Читать книгу The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down - Джей Ди Баркер, J.D. Barker - Страница 14

8

Diary

Mother and Father were rather close to our neighbors, Simon and Lisa Carter. As just a boy of eleven the summer when they first joined our wonderful neighborhood, I considered them all to be old in the limited pages of my book. Looking back, though, I realize that Mother and Father were in their mid-thirties, and I can’t imagine the Carters were more than one or two years younger than my parents. Three, at most. Maybe four, but I doubt more than five. They moved into the house next door, the only other house at our end of the quiet lane.

Have I mentioned how incredibly beautiful my mother was?

How rude of me to leave out such a detail. Blubbering on about such minute matters and neglecting to paint a picture that properly illustrates the narrative you so graciously agreed to follow along with me.

If you could reach into this tome and slap me silly, I would encourage you to do so. Sometimes I ramble, and a firm swat is necessary to put my little train back on the rails.

Where was I?

Mother.

Mother was beautiful.

Her hair was silk. Blond, full of body, and shimmering with just the right amount of healthy glimmer. It fell halfway down her slender back in luxurious waves. Oh, and her eyes! They were the brightest of green, emeralds set in her perfect porcelain skin.

I am not ashamed to admit that her figure caught many an eye as well. She ran daily, and I would venture to say she didn’t carry an ounce of fat. She probably weighed no more than 110 soaking wet, and she came to my father’s shoulders, which would make her about five foot four or so.

She had a fondness for sundresses.

Mother would wear a sundress on the hottest of days or in the dead of winter. She paid no mind to the cold. I recall one winter with snowdrifts nearly to the windowsill, and I found her humming happily in the kitchen, a short, white, flowered sundress fluttering about her frame. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of happiness in her hands, and Mother told her she wore such dresses because they made her feel free. And she favored short dresses because her legs, she felt, were her best asset. She went on to say how Father was so fond of them. How he would caress them. How he enjoyed them on his shoulders, or wrapped around —

Mother spotted me at that point, and I took leave.