Читать книгу Redemption at Mirabelle - Helen Brenna - Страница 14

“YOUR HOUSE LOOKS JUST like ours.” The young girl’s voice came from the kitchen along with the sounds of the patio door sliding open and an umbrella being shaken out.

What were they doing here? Marin frowned. Her mother had promised she’d babysit the Harding kids where they belonged. At the Harding house.

From Marin’s position, stretched out on the couch in the living room reading—devouring, might be a better word—another one of Missy’s romance novels, she couldn’t see the three, but she could hear them. All morning, as a warm, late summer rain had been drizzling down, she hadn’t moved off the couch except to eat, drink and use the bathroom. Now, she wondered if she shouldn’t head upstairs in an effort to maintain this uncharacteristic sense of tranquility.

“I hadn’t noticed until now, but our house does look a little like yours, doesn’t it?” Angelica said. “Except you have a fireplace.”

“That rain makes me thirsty,” Wyatt said.

At that, Marin smiled. Rain always made her thirsty, too.

Marin’s mother and Missy both appeared in the entryway to the living room. Missy was holding a clear plastic storage box filled with what looked like art supplies.

“I thought we agreed you’d be watching those kids at their house,” Marin whispered.

“We did, and I will,” her mother replied. “Most of the time. But I wanted to do a messy project with them.”

“So you’d rather destroy our kitchen,” Marin said. “Why don’t you go over to Missy’s?”

“Jonas is getting the boys down for a nap and we didn’t want to keep them awake,” Missy explained. “What have you been doing all day? I thought you might stop by to visit.”

“Reading.”

“All day? You? Lying on the couch?”

“Miracles do happen.” CNBC was surprisingly quickly losing its draw on her.

“Well, just keep reading,” her mother said. “We won’t disturb you. I promise.”

Famous last words. Marin returned to her book. Within seconds, she felt eyes on her. Both Julia and Wyatt stood in the archway to the kitchen watching her.

“Are you reading?” Julia asked.

Desperately trying to get back to it. “Yes.”

“My mommy liked to read, too.”

Oh, God. “Did she read to you?”

“Every night.” Julia frowned. “My daddy doesn’t like to read, though.”

“Nope.” Wyatt shook his head.

Marin didn’t want to care about the problems these kids were going through, but as if a weight was pressing down on her chest, her heart ached all the same. She refocused on her book, hoping they’d take the hint.

“We’re going to make something for Carla,” Julia said.

“So she won’t forget us,” Wyatt added.

“Okay, we’re ready,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Come to the table, kids.”

For the next half hour, Marin lay there, half reading, half listening to what was happening in the kitchen. A large part of her wished they’d leave, a small part of her somehow enjoyed the commotion, and, surprisingly, there was even a tiny part of her that wanted to join them.

Eventually, that tiny part won out. Closing her book, she went into the kitchen. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, her eyes widening in horror. Colored rice, feathers and all different shapes and sizes of pasta noodles had spilled onto the floor. Paint and glue had dribbled onto the table. And glitter was stuck to everything, everywhere. “Look at the mess you’re all making.”

“I know.” Missy grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

“No, it’s actually not.” Marin picked up a colored pompom that she’d almost stepped on. “It’s a mess.”

Julia held up a frame made from wooden Popsicle sticks. Loose ribbons and glitter fell to the floor. “I’m going to put a picture of me in here and mail it to Carla.”

“Me, too!” Wyatt’s eyes sparkled as he held up his frame.

She had to admit it was a thoughtful thing to do for both the kids and Carla. “Who’s going to clean this mess up?”

“I think you should,” her mother said, chuckling.

Marin raised an eyebrow at her mother.

“You know what your biggest problem is, Marin?” Missy cocked her head. “You’ve never been a kid yourself.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true.” Their mother looked from Missy to Marin. “You had quite a whimsical nature when you were very young. Do you remember the plays you two used to put on for me?”

“What I remember is Marin always getting the good parts,” Missy said. “She was the fireman while I had to be the damsel in distress. She got to be the princess and made me, not a horse mind you, but a donkey.”

Marin laughed. “But you were so good at braying, Mel.”

Missy glared good-naturedly at Marin.

“I loved listening to you both write the lines and make the sets. You were quite artistic, too, Marin. Do you remember those watercolors you used to do?”

“I remember,” Marin murmured. She’d absolutely adored painting, and yet she hadn’t picked up a brush in years. “Why? Why did I change?”

“I have no clue,” Missy said. “But you turned sixteen and turned into a by-the-numbers stick-in-the-mud.”

“Oh, it didn’t really happen overnight,” her mother said. “You started working for your father here and there. Slowly, but surely, as you matured, I guess your priorities changed.”

That made sense. She’d enrolled in an after-school painting program in junior high and taken several art classes in high school. Once she’d gotten into college, though, it seemed she never had time for those liberal arts classes.

As if she was curiously listening to their conversation, Julia quietly set aside her finished frame, went to the rain-spattered patio door and looked outside. The next thing Marin knew, the young girl had opened the door and was putting her arm outside. She grinned as raindrops accumulated on her skin.

“All I remember is when you babysat on Friday nights,” Missy went on. “You wouldn’t let me sneak in any TV shows or movies Dad had on his taboo list, you made me and Max go to bed exactly at our bedtime, you wouldn’t let me have a candy bar if I didn’t finish all my supper, and you stood next to me in the bathroom with a timer set for five minutes when I brushed my teeth.”

“I did do all that, didn’t I?”

“You were more strict than Dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, Marin.” Missy wrapped her arm around Marin’s shoulder. “I want you to get in touch with that long-lost inner child.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Marin chuckled. “But Wall Street has a way of smothering inner children.”

“So revive her,” her mother said softly. “Take your father’s tapes out of your head and listen to your own.”

Suddenly, Julia turned toward Angelica. “Can I go outside?”