In Search Of Her Own. Carole Page Gift

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      “Yes, it is,” Victoria agreed. “But I enjoy it” She stood and carefully replaced her chair. “I probably won’t be back until early this evening “

      “Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude reminded her.

      “I’ll be here,” said Victoria. She returned to her room for her briefcase and sweater. As she passed back through the living room, she paused The Hewletts were still in the kitchen. Quietly she walked over to the television set and picked up the photograph of Julia and Joshua. With Maude always in the room, Victoria had given the picture only a cursory glance before. Alone now, she stared hard at the photo, hungrily memorizing every feature and angle of her son’s soft, pliant face. He was beautiful, with dreamy, vulnerable eyes and a gentle, trusting expression. Unruly, reddish-blond hair fell over his forehead and curled around his ears just as Victoria’s had done when she was a child. He had the same button nose, round, chipmunk cheeks and finely carved mouth she had at five There was no doubt about it: This was her son.

      Sudden tears filled her eyes and a painful lump formed in her throat. All of the unspoken yearnings of seven long years threatened to surface. Victoria blinked quickly and replaced the photograph, but not before her eye caught a glimpse of Maude in the kitchen doorway. The woman’s expression was cold, cryptic, severe; her lips remained tightly pursed.

      “I was just looking at your daughter’s portrait,” Victoria stammered as she moved awkwardly toward the door.

      “Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude answered, her tone unmistakably menacing.

      Victoria was grateful for the vast anonymity of the public library. Here she could relax and be herself, without being on guard for every deed or word. For her, research was always an invigorating mental exercise. It did for her mind what she imagined jogging accomplished physically for Phillip, who had once mentioned he loved to run.

      If Victoria admitted it, delving into the lives of Flannery O’Connor and Sylvia Plath gave her an opportunity to forget herself and her own problems. Their very different, difficult lives reminded Victoria she had no room for complaint about her own lot.

      Victoria’s hours of study passed quickly. At five she returned to the Hewlett home with an armload of books. Sam opened the door to her and whistled appraisingly. “You actually going to read all those, Miss Clarkin?”

      “Victoria,” she puffed. “Please call me Victoria.”

      “Long as you call me Sam.”

      “I’d be pleased to, Sam.” She adjusted her load. “I’m going to put these in my room and freshen up a little. Then I’ll help Mrs. Hewlett with dinner.”

      “Don’t bother,” said Sam. “She don’t like no one else puttering in her kitchen. Just be at the table at six—”

      “Sharp,” Victoria finished with an amused smile.

      Sam flashed a crooked grin. “You learn fast, girl.” He followed her to her room and opened the door for her.

      “Thanks.” She sighed and closed the door behind her. She dropped her bundle of books on the dresser, then sank down wearily on her bed. Aloud she murmured, “Even if I never find my son, this little adventure is forcing me to dig into my thesis and get it done. Whatever happens, the summer won’t be wasted.”

      She returned to the dresser, removed her pendant necklace and gently laid it in the velvet jewelry box her mother had given her. She looked again curiously. Her jewelry was in disarray. Was I in that much of a hurry this morning? she wondered. Usually I keep everything so neat.

      An uneasy feeling crept over her. She opened her dresser drawers, one after another, surveying each one. Nothing seemed to be missing, but somehow she sensed that things weren’t exactly as she had left them.

      Someone’s been in this room, she thought with a shudder. There’s no lock on the door, no way of keeping the Hewletts out. But what were they looking for? And what did they find?

      She thought suddenly of her journal. If they read that, they would know everything! She ran to her bed and reached under the mattress where she had tucked the journal after writing in it this morning. Thank heavens, it was still there—and she had remembered to lock it. She reached for her purse and checked her key chain. The key was still there. But from now on she would have to keep her journal with her. She tucked it into her roomy handbag.

      By the time Victoria had showered and changed into a comfortable slacks outfit, she had nearly convinced herself that she was mistaken about someone searching her room. My nerves are on edge and my imagination is playing havoc with me, she decided as she took her place at the dinner table.

      “You get a lot of work done?” Maude questioned as she set a platter of ham and fried potatoes on the table.

      “Yes, I did,” said Victoria. “Did you and Mr. Hewlett have a nice day?”

      “Same as usual,” said Maude, sitting down. “Sam fixed a broken shutter out back. I worked on my soap crafts and watched my game shows on TV.”

      “Are you retired, Mr. Hew—I mean, Sam?” Victoria asked politely.

      “You bet. I worked nearly forty years for Brownlin Utensils on the east side of town. Retired three years ago Since then I done some part-time work—carpentry, manual labor—till my back gave out this spring.”

      “He worked in that awful factory, same job all those years,” Maude said bitterly. “He shoulda been a supervisor, a foreman, but no, he set back and let the young fellas snatch up all the promotions.”

      Sam cleared his throat irritably. “I was happy doing my job, Maude. I didn’t wanna be no boss of nobody, making decisions about this or that. I liked things fine the way they was.”

      “No backbone, that was your trouble,” she snapped. “You got the backbone of a jellyfish.” Maude looked narrowly at Victoria. “You find yourself a man who can stand up for what he wants, not some spineless fella who lets everybody walk all over him.”

      “Miss Clarkin ain’t interested in your opinion, Maude,” snapped Sam. “Specially of me.”

      There was an uneasy silence until Victoria, grasping for a safe topic of conversation, said, “You mentioned doing soap crafts, Mrs. Hewlett. Just what are they?”

      Maude brightened immediately. “Oh, you probably already seen them around the house—in your bathroom and on my knickknack shelves. They’re bars of soap inside crocheted turtles and fish. I’ve made them for years. Sold a lot, too. The novelty shop downtown carries them for me. So does the little boutique up north, near our summer cabin. For years I’ve taken them a supply every time we go up there on vacation, haven’t I, Sam?”

      “Sure have. No one makes them things quite like Maude. They’re pretty enough for rich folks’ fancy houses.”

      “I’d like to see them,” said Victoria. “Did you do all the paintings in your living room, too?”

      Maude’s complexion blanched. She looked away.

      “No, our daughter, Julia, did them,” replied Sam quickly. “She was the artist in the family She could make anything look beautiful.”

      “She СКАЧАТЬ