Читать книгу Journey Of The Heart - Elissa Ambrose - Страница 13

“I heard you were back and I was wondering if you wanted to be on my paper route.”

Cory’s shoulders were almost level with hers. He’s so tall, Laura thought. Tall like his father. But it was Cynthia’s face she was looking at, her high exotic cheekbones, her gold-flecked hazel eyes, her smooth olive skin. “I think we should talk about this,” Laura said, trying to imitate the serious tone in Cory’s voice. “Come on in.”

He glanced inside. Shrugging, he stepped into the hallway.

She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I have peanut butter cookies and cake. Marble cake with vanilla frosting. Why don’t you wash up at the kitchen sink while I fix you a snack?” she suggested, glancing at his muddy hands. “So, tell me. Are you still in Peewee? No, of course not. You’d be in Little League by now.”

“Nah, baseball’s dumb. All they do is swing a stupid bat and run around a field.” He turned on the faucet. Underneath the sink, a pipe rattled. “How come the water’s brown?”

“Give it a few seconds. It’ll run clear.” She filled a plate with cookies and squares of cake from yesterday’s gathering and placed it on the table. “I won’t be needing the paper during the week, but maybe you have a weekend deal?”

“Sure, no problem. Lots of people only get the paper on the weekend. You know, for the comics.” The clanking of the pipes suddenly stopped, and clear water began gushing from the tap. “Tommy’s grandmother saw you at the funeral. I’m sorry about your aunt. She said you looked different, skinnier. I mean, Tommy’s grandmother said it, not your aunt. She’s dead. I don’t mean Tommy’s grandmother. She’s alive. Anyway, I’m sorry. I mean, about your aunt.”

“Thank you, Cory,” she said, suppressing a smile. She searched through her memory. Tommy? Tommy Pritchard? Wasn’t he that short, frail-looking kid who’d been in Cory’s kindergarten glass? “And how is Tommy these days?”

“He’s okay.” Cory turned off the faucet and wiped his hands on a dishcloth, leaving a dirty stain in the floral pattern. Eyeing the cookies hungrily, he sat down.

“Go ahead, take one,” Laura said, pouring him a glass of milk. She sat down across from him. “Take two, if you want.”

“Dad says my teeth will rot.”

“You’ll brush when you get home. Go ahead, eat.”

He reached for a cookie and started munching. “Dad said that you were sick and that’s why you went away. Are you better now?”

Seeing him again, sitting across from him, listening to him speak, was almost more than Laura could bear. “What else did your father say?” she asked, suppressing the urge to jump up and hug him.

“He said you were never coming back. Can I have some cake, too?”

“Help yourself. That’s what it’s here for.”

He picked up a square and popped the entire piece into his mouth. Traces of frosting dotted the sides of his face. “He lied. You came back.”

Gingerly, she reached across the table and wiped away the icing. He didn’t pull away. “Your dad didn’t lie,” she said in a thick voice. “He didn’t know I was coming back.”

“But you’re here. So what he said wasn’t true. How come you left, anyway?”

What could she say that he could understand? She thought for a moment, and then spoke slowly. “Sometimes married people, even though they still love each other, can’t live together. I got sick, and we thought the best thing I could do was go to New York. They have good doctors there. I got better, but the problems between your father and me didn’t go away.” It wasn’t the complete truth, but it was all he needed to know.

“This is where you tell me that your going away had nothing to do with me. You still love me and all that crap.”

She ignored the crass word—for now. Apparently, Cory had been given this lecture before.

He took a big swallow of milk. “Tommy’s parents got divorced. His father takes him every second weekend and buys him neat stuff. He bought him a computer. How come you never bought me a computer?”

She knew that Cory wasn’t talking about electronics. “You aren’t my natural child,” she said plainly and honestly. “If you were, I would have taken you with me to New York after I got better. I wanted to come back and see you a million times, but I thought…your father and I thought…it would be better if I didn’t.”

“You made a mistake,” Cory said, his face solemn. “You should have come.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But that’s okay. No one’s perfect. Dad says even grown-ups make mistakes.”

“Your father is right. No one’s perfect.” Especially grown-ups.

He reached for another piece of cake. “Tommy heard his grandmother say that you stole my father from my real mother. Tommy said that’s why you got sick. Because God punished you.”

Laura gasped. “That’s a load of…crap. What did you say? You didn’t believe him, did you?”

“Nah, he’s crazy.” Cory grinned. “Hey, you’re okay, Lulu. Dad always yells at me when I say that word. He says it sounds like hell. Oops, I mean heck.”

“He’s right.” She tried to keep her face stern, but inwardly she was smiling. He had called her Lulu. Lulu had been the first word he had ever spoken, at fourteen months, two months after Cynthia had died, and it had remained his name for her.

“I beat him up.”

“Who?”

“Tommy. I told you, he’s crazy. And he has a lot of uncles. You know, guys who stay over and pretend to like him. They buy him stuff, too. But nothing like a computer. Stupid stuff. Yesterday this short guy with a big head and no neck bought him a yo-yo. How stupid is that? But I told Tommy it was the perfect present, seeing how Tommy is a yo-yo himself. He said I probably have a lot of uncles in New York. He said you probably brought me back a dozen yo-yos. So I hit him.”

“Sorry, no yo-yos.”

“What about uncles?”

“Nope. No uncles.” Would he consider Edward an uncle?

“No uncles,” he repeated. “That’s good. I hate yo-yos.”

She regarded him closely, remembering how he had towered over all his friends at school. “Do you think it’s fair beating up on guys who are smaller than you?”

“Who, Tommy?” Cory’s eyes widened. “I’m a midget next to him! He’s a whole head taller!”

They sure grow up big in Middlewood, she mused. Must be the brown water. She looked at the torn pocket at the front of Cory’s backpack. “I can mend that for you, if you’d like. How did it happen?”

“Last week Tommy called me a geek. So I punched him. He got mad and threw my backpack across the schoolyard.”

“You punched him because he called you a geek?” She shook her head. “What does your father say about all this fighting?”

“He yells a lot. Says I’m a problem child. Maybe he’ll send me to correction school. You know, jail for kids? I hear New York’s full of those schools. And you don’t have to sleep there. You go there in the daytime and you sleep at home, or wherever. I mean, you could stay at somebody’s house, if you knew someone in New York. I used to hope he’d send me to one of them. I mean, when I was little.”

“I don’t think you need correction at all,” she said, tears welling up behind her eyelids. Maybe a little attention, she thought. No, make that a lot of attention. An idea began to take hold in her mind. “I could sure use some help around this place,” she said, wiping the moisture from her eyes. “Look at this pigsty! I know you’re busy with homework and friends and your paper route, but maybe you could come over once in a while and give me a hand. I’d even pay you.”

“Like a real job?”

“Exactly.”

“I’d have to ask my dad. I can’t do anything without asking him first.”

She looked at him with squinted eyes. “Does he know you’re here?” She dreaded the thought of calling Jake, dreaded hearing his voice.

“Oh, yeah, sure. I told Rose. She must have called him. But she’s really old. Maybe she forgot. Dad says I have to tell her where I’m going. He treats me like a baby. He thinks I’m going to have an accident and die like my real mother.”

“Fathers worry,” she said, trying not to appear shocked at Cory’s words. Stepmothers worry, too, she thought. As a parent, she had been just as protective as Jake. She remembered how she had felt after moving in. What did she know about being a mother? Even though Rose Halligan, Jake’s longtime housekeeper, had been there to guide her, Laura had been plagued with anxiety.

“Where have you been all this time?” she said, frowning. The elementary school was only two blocks from her house, and school had let out an hour ago.

“I went to the park. You know, to mess around.” He stared down at his hands. “So is it true what Tommy’s grandmother said? Did you steal my father from my mother?”

“No. Tommy’s grandmother was wrong.” A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she added, “Your father must have told you that your mother and I were friends when we were kids. Would you like to see some pictures?”

“You have pictures of my mother?” he said, his face lighting up. “Dad doesn’t keep any around the house.”

Laura wasn’t surprised. Jake had never wanted mementos of his first wife. You’d think I would have been happy, she thought. A second wife doesn’t need constant reminders of the first one—a face on the mantel in the living room, next to the bookcase, on the desk in the den…. But the lack of any pictures had had a reverse effect. It had confirmed what Laura had always feared, and apparently, nothing had changed. After all this time, Jake still hadn’t recovered from the pain of losing Cynthia.

“You don’t have any pictures of your mother?” she asked, thinking about her own parents. It had been terrible growing up not knowing what they looked liked. It was still terrible, not knowing.

“I have some in my room, but she was all grown-up when they were taken. It would be cool to see what she looked like when she was a kid.”

“Come on, Cory, you’re in for a treat,” she said, taking his hand. “I have loads of pictures. Your mother and I weren’t just friends, we were best friends.”

“I guess it’s not true then. I mean, best friends don’t steal from each other, do they?”

“No, Cory. Best friends don’t steal.”

Jake sat at his large rectangular desk, surveying his office. On the wall to his right hung a watercolor of the town center, painted by Laura before they were married. The painting showed five young children building a snowman in the town square. It reminded him of when he was young, and he often imagined he’d been one of those kids. He liked to stare at the painting for long stretches of time. It gave him inspiration.

The folder containing the plans for the new community center lay unopened on his desk. But no matter how long Jake stared at the watercolor, inspiration evaded him. He couldn’t seem to summon up any enthusiasm for work.

The board had accepted his proposal only last week. This was more than a coup on his part; it not only added another supporting column in the structure of his financial security, it also served as a concrete affirmation of his integrity. Jake’s bid had not been the lowest, as he had been unwilling to compromise his standards in any way to secure the contract. He’d always taken pride in his work, refusing to sacrifice quality and safety by cutting corners. Having lived in Middlewood all his life, he was interested in more than just profit; he’d invested his heart.