Read Online As Good as It Got by Isabel Sharpe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Isabel Sharpe
Ads: Link
oral report.
Ethan always was. But gay Patrick was looking at Ann. Or maybe just in her direction. But with enough interest to make As Good As It Got
59
her pivot her head straight toward guitar-totin’ Pamela. Honestly. She needed to get a clue. No, a grip. No, medication.
“This one you all might remember from some years back.
A female power anthem made famous in 1972 by a lady from down under.”
Oh God. Oh no.
“Her name was Helen Reddy . . . ”
Please help me. She swung around to her cabin-mates.
Cindy was watching Pamela with shining eyes. Dinah was whispering to her glassy-eyed neighbor. Martha was staring at her hands.
Ann turned in the other direction and encountered Patrick again, who was grinning openly now.
She made a face and mouthed, Help!
He grinned wider. A connection. She couldn’t help the thrill.
Pamela strummed and struck up some rousing chords. “I am woman. Hear me roar!”
The women did. Roared like lionesses, like prisoners freed, like the oppressed finally rid of their tormentors. And then they all joined in, fumbling words when they didn’t know or had forgotten them, joining in one long glorious yell for each chorus, “Yes, I am wise . . . ”
Cindy poked Ann, jerked her head insistently toward Pamela and pointed to Ann’s mouth. “Sing,” she shouted.
Ann shook her head. Glanced again at grinning Patrick of the Flames, and wished for Paul and safety and order and calm.
I am woman . . .
Chapter 6
Ann dragged her eyelids open, registered pine walls and the most god-awful clanging drifting over from her ghastly dream into waking reality. Her brain gradually worked out where she was and that the horrendous noise—some kind of bell—would be her signal to get up every morning for the next two weeks.
She closed her eyes again, not even wanting to know what time it was. Wait, she knew what time it was. Too early o’clock. Twice already that morning the roar of motors out on the bay had woken her. Lobstermen. Very picturesque.
Better at anchor.
The dream lingered—she’d been in bed with Paul. They’d made love and he was still on top of her, his skin warm and slightly damp from the exertion. She’d been smiling up at him, so happy that everyone had been wrong about him dying. Even better, he’d been smiling too, really smiling, not the soulless baring of teeth with eyes a million miles away As Good As It Got
61
that she’d tried too many times to explain away as stress or fatigue. She’d been about to tell him how much she missed him while he was dead, when his eyes rolled up and he slumped off her, leaden and still, his head horribly half gone, but bloodless, like a doll’s china head fractured. Someone else had screamed while she tried to call 911, but her fingers wouldn’t work; she kept punching the wrong numbers.
Then sirens, Paul’s body gone, and the terrible clanging of the church bell announcing his funeral.
Which turned out to be Camp Kinsonu’s bell, announcing hers.
Why was she here? She still wasn’t sure.
Her cabin-mates were up already, at least one or two of them, creaking boards, running water, thunking jars and combs back into place on pine shelves, Dinah prattling about God knew what.
In Ann’s heaven, no one would be allowed to speak before caffeine happened.
Up nearly to sitting, she gave in and fell half back, propped on her elbows, eyes open to a reluctant squint, mouth open to a long yawn. Early mornings and Ann had long been worst enemies. On weekends she’d lie in, sometimes for an hour—usually two or three hours after Paul had gotten up to run, then to sip his cappuccino reading the New York Times —soaking in the glorious knowledge that her body had been able to get as much sleep as it craved and would not be forced to move until absolutely necessary. She and Paul had decided not to have children, and lazy mornings were one of the perks. Sometimes she’d regretted the decision. Now she was doubly glad they’d made
Ethan always was. But gay Patrick was looking at Ann. Or maybe just in her direction. But with enough interest to make As Good As It Got
59
her pivot her head straight toward guitar-totin’ Pamela. Honestly. She needed to get a clue. No, a grip. No, medication.
“This one you all might remember from some years back.
A female power anthem made famous in 1972 by a lady from down under.”
Oh God. Oh no.
“Her name was Helen Reddy . . . ”
Please help me. She swung around to her cabin-mates.
Cindy was watching Pamela with shining eyes. Dinah was whispering to her glassy-eyed neighbor. Martha was staring at her hands.
Ann turned in the other direction and encountered Patrick again, who was grinning openly now.
She made a face and mouthed, Help!
He grinned wider. A connection. She couldn’t help the thrill.
Pamela strummed and struck up some rousing chords. “I am woman. Hear me roar!”
The women did. Roared like lionesses, like prisoners freed, like the oppressed finally rid of their tormentors. And then they all joined in, fumbling words when they didn’t know or had forgotten them, joining in one long glorious yell for each chorus, “Yes, I am wise . . . ”
Cindy poked Ann, jerked her head insistently toward Pamela and pointed to Ann’s mouth. “Sing,” she shouted.
Ann shook her head. Glanced again at grinning Patrick of the Flames, and wished for Paul and safety and order and calm.
I am woman . . .
Chapter 6
Ann dragged her eyelids open, registered pine walls and the most god-awful clanging drifting over from her ghastly dream into waking reality. Her brain gradually worked out where she was and that the horrendous noise—some kind of bell—would be her signal to get up every morning for the next two weeks.
She closed her eyes again, not even wanting to know what time it was. Wait, she knew what time it was. Too early o’clock. Twice already that morning the roar of motors out on the bay had woken her. Lobstermen. Very picturesque.
Better at anchor.
The dream lingered—she’d been in bed with Paul. They’d made love and he was still on top of her, his skin warm and slightly damp from the exertion. She’d been smiling up at him, so happy that everyone had been wrong about him dying. Even better, he’d been smiling too, really smiling, not the soulless baring of teeth with eyes a million miles away As Good As It Got
61
that she’d tried too many times to explain away as stress or fatigue. She’d been about to tell him how much she missed him while he was dead, when his eyes rolled up and he slumped off her, leaden and still, his head horribly half gone, but bloodless, like a doll’s china head fractured. Someone else had screamed while she tried to call 911, but her fingers wouldn’t work; she kept punching the wrong numbers.
Then sirens, Paul’s body gone, and the terrible clanging of the church bell announcing his funeral.
Which turned out to be Camp Kinsonu’s bell, announcing hers.
Why was she here? She still wasn’t sure.
Her cabin-mates were up already, at least one or two of them, creaking boards, running water, thunking jars and combs back into place on pine shelves, Dinah prattling about God knew what.
In Ann’s heaven, no one would be allowed to speak before caffeine happened.
Up nearly to sitting, she gave in and fell half back, propped on her elbows, eyes open to a reluctant squint, mouth open to a long yawn. Early mornings and Ann had long been worst enemies. On weekends she’d lie in, sometimes for an hour—usually two or three hours after Paul had gotten up to run, then to sip his cappuccino reading the New York Times —soaking in the glorious knowledge that her body had been able to get as much sleep as it craved and would not be forced to move until absolutely necessary. She and Paul had decided not to have children, and lazy mornings were one of the perks. Sometimes she’d regretted the decision. Now she was doubly glad they’d made
Similar Books
