That Summer Place: Island Time / Old Things / Private Paradise. Сьюзен Виггс

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She winced and rubbed a hand over her pounding forehead. “I remember they were Dad’s favorite. I love you, too. I promise I won’t forget to tell the girls.” She paused and added more softly, “Almonds make me cry, too, Mom.”

      She sighed. “You don’t have anything to worry about. They give out pretzels on planes nowadays.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know why.” She stared down at her desk blotter. “I know Dad hated pretzels.

      “No!” She jerked upright in her chair. “Don’t cancel your flight!” She looked up at Myrtle, panicking. She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, then said more calmly, “Please, Mom. You need to go. This trip will be good for you.”

      There was a long, drawn out pause. Catherine sat still, holding her breath while she listened to the silence on the other end. Then her mother agreed.

      Catherine exhaled and sagged back against her chair. “Yes, it would be difficult to cancel now. You’ll have a good time. And the girls will miss you, too. Bye, Mom.” She hung up the phone and gave Myrtle a look that should have cooked her.

      Myrtle leaned forward and slapped some money on the desk. “Ten bucks says a case of almonds arrives before the week is out.”

      Catherine opened her desk drawer and threw out a wadded-up bill. “Twenty says it arrives tomorrow morning.” She paused, then added pointedly, “About the same time you get your pink slip.”

      “You? Fire me?” Myrtle just ignored her. “Anyone else would bore you to death. Besides which, you need me.”

      “I also needed hard labor to give birth.”

      Myrtle burst out laughing.

      Firing Myrtle was a ludicrous threat, since they both knew Catherine would be lost without her. Just one look at the cluttered office was proof enough.

      Over the years she and Myrtle had become more than business associates; they had become friends. Catherine’s daughters called Myrtle Martin “Aunt Mickie.” It was Myrtle Martin who’d kept Catherine laughing through each difficult day after her husband, Tom, had walked away from her, and even more heart-wrenchingly, walked away from his young daughters because they caused too many complications in his life. Myrtle was the first person Catherine called when her ex-husband died two years after the divorce, and just six months ago, when her father was killed suddenly in an accident.

      While Myrtle set about cleaning the office and filing papers, Catherine shoved away from her desk and stood. She crossed the room and opened the door to her small bath, where she dumped out an old cup of coffee, then rested both palms flat on the edges of the pedestal sink. She leaned into the mirror and wondered if that was really her face staring back.

      She looked like her mother. And her grandmother. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Just like theirs except she had a dash of freckles across her nose that had never faded, even though her skin hadn’t been exposed to the sun for years. They just stayed there, reminders of a summer when she had been badly burned.

      She heard Myrtle mumbling out in the office and stepped into the doorway. “Are you talking to me?”

      “Yes.” Myrtle looked over her shoulder at Catherine. “I was saying that you’re the one who needs a trip to the Greek Isles.”

      Catherine closed the adjoining door and crossed the office. “What I really need is to hire someone efficient while you’re out on vacation.” Catherine sat down.

      Myrtle turned around. “At least I take vacations.”

      “I take vacations.”

      “When?”

      Catherine raised her chin. “I took the girls to Disneyland.”

      “They were two and six.”

      Catherine’s daughters were now eleven and fifteen. “I went to New Orleans, remember?”

      “Yes, I remember.”

      “Good.”

      “Reagan was president.”

      “He was not.”

      “Well…” Myrtle gave her hand a dramatic wave and slapped a file drawer closed. “It must have been Bush. I know it was one of those good ol’ Republican boys.”

      Catherine glanced down at the paperwork on her desk. She had so much to do. “I can’t get away right now….” She let the last word fade out when she realized that Myrtle was silently mouthing the very same words.

      Catherine stared at her, half in surprise and half in shame. Even to her own ears it sounded like something she’d said a dozen times. Nothing but the same old excuse.

      She closed her eyes for a second, feeling as if she’d been hit with a huge anvil, one painted with the words Bad Mother. She ran a hand over her eyes. She could still see Aly and Dana’s eager young faces as they’d stood outside Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

      Once upon a time they had been awestruck by Goofy, Mickey and the other Disney characters. Only last week Aly had hung a Hanson poster over her prized Beauty and the Beast print, and Dana had come home from a sleepover with a third hole pierced high in her ear.

      Catherine sagged back in her chair and gave her secretary a direct look. “Has it really been that long?”

      “It’s been a few years since you went away with just Aly and Dana.”

      Her daughters’ last vacations had been with their grandparents or a random week each year at summer camp. Catherine was hit hard by a working mother’s guilt.

      It had always sounded so perfect when her parents chose to take the girls some place special. And those trips always seemed to coincide with Catherine’s important presentations. Now, in retrospect, she felt selfish.

      When she was growing up, her parents had spent almost every summer in Washington, in a wonderful Victorian clapboard house on a small San Juan island. Those summers had been easy and free, a time past when the air was clean, the sky was blue, and you woke up to the aching call of the gulls or the soft sound of rain on the roof. A place where your schedule was dictated only by the rise of the sun or the moon.

      On Spruce Island, when she was seven, she had learned the names of all the stars and constellations, because there was no television to teach her that stars were merely people made by Hollywood.

      On dark summer nights at the water’s edge, she had roasted her first marshmallow and heard her first ghost story around the golden flames of a beach fire. And on that same island, on a chilly Northwest morning she caught her first fish—a six inch bottom-sucker that her father didn’t make her throw back in spite of the game laws.

      It was there where she had learned to swim, to sail, and to kiss, for it was on Spruce Island during a bittersweet summer in the Sixties—the days when she used Yardley soap, dressed like Jean Shrimpton, and ironed her long hair straight—that she had found her first love.

      With Michael.

      She felt that old wistful feeling you have when you remember something that might have been. His image was bittersweet as it formed СКАЧАТЬ