Independence Day. Amy Frazier

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ had mentioned a project that was important to her. He’d always liked her interest in ceramics because it seemed to relax her, but maybe the self-imposed pressure to excel had gotten out of hand. Maybe she actually needed to lay off the pottery for a while.

      Maybe he could engineer a short break for the two of them, since he’d chosen not to take his scheduled vacation this year. The AP science teacher had promised his spring term students a bus trip to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire next week. A reward for passing their Advanced Placement exams. Maybe he and Chessie could hook up as chaperones. It wouldn’t be a real vacation, it wasn’t an overnight trip, but it would be a change of scene. Maybe he could afford one more day off work. If he could only get next fall’s hiring completed this week.

      There were far too many ifs and maybes.

      He found himself stalled in the upstairs hallway.

      “Do you plan to step over the threshold?” Chessie leaned against the bedroom door frame, looking up at him. Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed her. “I won’t bite,” she added.

      “I wasn’t sure.”

      “I said we’d talk later. Now’s good.”

      “The fireworks start at nine.”

      “Oh, we have plenty of time before the fireworks start.” With a gleam in her eye that could itself be described as pyrotechnic, she pulled him into their bedroom and closed the door firmly behind them.

      Things were looking up.

      He moved to take her in his arms.

      “Talk,” she said, pushing him down to sit on the bed while she remained standing. “So…what did you learn today?”

      He was in treacherous, uncharted territory. “Chessie—”

      “Maaaa!” The adolescent shriek careened up the stairwell and through the closed door. “Are there any strawberries and whipped cream left over from breakfast?” Gabriella.

      With a shudder, Chessie opened the door. “Miss McCabe, unless you broke both legs and at least one arm on your trip to the islands, you can open the refrigerator door and check for yourself.” Her shoulders seemed to droop. “Please don’t interrupt. Your father and I are in the middle of an important conversation.”

      “It won’t interfere with us watching the fireworks, will it?”

      “If you don’t give us ten minutes, the fireworks will begin early, I promise.”

      Even from upstairs, Nick could hear Gabriella stomping off to the kitchen. He’d always admired Chessie’s infinite patience with their daughters, especially Gabby, who was proving a handful. This evening, however, that patience showed signs of wear and tear.

      Breathing deeply, Chessie turned back into the room. “Where was I?”

      “You wanted to know what I’d learned today.” He chose his words carefully. “I think perhaps you want more time to yourself.”

      “Not quite. It’s more that I don’t believe you and the girls see me as being a self. I’m your wife, their mom. Outside of that, I think I’m a bit of a blur.”

      “How can you say that?”

      “Okay. What was I wearing this morning?”

      A trick question. Was she wearing the shorts and T-shirt she had on now?

      “Besides a sandwich board?” he asked, stalling.

      Clearly impatient now, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Underneath the sandwich board.”

      He frowned. Before she’d surprised him with her strike sign, she’d shown every intention of working on her pots. He hazarded a guess. “Shorts. A smock.”

      “What color were my toenails?”

      He glanced quickly at her feet. She wore sneakers. “Red, white and blue?”

      “Have you ever seen me paint my nails? Ever? The girls, yes, but me? I don’t think so.” With an unexpected snort of laughter, she picked up a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. “Red, white and blue. I’ll give you C+ for creativity.”

      The fact that she didn’t appear angry seemed to augur the return of the old, familiar Chessie, mischievous but sweet. His exact opposite. Perhaps that’s why he’d been drawn to her back in high school—

      Another pillow hit him in the head. “No daydreaming in class.”

      “Then can we cut to the chase? My day off is almost gone. I’d like to spend the rest of it with my family. With you.”

      “About this morning—”

      “You’re forgiven.” He grinned, then immediately regretted his ill-timed humor as another pillow whizzed by his head.

      “You and the girls mustn’t take me for granted any longer.” The renewed rebellion in her eyes told him this was no joke. “There are times I feel invisible.”

      “Sweetheart.” He opened his arms to her. “You are the most colorful, least invisible woman I know. The girls and I love every quirky bone in your body.” Okay, so it wasn’t Robert Browning. He was a high-school principal—a weary high-school principal—not a poet.

      “Do you understand how important my work is to me?” she asked.

      “If there were a Maine Mom-and-Wife-of-the-Year Award, I’d nominate you in a heartbeat.”

      “And my pottery?”

      “I love your pots.” Better keep it simple. Talk of arts and crafts dragged him out of his league.

      “Do you know how much money I put away from my teaching and sales last year?”

      “I never asked because that’s your mad money.”

      “Mad money? After taxes last year I added twelve thousand dollars to the girls’ college fund.”

      Twelve thousand dollars? He nearly choked. He had no idea a hobby could be so lucrative.

      “Mad money, indeed,” Chessie muttered as she closed in on him. “The negotiating price for this new piece alone is fifteen hundred dollars. This is art, Nick, not Play-Doh.”

      “Fifteen—” He did choke. And sputtered. Chessie whacked him on the back. A little too hard, if you asked him. “We need to have a talk with our tax man. Have we declared your earnings?”

      She sighed. “I filed separate forms as a self-employed businesswoman. I’ve kept my own books. I’ve joined the Better Business Bureau. Taken an Internet workshop on finances and investments.”

      He seemed to recall their tax man mentioning the separate filing, but the news had been overshadowed at the time by the threat of a sports-injury lawsuit at school.

      “When did you do all this?” Her secret life astounded СКАЧАТЬ