Читать книгу Nora's Pride - Carol Stephenson - Страница 9

Arcadia Heights, Ohio

Twenty years ago

Their hands.

When Abigail McCall opened the front door to her house, she first saw three pairs of hands, linked together across their bodies. So small, so fine, clamped white with tension.

Then, as she looked farther, she saw the three terrified pairs of eyes watching her above reddened cheeks. Three little girls joined together by blood and tragedy.

Abigail had been cursing the fates since she’d received the phone call yesterday. Her younger sister, Tess, had always been bent on destruction and had finally found it in a tawdry motel room. Thirty-five and dead of a drug overdose. Now the only evidence of Tess’s brief life was the three youngsters standing on Abigail’s porch.

Tess had never cared about the bindings of marriage, had never stayed with the same man longer than a few months, had never bothered to protect herself. Her foolishness had produced three daughters by three different men. None of their fathers had come forward to claim the girls.

In the end, Tess’s irresponsibility had come home to roost at her older sister’s door. Abigail had been tempted to tell the social worker who called yesterday to take a hike. Why should she let Tess be the albatross around her neck again? Why should she pay the price for her sister’s mistakes? She’d liked the life she’d made for herself in this small Midwest town, and she liked living alone.

But all thoughts of rejecting the girls shriveled and died the moment Abigail saw the poorly clothed little ones shivering before her. Their linked hands testified to their fear and their unified strength.

The tallest and eldest stood on the right, her thin shoulders hunched against the cold. Long black hair whipped around her pinched features.

On the other end, a pint-size blond angel waited patiently, her blue eyes wistfully fixed on the glowing light spilling from the front parlor onto the veranda’s weathered planks.

Sandwiched between the two was the youngest child, who fidgeted until the oldest looked at her. The girl went still and stared, owl-eyed, at Abigail. Wisps of cinnamon-colored hair straggled out from under the brim of her blue knit cap. She lifted one joined pair of hands to wipe her nose. The older girl rolled her eyes but didn’t let go, as if she feared someone would snatch her sister away.

Poor children. None of this was their doing.

Tears pricked Abigail’s eyes. In that moment she lost her heart to them. Her nieces had suffered enough. It was time for them to have a real home.

Abigail dropped to her knees, silently encircling her nieces with her arms. Three heartbeats later, the blond pixie shyly put her free hand on Abigail’s shoulder and frowned at her oldest sister. Eyes grayer than the November sky studied Abigail, judged her and came to a decision. The older girl’s hand came up to rest on Abigail’s shoulder. The smallest child, encapsulated by her sisters, flashed a dimpled smile and threw both hands around Abigail’s neck.

They were hers now.

Three nights later, after the girls were asleep, Abigail carried a steaming mug of hot chocolate into her workshop at the rear of the house and went straight to her bench. During the summer months, she normally trekked across the backyard to her pottery shop, which faced the main business street. But with winter’s unrelenting cold and wind, she retreated to a workshop set up in her converted den, which also accessed the back porch. Cocooned from the cantankerous weather, she worked her magic.

After unwrapping the plastic sheet from a block of ironware-grade clay, she placed the slab on the potter’s wheel. After sluicing water over her hands, Abigail kneaded the clay, getting the feel of the formative powers of this particular lump. She closed her eyes and began to run her hands up and down the cool, moist material. Gradually she relaxed, the familiar tempo of molding the clay taking over all thought. Only instinct pulsed through her now.

The lump lifted, separated into three pieces. Experiencing only the sculpture, Abigail lost track of time. She scraped, she hollowed, she smoothed the pliable material. As she refined and refined again, her thoughts and prayers poured through her busy fingers into the clay.

Thoughts of love, prayers of hope, promises of forever—all worked into the core of the sculpture.

Finally Abigail stopped, spent, and wiped her clay-covered arm across her sleepy eyes. She dipped her aching hands into water, then wiped them with a towel. Biting her lower lip, she studied this newest piece of her heart.

From behind she heard a whispered exclamation of “Gosh!” She turned to find her nieces, dressed only in their pajamas, huddled together for warmth on the oak floor. The youngest, Eve, squirmed with excitement, restrained only by her sisters from getting up; the ethereal angel, Christina, glowed with inner fire as she studied the statuette. She looked at Abigail and said, “It’s so beautiful.”

Nora, the oldest one, solemnly studied the form without any visible reaction. She had been the last to eat, drink, bathe and go to bed each night. She’d always put her sisters first. To gain this trio’s trust, Abigail knew she needed to win Nora’s.

Rolling her head to relieve the kinks in her neck, Abigail smiled at the potential critic. “What do you think, Nora?”

The girl rose and walked to the wheel. Almost against her will, she reached out, then flushed red and stopped. “Whose hands are they?”

Abigail glanced at her work—three small hands, clasped together and raised, fragile fingers reaching toward the sky. She reached out and drew the child’s stiff, resisting body to her side and rested her chin on the black silky hair.

“They are your hands, Nora. Yours and your sisters’.”

“Why?” The child’s voice was gruff. “Why did you bother to make our hands?”

“To remind you that the three of you will be bound together forever.”

Suddenly the other sisters draped themselves over her knees. Christina’s blue eyes were dreamy with enchantment. “Will it have a name? Like the other stuff you did?”

Abigail ran her hand over the soft, short cap of platinum hair. “Yes, Christina. I’m going to call it Sisters Three.”

Eve pursed her lips, her brown eyes surprisingly calculating in her six-year-old face. “Aunt Abigail, do you make lots of money?”

“Eve!” Nora glared at her sister, who grinned back, unrepentant.

Aunt. The word pulsed, shimmered in the air. Abigail swallowed a lump of emotion. None of them had called her that before. They were hers now, to protect, to raise, to love. And she would, until her dying breath.

“It’s all right, Nora. We’re a family now.” She paused, spotting a brief flicker of hope in the oldest girl’s eyes. Abigail wished she could chase away Nora’s fears. She couldn’t, not now, but she could nurture that spark of belief until one day it would vanquish the terror in her eyes.

To Eve she said, “I do all right with my pottery. Good enough that tomorrow we’re going shopping to buy you proper winter coats.”

Christina beamed. “I want a purple coat.”

“I want blue.” Eve patted Abigail’s knee for attention.

Abigail laughed. “I’m sure we can find a blue coat for you. How about you, Nora? What color do you like?”

Her stormy eyes too dark to reveal her thoughts, Nora shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My coat’s okay. Eve and Christina need coats more.”

Eve expectantly held up her arms. Abigail lifted the child onto her lap. The little girl leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Nora’s always wanted a red coat, but Mama never had the money.”

Abigail smiled. “Then red it is for Nora.” She stroked Eve’s cheek, marveling at the smooth, velvety texture. She noticed Nora studying the statue. “Well, sweetheart, do you like it or not?”

“It’s missing one thing, Aunt Abigail.” The girl turned toward them and held her hand palm up. Her sisters brought their hands up, leaving a space. Three expectant pairs of eyes stared at her. Her vision blurry, Abigail lifted her hand and completed the circle.