Read Online A Gentle Rain by Deborah F. Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deborah F. Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Domestic Fiction, Contemporary Women, Inheritance and succession, Florida, Ranch life, Connecticut, Ranchers, Heiresses, Birthparents, kindleconvert, Ranch Life - Florida
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least for now? After you meet your birth parents you may not want them to be part of your life. Please, just don't reveal your name to them right away. I beg you. For your parents' sake. "
After a moment, I nodded wearily. "For my parents' sake."
Kara
Atlanta
"I'd like the 1995 two-door silver hatchback, please," I said loudly, as massive passenger planes roared overhead, streaming the scent of jet fuel across the gray Atlanta skies. A spring thunderstorm had left the air wet, heavy and warm. Thus far, the Peach State looked more like the Soggy Generic Metropolitan Industrial Area State, to me. Complete with urban blight, heavy traffic, and a convenience store with barred windows on every corner. But perhaps the parking lot of a used-car dealership five minutes from one of the world's largest airports did not provide an authentic view of the South's capital city.
A large man with coffee-colored freckles adjusted his Atlanta Braves baseball cap on his grizzled Afro and stared me down. "I got a nice, 2000, four-door compact over yonder. Only twelve-five."
"I want that ninety-five hatchback, please."
"Darling, that car's so old even dinosaurs don't recognize it."
"I want it, please. Manual transmission. Minimal greenhouse emissions. An average m.p.g. of forty, city or highway. It suits me perfectly."
"Whatever you say, darling. Just for you? Six thousand."
"That couldn't possibly be the blue book price on a car that age. You're committing highway robbery."
He scowled toward the steady flow of interstate traffic in the distance. "You want to argue about blue-book value? There's the highway, darl ng. Call your taxi back and go try to sucker some other poor, honest, used-car dealer."
I held up my conduit to the world of car prices. "I have a Blackberry, and I'm not afraid to use it."
He frowned harder. "Awright, awright. Fifty-two hundred."
"Forty-five."
"Forty-eight."
"Forty-six, and I'll pay cash."
He smiled. "Sold. Darlin', I'm impressed."
I signed the papers, handed over a stack of crisp bills, and showed my fake driver's license as proof of responsible intent. Karen A. Johnson, it said. Of New Jersey. Age thirty-two, height five-five, red hair, green eyes, one-hundred-thirty-five pounds. Just slightly overweight for a woman of medium bone structure, but more muscle than fat.
My fake driver's license came complete with a fake Social Security number. It would produce vague results should anyone in authority attempt to check it. Sedge and the Whittenbrook security people were very good at finessing fake I.D.'s.
"Thank you," I said politely, as the car dealer handed me a set of keys to my fuel-efficient used car.
"I hope you know what you're doin', darlin'."
I tugged my organic cotton bush hat down low on my forehead. "Indeed."
An hour later, wrestling Atlanta's legendary traffic, I pulled up at the Ritz Carlton Hotel across from Lenox Square Mall, in the heart of Atlanta's gleaming Buckhead district. Sedge and Malcolm occupied a suite high above the city. I, however, was now merely Karen A. Johnson, hatchback owner, who parked along the curb and received unkind stares from a Mercedes' driver.
As Sedge leaned on a cane and Malcolm fussed over the details, I loaded my tote bags, camping gear, easel, art supplies, cameras, and Mr. Darcy's macaw food.
I loaded the harp, last. It was a folic harp, not a concert model, but still stood five-foot high. I was barely able to wedge it, in its hard-shelled case, atop everything else. Its crest protruded between the front seats.
Mr. Darcy cocked his vibrant blue head at the activity and made only one sentient observation: "Mon Dieu," he said.
"May I ask why you're taking the harp?" Malcolm said.
"I'm a traveling artist and musician."
"You could take a banjo instead."
"I play many stringed instruments, but I don't play banjo."
"Where you're going, everyone plays the banjo. I've seen it in films."
"I believe that's just a stereotype, Malcolm."
When I finished my
After a moment, I nodded wearily. "For my parents' sake."
Kara
Atlanta
"I'd like the 1995 two-door silver hatchback, please," I said loudly, as massive passenger planes roared overhead, streaming the scent of jet fuel across the gray Atlanta skies. A spring thunderstorm had left the air wet, heavy and warm. Thus far, the Peach State looked more like the Soggy Generic Metropolitan Industrial Area State, to me. Complete with urban blight, heavy traffic, and a convenience store with barred windows on every corner. But perhaps the parking lot of a used-car dealership five minutes from one of the world's largest airports did not provide an authentic view of the South's capital city.
A large man with coffee-colored freckles adjusted his Atlanta Braves baseball cap on his grizzled Afro and stared me down. "I got a nice, 2000, four-door compact over yonder. Only twelve-five."
"I want that ninety-five hatchback, please."
"Darling, that car's so old even dinosaurs don't recognize it."
"I want it, please. Manual transmission. Minimal greenhouse emissions. An average m.p.g. of forty, city or highway. It suits me perfectly."
"Whatever you say, darling. Just for you? Six thousand."
"That couldn't possibly be the blue book price on a car that age. You're committing highway robbery."
He scowled toward the steady flow of interstate traffic in the distance. "You want to argue about blue-book value? There's the highway, darl ng. Call your taxi back and go try to sucker some other poor, honest, used-car dealer."
I held up my conduit to the world of car prices. "I have a Blackberry, and I'm not afraid to use it."
He frowned harder. "Awright, awright. Fifty-two hundred."
"Forty-five."
"Forty-eight."
"Forty-six, and I'll pay cash."
He smiled. "Sold. Darlin', I'm impressed."
I signed the papers, handed over a stack of crisp bills, and showed my fake driver's license as proof of responsible intent. Karen A. Johnson, it said. Of New Jersey. Age thirty-two, height five-five, red hair, green eyes, one-hundred-thirty-five pounds. Just slightly overweight for a woman of medium bone structure, but more muscle than fat.
My fake driver's license came complete with a fake Social Security number. It would produce vague results should anyone in authority attempt to check it. Sedge and the Whittenbrook security people were very good at finessing fake I.D.'s.
"Thank you," I said politely, as the car dealer handed me a set of keys to my fuel-efficient used car.
"I hope you know what you're doin', darlin'."
I tugged my organic cotton bush hat down low on my forehead. "Indeed."
An hour later, wrestling Atlanta's legendary traffic, I pulled up at the Ritz Carlton Hotel across from Lenox Square Mall, in the heart of Atlanta's gleaming Buckhead district. Sedge and Malcolm occupied a suite high above the city. I, however, was now merely Karen A. Johnson, hatchback owner, who parked along the curb and received unkind stares from a Mercedes' driver.
As Sedge leaned on a cane and Malcolm fussed over the details, I loaded my tote bags, camping gear, easel, art supplies, cameras, and Mr. Darcy's macaw food.
I loaded the harp, last. It was a folic harp, not a concert model, but still stood five-foot high. I was barely able to wedge it, in its hard-shelled case, atop everything else. Its crest protruded between the front seats.
Mr. Darcy cocked his vibrant blue head at the activity and made only one sentient observation: "Mon Dieu," he said.
"May I ask why you're taking the harp?" Malcolm said.
"I'm a traveling artist and musician."
"You could take a banjo instead."
"I play many stringed instruments, but I don't play banjo."
"Where you're going, everyone plays the banjo. I've seen it in films."
"I believe that's just a stereotype, Malcolm."
When I finished my
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