Silver Bells. Mary Burton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ middle of the night. She thought she could smell either the perfume or the talcum powder her mother had always used. How was that possible? She walked into the bathroom. All her mother’s things were still on one side of the vanity, her father’s things on the other side. She looked around as though time had stopped and never picked up again.

      In one way, Amy was glad that Flo had left things the way they were. In another way, she wished she hadn’t. She ran to the high four-poster and jumped up on it. She flapped her arms and legs this way and that like she was making snow angels.

      Amy frowned when she heard a high-pitched siren. It sounded like it was right next door. She bolted from the room, which was at the back of the house, and ran to her old room, whose windows faced the Carpenter property on one side and the Anders property on the other. She watched as frantic EMS workers ran into the Carpenter house. She swiped at the tears forming in her eyes when, a while later, she saw the same EMS people wheel a gurney out to the ambulance. Not too long ago Flo had told her Albert Carpenter was in his nineties and in frail health. Such a nice man. His wife had been nice, too, to all the kids in the neighborhood. They’d always been partial to Hank and Ben. She was about to move from the window when she saw movement through the window facing the Anders house. She walked over to the other window, which afforded her a better view, and stared down at the man getting out of the SUV. Ben? Hank? It was hard to tell from where she was standing. Her heart kicked up a beat as she watched the scene being played out on the ground. Kids. Big dog. Little white dog. She burst out laughing as she watched the man run into the house to return and drag the dog into the house with a towel as a leash. She laughed even harder when she saw him straddle each child under his arms. A novice for a father. Ben? Hank? Her heart was beating extra fast. Not a good thing. So much for hoping that maybe…

      Amy walked across the room to the rocking chair her mother had painted bright red because red was Amy’s favorite color. She’d even made the cushions out of red velvet. Amy sat down and started to rock as she let her gaze sweep through the room. It was all just the same. Her boots were in the corner, her yellow muffler and matching wool hat, knitted by her mother, were on the coatrack by the closet door. Her navy peacoat with the gold buttons was still on the rack, too. Guess Flo thought I wouldn’t need winter clothes in California, she thought.

      From her position in the rocking chair, Amy could see the photos she’d taped to the mirror over her vanity. Most of them were of her, Hank, and Ben. Several of her friend Libby, who had moved away a few months before her parents’ death.

      Amy got up to check out her closet and dresser drawers. Everything was neat and tidy even after all these years. A lifetime ago. Time to let it all go. Time to lay all her old ghosts to rest.

      Amy looked outside, surprised that it was already dark and it was only five o’clock. Time to think about a nice hot shower, some dinner, and a nice fire and a little television before she retired for the night. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow she’d go up to the attic and get down all her mother’s Christmas decorations. Maybe she’d venture forth and get a real live Christmas tree. Not a glittery Hollywood tree but one that would smell up the whole house. Then she’d have that Christmas that never happened. The one she’d missed when Flo took her to California.

      Maybe Christmas would be forever tainted. Maybe she couldn’t get the old feelings back. Well, she’d never know if she didn’t try.

      Was it Hank or Ben in the house next door? She wished she knew. Maybe she should go over and knock on the door. People in Apple Valley did things like that. Most times they brought food to newcomers. She couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would bring her something once they knew she was back home.

      As she walked down the steps, Amy crossed her fingers. Let it be Ben next door. Let him be the married one. Maybe she could discreetly ask where Hank was. Find out if he, too, was married. She crossed her fingers tighter.

      Back on the first floor, Amy opened the doors of the fireplace, laid some kindling, then stacked the logs the way she’d seen her father do. She had a fireplace in her California home, but it was gas. She’d used it once and was so disappointed with the effect it created, she’d never turned it on again. Within minutes she had a nice blaze going. In the kitchen she prepared a small salad to accompany the frozen TV dinner she popped into the oven. She uncorked a bottle of wine to let it breathe before she headed upstairs to shower.

      Her first day home.

      Home. Amy closed her eyes and almost swooned at the way the one word made her feel. She literally ran up the stairs, her heart bursting with happiness. She knew, just knew, coming back home to Apple Valley was the best decision of her life.

      In the shower, she sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs as she washed her hair and showered with her favorite bath gel, a Vera Wang scent she’d been using for years.

      Thirty minutes later, Amy walked through the family room, where the fire was blazing cheerfully, and on out to the kitchen, where her dinner waited for her. She turned on the radio that was mounted under one of the kitchen cabinets. Holiday music invaded the old kitchen.

      She was home. Eating in her old kitchen, using her mother’s old place mats, using the same silverware with the green handles. It seemed the same, but it wasn’t the same. The sugar bowl and creamer weren’t in the middle of the table. Both her parents had always had coffee with their meals, even at lunchtime. Suddenly, Amy wasn’t hungry anymore. She reached for the wine bottle and poured it into her glass. Flo had drummed into her head over the years that “you can’t go home again,” then went on to say some famous writer had said that. It wasn’t until she was in college that Amy learned that the writer was Thomas Wolfe.

      Amy sat down on what had once been her mother’s chair and stared at the fire. She supposed you could go home again physically, but when you got there, you had to be realistic enough to know that time had passed, and it could never be recaptured. And recapture time was exactly what she had hoped to do by making this trip. How foolish she was to even think she could make that happen. The past was prologue.

      Now what was she supposed to do until it was time to go back to California? Should she just eat, drink, sleep, watch television? Should she pretend it wasn’t the Christmas season and ignore everything? Wouldn’t that be a cop-out?

      Maybe she should go next door and talk to Ben or Hank or whoever it was that lived in that house. There was nothing wrong with dropping in on old childhood friends. Was there? She tried to talk herself out of the idea by convincing herself that either Ben or Hank’s wife wouldn’t appreciate an unknown female dropping by—she looked down at her watch—at seven o’clock in the evening. Maybe she would do it tomorrow.

      Before Amy could change her mind, she raced upstairs for her old peacoat. She was surprised that it still fit. She pulled the yellow hat down over her ears, wrapped the muffler around her neck, and was ready to go. A walk to the town square would be nice. She could take her time, look in the shop windows, and by the time she got home, she’d be wiped out and ready for a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Her own bed. Five minutes later she was out the door, the key to the front door in the pocket of her sweatpants.

      It was icy cold, the wind blustery and pushing her along as she walked down the street to the corner. Her feet already felt numb from the cold. No wonder, she thought, looking down at her feet. She wasn’t wearing socks, and she was still wearing slippers, for God’s sake. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe she wasn’t really stupid. Maybe she was just overwhelmed with being home and wasn’t thinking clearly. She continued walking to the next corner, then she decided, yes, she was stupid, and turned around to go home.

      How bleak and lonely Mr. Carpenter’s house looked. Every other house on the street featured colored Christmas lights on their porches and shrubbery. Correction. СКАЧАТЬ