A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby. Debrah Morris

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Chapter Three

      Birdie Hedgepath’s house on Persimmon Hill crouched among tall post oaks and pines at the end of a long gravel drive. A pole light between the house and barn illuminated a weedy yard where leggy petunias spilled from old tires.

      Everything was just as Ryanne remembered. Peeling white paint on the clapboards. Plaster hen and chicks under the crape myrtle bush. Pink plastic flamingos clustered around the propane tank.

      The old porch swing stirred in the breeze and the creak of its rusty chains brought a rush of memories. Hot summer days. Cold Pepsi. Shelling beans. Birdie and meaning-of-life discussions.

      Nothing had changed. Insects filled the night with their noisy chorus. Down at Annie’s Pond the bullfrogs belted out the amphibian top ten. Even Froggy, Birdie’s rheumy-eyed old hound, was in his spot by the door. He barely looked up at the midnight intruders.

      Ryanne took a deep breath. She’d missed the smell of this beautiful green place. She’d been so self-absorbed that for five years she hadn’t thought once about barn owls or little sulfur butterflies. She’d forgotten the feel of dew-damp grass on bare feet. The sound of bobolinks.

      In her single-minded pursuit of fame and recognition, she’d discounted the treasures left behind. She’d worried that coming home meant moving backward instead of forward. That embracing the past meant giving up on the future.

      She was wrong. Persimmon Hill wasn’t the end of the road. It was a place to rest while she repaired the damage of her own foolish choices. Her life might be going to hell in a handbasket, but here she would be safe.

      Home was the most sentimental song of all.

      Tom set the last of the bags on the porch. “No one answered?”

      “I haven’t knocked,” she admitted. “I’m just taking it all in.”

      “Let’s surprise her.” He didn’t know what had gone wrong in Ryanne’s life, but when he saw the look in her eyes, he knew she’d been right to come here. He motioned her back into the shadows behind him. He rapped, and in a moment a sleepy-eyed woman in her midsixties pushed open the screen door.

      Birdie Hedgepath’s quarter Cherokee blood showed in her round face, high cheekbones and dark eyes. She and her late husband Swimmer had no children of their own. If she hadn’t taken in ten-year-old Ryanne when her mother died, the child would have become a ward of the court, and sent to live among strangers.

      Birdie did not possess the frailty her name implied. She had substance. Shoulders that were wide for a woman. A waist and hips to match. Stout legs, flat feet. Her black hair was cut short and streaked with gray. Though strong physically, her real strength was her wisdom and humor. Everyone who met Birdie, loved her.

      “Landsakes, Tom,” she said with a yawn. “What’re you doin’ out here this time of night?”

      “I brought you a little something I picked up in town.” He stepped aside with a dramatic flourish.

      “Oh, oh, oh! You brung my baby home.” She pressed her hands to her mouth then threw her arms wide. “Baby girl, come here to me and let me hug your neck.”

      “I missed you, Auntie Birdie.” Ryanne’s eyes filled with damp happiness. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long. I’m glad to be home.”

      “Not half as glad as me. Let me look at you. Ohwee, girl, have you gone and swallowed a watermelon seed?”

      “Something like that.” Ryanne gave her foster mother another hug. “You smell exactly as I remember. Like lilacs and bacon.”

      Birdie’s dark-eyed gaze raked Ryanne from her cockeyed ponytail down to her bare feet. “What did you do, Tom? Drag her backward through the brush all the way?”

      Ryanne laughed and hugged her again. “It’s a long story.”

      “And one I aim to hear. Tom, you get those bags in the house and I’ll put on some coffee. Probably got a pie around here somewheres.”

      He carried the luggage inside, but declined the offer. Like a messenger delivering a prize, he had no right to hang around and enjoy it.

      “Thank you, ma’am, but I need to get home. I know you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

      “You go on then. But stop by the Perch and I’ll wrap up one of them blackberry cobblers you and Junior favor so.”

      “Thanks. I’ll do that. Birdie. Ryanne.” He tipped his hat and stepped out into the night.

      Ryanne caught up with him as he climbed back in the pickup. “Thanks again for hauling me out here. I’m sorry about, well, you know. Getting all weird earlier. It’s the hormones. Normally I’m a much nicer person than what you’ve seen tonight.”

      Tom felt an inexplicable urge to touch the spirited woman and claim some of her energy for himself. He settled for a light tap on the tip of her nose. “Nothing wrong with the person I saw.”

      “Good night, then.” She stepped away from the truck, but seemed reluctant to let him go.

      Or maybe he was just reluctant to leave. “Good night, Short Stack. Take care of the little dancer.”

      When the rooster crowed, Ryanne and Birdie were still at the kitchen table. It had taken hours to catch up. Since nothing ever changed in Brushy Creek, Ryanne had done most of the talking.

      She chose to edit out the sordid details of her brief marriage. What Birdie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her as much as the truth. So she took pains to keep her voice light as she described what she hoped sounded like a run-of-the-mill marry-in-haste, repent-at-leisure scenario.

      They talked about the baby, and Birdie offered emotional and financial support. Then she insisted on making biscuits and eggs before driving to town to open the café. It was Friday morning, and there would be a crowd of regulars waiting for her breakfast specials.

      “I’ll go with you.” Ryanne cleared the table. “I want to earn my keep and you know I’m a whiz-bang waitress.”

      Birdie, who had changed into her uniform of white polyester СКАЧАТЬ