Читать книгу Daffodils in Spring - Pamela Morsi - Страница 10

Calla stepped off the bus on Canasta Street and made a quick stop at the Korean grocery before walking the three blocks to her home. Typically this time of year she made the walk all bundled up and with her head down against the wind. But this fall was gorgeous in Chicago and the city was, for a brief time at least, a place of bright sunshine and vivid autumn colors. Only the slightest nip in the air foretold of the cold winter to come.

She’d lived on Canasta Street for sixteen years. She and her husband, Mark, had moved into their house when their son was still just a toddler. Now, Nathan was in his last year of high school and had just completed his early action application to attend Northwestern, his first choice for college, next year. Calla smiled to herself. She couldn’t help but be proud. She just wished that Mark had lived to see it.

As she approached her block, all the tiredness of the long workday seemed to lift. There was something about a home surrounded by neighbors and friends that just buoyed a person. Every step she took along the well-worn sidewalk was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.

From his porch, old Mr. Whitten waved to her. Next door to him, the Carnaby children, along with their cousins, friends and assorted other stragglers, were noisy and exuberant as they played in their front yard. Two houses past them, Mrs. Gamble sat on her steps, her daughter Eunice at her side.

“You’re home early,” the older woman called out.

Calla just smiled. She was home at exactly the same time she was home every day.

“Did you buy something at the store?” Mrs. Gamble asked.

“Just milk,” Calla answered. “And a half dozen apples. You know Mr. Ohng’s produce is hard to resist.”

“Come and sit a spell with us,” the older woman said. “We haven’t had a good visit with you in ages.”

“Oh, I’d better get home and see what Nathan is up to.”

“He’s sure up to nothing at home,” Eunice said with just a hint of superiority in her voice. “He’s across the street in 2B with Gerty’s wild grandniece.”

Calla kept her expression deliberately blank. Eunice undoubtedly wanted to get a rise from her, but she wasn’t about to give the woman the satisfaction.

“Oh, come up and sit,” Mrs. Gamble pleaded. “That way you can see him when he leaves.”

Calla wouldn’t have walked across the street to talk with Eunice. But Mrs. Gamble was a genuinely sweet older lady who was trapped all day with the bitter unhappiness of her daughter.

So she opened the gate on the Gambles’ chain-link fence and made her way to the porch. Setting her little bag of groceries beside her, Calla tucked the hem of her skirt behind her knees and seated herself on the fourth step, just slightly below Mrs. Gamble and directly across from Eunice.

“How was your job today?” Mrs. Gamble asked.

Calla shrugged. “Fine,” she answered. She knew the woman was eager for details. Calla had been a nurse in Dr. Walker’s ear, nose and throat practice for over a decade. Mrs. Gamble loved stories about diseases. Especially ones where the patient had to overcome great odds to recover.

There’d been no such dramatic cases today. With the coming of fall, the office had been full of allergy sufferers fighting off sinus infections. Calla was not sure how entertaining the stories would be when all the characters were blowing into tissues.

“It’s been pretty routine at the office the last few days,” Calla told her.

“Well, there’s nothing routine about the goings-on around here,” Eunice piped in. “That girl has got her hooks in Nathan and no good is going to come of it.”

Calla couldn’t stop herself from casting a nervous glance in the direction of the apartment building across the street. Gerty Cleveland had lived there for twenty years at least. She was about Mrs. Gamble’s age and had a large family scattered across the city. Less than a month ago, Jazleen—or Jazzy, as Nathan called her—had come to live with her. Calla didn’t know the whole story, but there were plenty of rumors swirling about.

The girl’s mother was on drugs. Or maybe she was in jail. Jazleen herself had been in trouble. Or maybe she just was trouble. Gerty was Jazleen’s last chance. Or maybe she was the only chance the teenager had ever had.

Calla had heard what everyone was saying. But what resounded with her louder than all the neighborhood whispering were the words of her son, Nathan.

“She’s okay, Mom,” he assured her. “She’s a good person.”

Calla trusted her son, but she worried, too. Young men could often be blinded by a pretty face or a good figure. Jazleen was no great beauty, but she had sweet features and the requisite number of teenage curves.

“Once you get to know her,” Nathan said, “you’ll like her.”

That was slow going so far. Jazleen had been in their house many times. She was mostly silent and slightly sullen. Those were hardly traits to win the heart.

“I don’t think we should jump to conclusions about the girl,” Calla told Eunice. “Nathan says she’s nice.”

Eunice sucked her teeth. “Yes, well, I’m sure that’s what the boy would tell his mother.”

Calla was very tempted to remind Eunice that since she obviously didn’t know one thing about mothers and sons, it might be best if she just kept her opinions to herself.

She was saved from making any comment by the now familiar tap of shiny shoes coming down the sidewalk.

“It’s him!” Eunice breathed, barely above a whisper.

Calla didn’t need to ask who she meant. Every woman on Canasta Street, single, divorced, married or widowed, like Calla herself, knew the only man who would attract such attention.

Deliberately Calla kept her gaze on Mrs. Gamble. She flatly refused to turn and look, though she could see the man perfectly in her imagination. Landry Sinclair had moved into the house next door to her just weeks ago. He was polite and friendly, but so far no one had really gotten to know him.

What Calla and the other women did know was that he was tall and trim, with a strong jaw, a handsome smile and thick, arched brows. He went to work every morning and returned every evening dressed in impeccably tailored suits. And, so far, there had been no visitors at his place. No wife or girlfriend, not even a one-night-stand. He seemed unattached, which provoked much speculation.

“That is the finest looking man I’ve ever seen in my life,” Eunice stated in a hushed whisper. “And I think he’s just about my age. Don’t you think he’s probably my age?”

Calla nodded. “More or less,” she agreed. Though she thought the years certainly held up better on him than on Eunice.

“Have you noticed his accent?” Eunice asked.

Of course Calla had noticed. She noticed everything about him.

“I think he’s from the South,” Eunice said.

“No, he’s not from the South,” Calla replied, shaking her head. “I have relatives from South Carolina and Georgia. He doesn’t talk like the South at all.”

“Well, he’s not from here,” Eunice insisted.

Calla shrugged agreement. The man clearly was not a local. But he was almost as mysterious as he was good-looking. He wasn’t secretive. He answered any question he was asked. But the men on the street seemed satisfied to exchange pleasantries and opinions on sports teams. The women were all too curious but didn’t trust themselves to stick to casual questions. So the basic information of where he was from and where he worked remained unknown, as well as the most critical fact to some—whether there was a woman someplace waiting for him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair!” Mrs. Gamble called out as he passed by the gate.

Calla turned to look at him then, as if she’d been unaware of his approach. The man was dressed attractively in a single-breasted brown suit with narrow beige pinstripes. He looked businesslike, successful. She smiled in a way she hoped would appear to be polite disinterest.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gamble, ladies.” He doffed his fedora, revealing dark hair that was just beginning to thin on the top. “It’s a beautiful afternoon to sit out and enjoy the weather.”

“It surely is,” Mrs. Gamble agreed. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

Calla heard Eunice draw a sharp, shocked breath. She couldn’t tell if Landry Sinclair had heard it or not.

“I wish that I could,” he answered, smiling broadly. “I sure wish I could.”

He did not give a reason why he couldn’t, but for an instant Calla’s glance met his. His eyes were deep brown with a sparkle that was as much intelligence as humor. Calla found him completely irresistible.

Which was precisely the reason she had never spoken to him.

That was the last thing in the world she needed, to get all goofy and lovestruck over some man. She’d had her man. They’d had a good marriage and raised a wonderful son. Romantic for her was over and done now. She was a grown-up, sensible woman, not some silly teenager.

It was after six when Nathan got home.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Calla said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yeah, I smelled your cooking all the way across the street and came running,” her son teased.

He hurried to the bathroom to wash up as she set the table. Two plates, two forks, two knives, two spoons. It had been just the two of them now for almost five years. But two was an excellent number. She and Nathan were a team and they shared the same goal. Getting him through high school and into a good college. That goal had often seemed so far off that Calla had thought it would never happen. Now their dream was nearing realization. And it was as if all those years of reaching for it had gone by in a flash.

Nathan hurried to the table and took a seat. “Give me a pork chop before I bite into the table leg,” he threatened.

Calla chuckled lightly as she seated herself and passed him the platter of meat. Everyone said that Nathan was just like her. But when she looked at him, she saw so much of her late husband. Nathan was lean and lanky. He had a bubbly humor that charmed everyone he met. But he also had a streak of kindheartedness that was as wide as Lake Michigan. Calla was absolutely certain he hadn’t gotten that from her. And she worried where it might lead him.

“I guess you’ve been over at Mrs. Cleveland’s place,” Calla said with deliberate casualness. “Visiting her niece. That’s very nice, of course, but you mustn’t neglect your other friends.”

Nathan eyed his mother with open amusement. “My other friends understand completely why I want to spend time with Jazleen.”

Her son was grinning. Calla didn’t like that much.

“She’s pretty lonely,” he continued. “It’s bad enough to be going through a lot of stuff, but then to spend all your time alone—that just makes it worse.”

“Isn’t she making friends at school?”

Nathan hesitated slightly. “She’s sort of blown school off.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She pretty much ignored it the last couple of years, and when she showed up this year to enroll, they transferred her to the alternative high school. That ticked her off. She said if she couldn’t take classes with me, then there was no point going.”

Calla raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Nathan shrugged. “She was so far behind, she wasn’t going to be able to keep up in my classes anyway,” he said. “But it is kind of worthless to sit around all day watching TV, just waiting for me to get home.”

Calla agreed with that. She was not happy, however, that the girl was planning her life, living her life around Nathan.

“What does Mrs. Cleveland say about her dropping out of school?”

“I don’t think she knows, Mom.”

“What do you mean? She must know.”

Nathan shook his head. “Her job is way across town. She leaves to catch her train before seven in the morning and she doesn’t get home until after five. She and Jazzy hardly say two words to each other. I seriously doubt they’ve talked this out together.”

Calla’s dinner was suddenly tasteless. “You know I’ll have to tell her.”

Her son nodded. “Yeah, I know. Jazzy really needs…she really needs something, someone…I don’t know. Mom, she’s clever and smart and doesn’t have a lazy bone in her body. But she’s just…you know…drifting without any direction.”

Calla nodded. There were a lot of young people like that.

“I try to talk to her about college and the future and all the things that I’m working for,” Nathan said. “I might as well be telling fairy tales. She doesn’t see how any of it could ever apply to her.”

“Well, it probably won’t,” Calla said. “If she can’t stick it out in high school, then she’ll never get a chance at college.”

“But she could stick it out, Mom,” Nathan said. “I know she could.”

Calla wasn’t so sure.

Saturday morning dawned sunny with a bright blue sky. Seated at the breakfast table in her robe, Calla lingered over her coffee. It was just laziness, she assured herself, and had nothing to do with the view outside her window. Her kitchen looked directly into Landry Sinclair’s backyard, and the man himself was out there, clad in faded jeans and a sweatshirt that clung damply to his muscular torso. His sweat was well earned as he attacked the ground with a shovel and a hoe. He looked very different without his tailored suits. She’d always thought of him as tidy and professional. Not the kind of man to get his hands dirty.

He was certainly getting dirty this morning. And he looked really good doing it. Calla watched him as he worked, allowing herself the secret pleasure of lusting after a man who wasn’t hers. She thought she’d left all that nonsense in the past. But somehow, from the moment Landry Sinclair moved into the neighborhood, she’d felt differently.

And she didn’t like it one bit. Every woman on the block had already staked a claim. Calla hated to follow along with the crowd. And she despised the kind of mooning over men that a lot of women her age engaged in. It was one thing to be boy crazy at fourteen. It was downright undignified to be that way at forty.

Still, she could hardly take her eyes from the vision of Landry Sinclair sweating over a garden hoe.

A knock sounded at the front door. She glanced at the clock. It was barely nine. She couldn’t imagine who would be visiting so early. She went to peer through the peephole. The familiar figure standing on the porch was visible only in profile. Her long, thin legs and round backside were encased in tight jeans. Her skimpy jacket showed off her curves but wouldn’t provide any protection if the weather turned colder. And her long dark hair was a flawless mix of braids and curls.

Her expression, however, even from the side, appeared wary and secretive.

Calla opened the door.

“Good morning, Jazleen.”

The girl’s suspicion toughened into something that looked like hostility.

“Where’s Nathan?” she demanded with no other greeting.

“He’s sleeping,” Calla answered. “It’s Saturday morning. That’s what he does on Saturday mornings.”

“We’re going…someplace,” Jazleen hedged. “He’s supposed to be ready.”

“He probably overslept. Come in and I’ll wake him up.”

“I’m okay on the porch,” Jazleen said, her chin slightly in the air.

“Come in,” Calla insisted, knowing the girl’s hesitation to enter the house was because of her. Jazleen had been inside with Nathan many times.

Hesitantly she followed Calla. “I’ll go wake him,” Jazleen said.

“No!” Calla answered firmly. “You wait here, pour yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll wake my son.”

As she went up the stairs, Calla glanced back towards the girl. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her arms wrapped around her as if she were cold or protecting herself.

At the top of the stairs, Calla turned right and knocked on her son’s door.

“Nathan? Nathan!”

An unintelligible rumbling was the only reply. Calla opened the door and peered into the shadows for an instant before crossing the darkened room and pulling up the shades. A wide shaft of sunlight revealed her son completely cocooned in a tangle of blankets.

He groaned.

“Better get up,” Calla told him. “You’ve got company downstairs.”

“Huh?” he asked, without bothering to poke his head out of the covers.

“Jazleen is here,” she said. “Apparently you were going someplace together this morning.”

Nathan moaned again and rolled over, flipping back the blankets to reveal his face and T-shirt clad torso.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I told her I would take her to Oak Street Beach. I couldn’t believe she’d lived here all her life and never been.”

Calla nodded.

With a sigh of determination, Nathan rolled out of bed. “Let me get a quick shower,” he told his mother. “Tell her I’ll be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

Calla left him to get ready and returned to the kitchen. Jazleen was still standing in the middle of the floor.

“Nathan says fifteen minutes,” Calla told her. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No,” Jazleen answered too quickly.

“Are you sure?” Calla asked. “I’m going to have another cup.”

Jazleen hesitated. “I don’t mind,” she said, finally.

It wasn’t exactly “yes, please,” but Calla decided it was the best excuse for manners that the girl could muster.

“Sit down,” she told her as she set the cup on the table. “There’s milk and sugar.”

Jazleen reluctantly seated herself. Calla took the chair opposite her. The girl continued to eye her warily. The silence lengthened between them. Calla was racking her brain for a neutral subject and was just about to comment on the weather when Jazleen spoke.

“That man next door has got a shovel,” she said. “I think he’s burying something.”

Calla glanced in the direction of the window. She couldn’t see Landry Sinclair at this angle, but she could still perfectly recall the sight of the man.

“He’s digging a garden,” Calla said.

Jazleen’s brow furrowed and she snorted in disbelief. “This time of year? Not likely. He’s burying something.”

So much for neutral conversation, Calla thought.

“Nathan said you two are headed for an outing to Oak Street Beach.”

Jazleen didn’t answer. She eyed Calla suspiciously and then sipped her coffee as if that gave her permission not to comment. Her eyes were widely set and a rich dark brown. She was wearing a bit too much make-up, but a cleft in her chin made her look vulnerable.

“We used to go to Oak Street Beach a lot when Nathan was a little boy,” Calla told her. “Lots of fresh air and room to run around. On a crisp fall day it’s absolutely the best. He would sit and just look at the boats on the water.”

She paused, but again Jazleen said nothing.

“I’m sure that’s what he wants to share with you,” Calla continued. “Even if it does mean giving up a sleepy Saturday morning.”

Calla was frustrated when the girl made no attempt to keep up her side of the conversation. She decided maybe questions and answers would be easier.

“Nathan says you watch a lot of TV?”

“Some.”

“Have you seen anything good lately?”

She shook her head.

“I like those dancing shows,” Calla told her. “But more often I prefer reading.”

Jazleen sipped her coffee.

“Do you like to read?”

The girl shrugged.

“When I was your age, that was what I loved best.”

Jazleen raised a brow. It wasn’t exactly an eye roll, but Calla was fairly sure it had the same meaning.

“Do you know how to read?” Calla asked.

“Of course I do!” Jazleen snapped. “I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t think that you were,” Calla said. “But a lot of very smart people don’t read, or don’t read very well.”

“I can read fine, thank you.”

“Okay, good.” Calla hesitated. “Nathan said you’ve dropped out of school.”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided.”

“What does your aunt think about it?”

“I’d guess she’d think that it’s none of her business,” Jazleen declared. “And it’s sure none of yours.”