Читать книгу Too Hard To Handle - Rita Rainville - Страница 11

“Come on, Aunt Tillie, give.”

Seated at the motor home’s simulated oak table, nibbling at a chicken salad, Christy pondered the difficulties of getting a few minutes alone with her aunt. She hadn’t been able to corner Tillie the night before after Shane had left, and today it hadn’t been easy to wean her away from the tangle of seniors vociferously debating the methods of breaking through the military guards into Area 51. In fact, it had been impossible. So she had found a shady spot and waited until hunger drove them to their motor homes for lunch. Now, with luck, she’d have an uninterrupted hour devoted to questions and answers.

Tillie tilted her head, reminding Christy of a perky, blue-eyed bird. “Shane is a nice man, isn’t he? And subtle. Just look at the shirts he wears.”

Nice? Subtle? Shirts? The look Christy aimed at her was one of sheer disbelief. “Aunt Tillie, I use words for a living, remember? That means I select them with care, and nice is hardly one I’d choose to describe Shane McBride. Relentless, maybe. Obstinate, definitely. But, nice, subtle? No way. I can think of a lot of words, but none of them have anything to do with nice. And what do his shirts—” She stopped, a crease forming between her brows as she studied her aunt’s artless expression.

“Oh, no you don’t, we’re not going there,” she said firmly. “Your little diversion isn’t going to work this time. We’re not talking about Shane. What we’re discussing here is your affection for all beings extraterrestrial and why you think I’m one of them.”

If Christy had learned anything in the past year, it was that being tactful with her aunt was a lost cause. Tillie could be perfectly coherent and logical…unless she was disturbed or simply chose not to discuss a certain topic. When that happened, she was as hard to pin down as a campaigning politician. So tact was not an option here; gritty perseverance was the only thing that seemed to work.

“This wanderer thing,” Christy prompted. “I want you to explain it, using plain and simple words. What makes you say that—”

“Your aura.”

“My what?”

“It was glorious, vibrant.” Tillie clasped her hands to her chest, dazzled by the memory. “Indigo, of course.”

“Indigo,” Christy repeated in a neutral voice. “Of course.” It had happened again. They were less than a minute into a conversation, and she was absolutely lost. Tillie’s answers were usually confusing, she reminded herself, but given enough time they—occasionally—eventually made sense. So all she had to do was hang in there. If she was lucky, she might even comprehend what Tillie considered a reasonable explanation.

“And you were only five minutes old.” Charmed by the memory, Tillie smiled. Then silver brows drew together in thought. “Ten at the most.”

“And from that—”

“Oh, yes.” Tillie gave a decisive nod. “I knew.”

“But, how?” No, Christy thought with resignation, it wasn’t going to work. No amount of time would help her understand. Aunt Tillie’s thought process was as tangled as her conversation. She didn’t know the meaning of linear thinking, didn’t have a nodding acquaintance with the normal give-and-take in dialogue. She communicated on some mystical plane that resembled the descending spiral of a corkscrew.

“The color,” Tillie prompted.

“Oh, yeah, the indigo.”

“Precisely. You know what it means, of course.”