Read Online Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) by S.W. Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S.W. Hubbard
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I’ll make you some lunch. And where are those pills the doctor gave you? You’re supposed to take your next dose at noon.”
“I don’t want them.”
Jill fishes them out of my coat pocket. “You hafta take ‘em.”
I’ve been trying to wean myself off my painkillers. I hate the fog that descends over my brain minutes after I swallow them. But I hate even more the rising tide of pain that thumps against the inside of my skull when I try to do without them.
Sulky at being thwarted, I eat my sandwich but leave the pills like a pile of peas on a toddler’s plate. Jill continues to fuss around the apartment, fluffing pillows, cleaning out my fridge, making tea. I feel like I’m being swarmed by a cloud of gnats. A really sweet cloud of gnats, but still.
“Why don’t you go back to the office, Jill. I think I’ll take a little nap.”
She shakes a black nail-polished finger at me. “Take those pills.”
I swallow, and in a last flurry of chatter, Jill leaves.
I’m alone for the first time since the attack. It feels good: no nurses, no therapists, no hospital clamor. I begin to sift through the mail.
Ethel’s nails click across the kitchen floor. The refrigerator hums. Has this condo always been so creepily quiet in the middle of the day? I glance around for my iPod, then remember it was in my fannypack. Whoever attacked me is listening to my Goo Goo Dolls and Mat Kearney.
I really wish I hadn’t thought of that.
Why was I so eager to get rid of Jill? I click on the TV for a little friendly noise. In mid-afternoon, the airwaves are full of Law and Order reruns—no thank you. And cooking shows—those will only make the Lean Cuisine that Jill left for my dinner seem even worse. And decorating shows. “When we return, you’ll learn how to transform vacation mementos and family snapshots from clutter to art ,” the show’s host promises with a wink to the camera.
No need for me to stay tuned for that lesson. I’m woefully short of mementos and snapshots. Except for one. I heave myself off the sofa, a maneuver that leaves me temporarily light-headed. Regaining my equilibrium, I make my way over to the bookshelves under the window.
The picture of my hand clasped in my mother’s sits between piles of books. Honestly, I don’t look at it that often. But I wanted to have it. So one day, I took it off the piano at Dad’s house and brought it over here. I don’t know if my father ever noticed the photo was gone. If he did, he didn’t care enough to comment.
I study the picture now. Despite the fact that my grandparents poured on stories of my mother’s love and devotion, niggling seeds of doubt sprouted as I got older, weeds pushing though a solid slab of concrete.
If she died, why was her body never found? If she didn’t die, she must have run away. And what kind of mother abandons her family on Christmas Eve?
What kind of child makes her mother flee?
Now, the ring. The ring is tangible proof that the story of my mother’s disappearance cannot be fully explained by the facts on record: the snowy road, the sliding car, the treacherous lake. My fingers tighten on the picture frame as I feel the pill-induced numbness seeping through my body. My fears and doubts are not unfounded. There is more to know.
As the piles of sorted mail grow, my eyelids start to droop. I lean back against the sofa cushions as dreams begin to dance with reality. I’m driving my car around and around. I come to a mountain of flowers and I can’t get around it. Soon traffic builds up and horns start blowing. Honk, honk…then the honks turn to bells. A persistent ringing.
My eyes snap open and I jolt upright. That sound is real. Someone’s leaning on my doorbell. I stagger to my feet and wipe a trickle of drool from the corner of my mouth. The sun is still brightly shining; I couldn’t have been asleep that long, but I feel groggy
“I don’t want them.”
Jill fishes them out of my coat pocket. “You hafta take ‘em.”
I’ve been trying to wean myself off my painkillers. I hate the fog that descends over my brain minutes after I swallow them. But I hate even more the rising tide of pain that thumps against the inside of my skull when I try to do without them.
Sulky at being thwarted, I eat my sandwich but leave the pills like a pile of peas on a toddler’s plate. Jill continues to fuss around the apartment, fluffing pillows, cleaning out my fridge, making tea. I feel like I’m being swarmed by a cloud of gnats. A really sweet cloud of gnats, but still.
“Why don’t you go back to the office, Jill. I think I’ll take a little nap.”
She shakes a black nail-polished finger at me. “Take those pills.”
I swallow, and in a last flurry of chatter, Jill leaves.
I’m alone for the first time since the attack. It feels good: no nurses, no therapists, no hospital clamor. I begin to sift through the mail.
Ethel’s nails click across the kitchen floor. The refrigerator hums. Has this condo always been so creepily quiet in the middle of the day? I glance around for my iPod, then remember it was in my fannypack. Whoever attacked me is listening to my Goo Goo Dolls and Mat Kearney.
I really wish I hadn’t thought of that.
Why was I so eager to get rid of Jill? I click on the TV for a little friendly noise. In mid-afternoon, the airwaves are full of Law and Order reruns—no thank you. And cooking shows—those will only make the Lean Cuisine that Jill left for my dinner seem even worse. And decorating shows. “When we return, you’ll learn how to transform vacation mementos and family snapshots from clutter to art ,” the show’s host promises with a wink to the camera.
No need for me to stay tuned for that lesson. I’m woefully short of mementos and snapshots. Except for one. I heave myself off the sofa, a maneuver that leaves me temporarily light-headed. Regaining my equilibrium, I make my way over to the bookshelves under the window.
The picture of my hand clasped in my mother’s sits between piles of books. Honestly, I don’t look at it that often. But I wanted to have it. So one day, I took it off the piano at Dad’s house and brought it over here. I don’t know if my father ever noticed the photo was gone. If he did, he didn’t care enough to comment.
I study the picture now. Despite the fact that my grandparents poured on stories of my mother’s love and devotion, niggling seeds of doubt sprouted as I got older, weeds pushing though a solid slab of concrete.
If she died, why was her body never found? If she didn’t die, she must have run away. And what kind of mother abandons her family on Christmas Eve?
What kind of child makes her mother flee?
Now, the ring. The ring is tangible proof that the story of my mother’s disappearance cannot be fully explained by the facts on record: the snowy road, the sliding car, the treacherous lake. My fingers tighten on the picture frame as I feel the pill-induced numbness seeping through my body. My fears and doubts are not unfounded. There is more to know.
As the piles of sorted mail grow, my eyelids start to droop. I lean back against the sofa cushions as dreams begin to dance with reality. I’m driving my car around and around. I come to a mountain of flowers and I can’t get around it. Soon traffic builds up and horns start blowing. Honk, honk…then the honks turn to bells. A persistent ringing.
My eyes snap open and I jolt upright. That sound is real. Someone’s leaning on my doorbell. I stagger to my feet and wipe a trickle of drool from the corner of my mouth. The sun is still brightly shining; I couldn’t have been asleep that long, but I feel groggy
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