Silent Is the House. Barbara Hancock J.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Victoria said, nodding to a heavyset woman with a flushed face and round apple cheeks who was setting a bowl of steamed carrots on the table. “We don’t have many employees these days, but I hope you’ll be well taken care of at Allen House.”

      “Anything you need in the kitchen, let me know. I usually shop on Fridays,” Mrs. Maple offered.

      I thanked her and sat, acknowledging Owen’s silence with a brief nod as if he’d spoken. I had no grievance with him, regardless of his strange intensity toward me. I also refused to be intimidated by my reaction to him. I could only dismiss it as long weeks of profound grief finally dissipating and leaving me too open and vulnerable. I couldn’t seem to control it. An almost preternatural interest in him sizzled beneath my skin when he was around…and there was a residual hum even when he wasn’t. My heartbeat quickened. My senses heightened. Without looking at him, I seemed to notice every movement he made, every breath, every blink. It bothered me, but it was also refreshing to suddenly have my focus shift from my loss to the living.

      “And you’ve met Owen,” Victoria continued.

      There were no footmen, but Mrs. Maple served me before I could help myself. She piled a shocking mound of carbs on my plate. My wide eyes looked from roasted potatoes up to Owen’s face. I thought for a second that his lips quirked, but then any expression of humor vanished. Still, my eyes had been drawn to that soft swell of his lower lip that was somehow soothing the raw edges of my grief.

      I looked back at the sinful number of potatoes and vowed to spend some time with the portable barre I’d packed, to burn off the carbs and to take my mind off Owen’s lips. There were other, safer ways to deal with my loss.

      “How did you find your room?” Owen asked. It didn’t seem like small talk. It seemed like he was testing me. But it had seemed like that from the moment I’d first seen him. I didn’t mention my surprise at the condition of the house or my unease with the servant I’d seen in the distance. Such insignificant things must have been made large by my grief. I certainly wouldn’t mention how the movement of his fork to his mouth distracted me even in the periphery of my vision.

      “I didn’t think you’d come,” my grandmother said before I could answer Owen. I answered her instead.

      “I would have before now, but it never seemed right,” I confessed.

      “Your father would have disapproved,” Owen interjected, suddenly deciding to join the real conversation.

      I was startled by that supposition. So much so that I neglected the decadent potatoes and lowered my fork. My father? He had never seemed to care one way or another about Allen House. Then again, it would have been hard to gauge because he was so cool about so much.

      “Actually, my mother wouldn’t have wanted…”

      I was sorry for the honesty when Victoria drew in a shaky breath and let it out in a long sigh that seemed to span twenty-one cold years.

      “I find my appetite is non-existent this evening. I’ll leave you to your meal,” Victoria said.

      I rose. My napkin fell to the floor. I was five years old again and I hadn’t yet learned that gaining my parents’ approval wasn’t possible. I reached toward my grandmother, but she was already whirring away.

      Owen was angry. It seethed off him in waves of heat. I swore I could actually feel it in the flush on my cheeks. I wasn’t used to dealing with so much emotion. I had been the only one in my home who ever seemed to feel at all. My father had been detached. My mother had been contained.

      “I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it. I hadn’t meant to cause Victoria pain.

      “No one should have to lose their daughter twice let alone three times.” Owen rose and paced. The room was so small that his frustrated movements filled it. Even in a suit, I could see the play of his tense muscles in his broad shoulders and down his back.

      “She left. She died. It was her desire to remain estranged,” I summed up. I stood. I’d already eaten more than anyone who ever stood on pointe ought to.

      “I think Victoria always assumed it was your father who kept you both in Maine,” Owen said. He had come to a stop by the window and he looked out at the night with his hands on his lean hips.

      “We never spoke of my grandmother. My parents traveled so much…” I explained. How do you face anger and disappointment that aren’t of your making?

      “Yes. I know. Paris. The French Riviera. Mexico. Berlin.”

      I didn’t ask him how he knew. His brooding frown made conversation impossible. My chest had tightened with each of his frowns and each of Victoria’s unshed tears. There was so much to feel after weeks of being cold and numb. My own eyes were swimmy and I never shed tears in front of others. Never. I’d learned to channel all my feelings into movement, into dance.

      “If you’ll excuse me as well,” I said.

      I didn’t wait for him to reply. I wanted to leave quickly before he could see the moisture in my eyes. But, suddenly, he’d crossed the small room and his hand was on my arm. His warm, strong fingers found skin beneath the fringed edge of my scarf, but instead of pulling away from the contact, they spread and wrapped and held. I turned toward him, looking everywhere but at his mouth.

      “Victoria would be devastated if you ran away. She’s already planning a welcome party for you next weekend,” he said. The words were tight and clipped. He wasn’t speaking for himself. Something told me he’d be relieved if he found me gone by tomorrow.

      “I won’t run,” I said. My tears had dried before they fell, completely shocked away by his nearness and the simple touch of his hand around my arm. I looked down, certain that shock and heat must show in my eyes. Maybe they had, maybe I hadn’t looked down quickly enough, because he let me go as if his fingers had been burned.

      “Good night,” I said, and I slipped away from him, but the heat of his fingers lingered even as I walked away.

      * * *

      I didn’t have to use my portable barre. Allen House had its own studio. Bethany led me to it when she saw my worn pointe shoes. Once I had dreamed of dancing in the American Ballet Theatre. Now I enjoyed teaching. I had a good, solid gift, but no brilliance, and my height had continued for a few too many inches. I found joy in helping young children find themselves or lose themselves in dance the way I had when I was younger. Though he had bowed to my mother in all other things, my father had insisted I be allowed to dance. I was given all the necessary accoutrements and lessons, and that was the beginning and end of their involvement. I performed recitals in front of strangers. I received accolades beside other dancers whose parents sat beaming.

      It didn’t matter.

      When I saw the barre, the mirrors and the polished wooden floor, my sadness melted away. Always. Even here at Allen House, which seemed to have soaked up so many years of sadness that the dingy walls themselves made me ache.

      The studio was surprisingly well kept.

      I remembered the maid I’d seen rushing into it earlier in the day and I wondered if my grandmother had had it cleaned just for me. She’d said they didn’t have many employees. But Owen had said she would be devastated if I ran away. While I guessed that he would have been glad if I’d never come.

      As I put СКАЧАТЬ