpolished, oval nails tapped gently upon her shoulders. As she stood, absently looking over her things, she invoked the image of the child she had just described. An innocent, perhaps even a timid girl. The kind of child who kept treasures in a box under her bed, who sang to the trees, and who knew the name of each of her dolls.

      As he watched, mesmerized by her tapping fingers, the child became woman. Her innocence grew sensual, erotic, and he found himself imagining those fingers tapping upon his body. He stepped closer, with nonchalance, and smelled the sweet clean scent of soap. His physical response was immediate, forcing C.W. to reel back and create a distance. God, how long had it been since he’d been with a woman?

      Looking up, Nora blinked, as one coming back from far away thoughts. No, he realized. She had no idea at all how she affected him. And he was glad.

      Smiling, Nora said, “I had to fight Mike to keep this stuff. He thought it was all worthless junk.”

      “You obviously love your grandmother’s legacy—and this place. Why did you stay away so long?”

      Her face clouded and she looked away. “I had my reasons.”

      Nora ran her palm along the mahogany table. “I knew it was all here waiting for me,” she added, more to herself. “I’d never throw anything out.”

      “So, you’re the type that squirrels away old clothes, family photographs, and chipped china.”

      She offered a wan smile. “That’s me. I keep it all. Everything holds some memory.”

      C.W.’s gaze swept over her old worn jeans and handknit sweater, to her small hand arced over the table. “Then, why did you remove your wedding ring? Isn’t that usually the last vestige of sentiment to go?”

      Nora blanched, her hand flying instinctively to her ring finger.

      C.W. watched her and cursed himself for his bluntness. It was time to go.

      “I’m sorry, Mrs. MacKenzie. That’s none of my business.”

      He crossed the room with determined strides and paused only to grab a large crate of empty glass bottles.

      “Recycling is going strong in Vermont,” he muttered. “I’ll take these down to the center. I—I left a list of recyclables on the fridge.” He cleared his throat. Work, business, he thought—the great panacea. “Just rinse them out and toss them in here. I’ll take them down to the center for you every Monday.”

      “Yes, fine,” she murmured.

      She was still rubbing her ring finger and staring out the kitchen window. Seeing this, C.W. gave himself a mental kick. He had hurt her with his careless comment, and he was sorry. All his life his blunt honesty had been praised, feared, even encouraged. It was viewed as a show of power and intelligence. Good for business.

      He shook his head and with a firm grip, hoisted the bottles into his arms and left the house.

      What a weak excuse for vanity, he berated himself. He knew better now. Sometimes silence and compassion required greater strength.

      Nora finished her morning coffee hunched over Mike’s ledger with her heels hooked on the chair’s upper rung. From what little she could gather, the figures involved a bank transaction of some kind, or several transactions, it was hard to tell yet. Mike moved around unbelievable amounts of money. She munched on a piece of toast, careful to brush away the crumbs from the paper. Perhaps if she attacked it differently.

      Nora flipped through to the last page. Once again she was struck by the difference in handwriting style as the months passed. In May, she could make out the notations clearly. Yet by September, the writing was erratic, a shorthand of barely legible script. Nora struggled to decipher the ledger for over an hour before she closed it and rubbed her eyes.

      She couldn’t glean much, yet she felt certain she could figure out what had driven Mike to suicide from these pages. In all the deals and craziness, however, one name emerged as the villain. She recognized the name; СКАЧАТЬ