Read Online Aurora 06 - A Fool And His Honey by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlaine Harris
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downstairs bathroom, I put Hayden upstairs in the portable crib and took a minute or two to get dressed. Jeans and a sweater, a vigorous tooth-and hair-brushing, and I felt like a better woman. I put on my red glasses to set off my navy sweater. After I ran a brush through my tight waves, my hair crackled with so much electricity that it flew around my head like an angry brown cloud.
This might be the only moment I had to myself today, I figured, so I called the hospital in Atlanta to ask about John.
Mother answered the phone in his room. She told me in that hushed voice people reserve for bedsides of the very ill that John was resting, that tests were ongoing, and that John had definitely had a cardiac incident, which I interpreted as “heart attack.”
“What are his options?” I asked, and Mother said all those buzzwords like “angioplasty” and
“stress tests.” I barely listened, because all I wanted was the bottom line: Was John likely to die soon or not? After I’d gathered that he was going to live, barring some sudden and drastic circumstance, I was content to save the details of his treatment until I could spare a portion of my brain to understand what was entailed.
Mother didn’t say a word about the baby. She was preoccupied, too.
I tightened the laces on my high-tops and tried to tiptoe down the stairs. Martin and Rory were in the kitchen, and I saw that Martin had relented enough to pour the boy a cup of coffee and microwave a couple of cinnamon rolls for him. Rory looked up when I entered, and let a gleam of admiration show a little too obviously. So I didn’t offer to fix him any bacon or eggs.
“Rory here was just telling me about Craig,” Martin said. He was sitting opposite our visitor, his arms crossed over his chest, his face relaxed and cool. Mr. Skeptical.
“What was he saying?” I slipped into a chair at one end of the table. The back part of my brain was wondering if I could borrow a baby monitor from someone. Wasn’t that what the surveillance thing was called?
“I was telling Mr. Bartell, I’ve been Craig’s friend since we were little. Our folks were friends, too. Then when Craig’s mom and dad died, Craig moved in with his aunt and uncle, Mr.
and Mrs. Harbor. His brother Dylan was old enough to be on his own, but too young to keep an eye on Craig, and the Harbors were glad to have him.” Rory paused to take a bite of cinnamon roll, and I worked on keeping the relationships straight in my head.
“And that was the couple at Regina’s wedding, the people who acted in the place of Craig’s parents?”
“That was his aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Harbor,” Rory confirmed. “They had raised four girls of their own. But now Mr. Harbor, he’s kind of sickly.”
Martin and I sat blinking at him like foolish owls.
“Would that be Hugh Harbor?” Martin asked, obviously dredging the name up from his distant memory.
“Yep,” Rory mumbled, caught with more sweet roll in his mouth. “Mrs. Harbor used to be a Thurlkill.”
“And your folks?”
“My mother, Cathy, used to be a Thurlkill, too,” Rory said, seeming rather proud of the fact.
“Me and Craig’re kind of related. My dad is Chuck Brown, his dad was Ross Graham.”
Martin looked away from the table, letting his gaze light on the front of the refrigerator. I knew he was thinking deep thoughts because his fingers were twiddling, the way they do when he’s having ideas he can’t talk about.
“Craig’s brother was at the wedding,” he said abruptly. “He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“Dylan’s a great guy,” Rory agreed readily. “And he and his wife Shondra, they have the cutest little girl.”
Martin did a little more staring and twiddling.
I felt like I had to say something.
“Rory, when you feel like freshening up, there’s a toothbrush in a plastic wrapper in the top drawer in the downstairs bathroom,” I told our surprise guest. “There are extra towels in the closet by the
This might be the only moment I had to myself today, I figured, so I called the hospital in Atlanta to ask about John.
Mother answered the phone in his room. She told me in that hushed voice people reserve for bedsides of the very ill that John was resting, that tests were ongoing, and that John had definitely had a cardiac incident, which I interpreted as “heart attack.”
“What are his options?” I asked, and Mother said all those buzzwords like “angioplasty” and
“stress tests.” I barely listened, because all I wanted was the bottom line: Was John likely to die soon or not? After I’d gathered that he was going to live, barring some sudden and drastic circumstance, I was content to save the details of his treatment until I could spare a portion of my brain to understand what was entailed.
Mother didn’t say a word about the baby. She was preoccupied, too.
I tightened the laces on my high-tops and tried to tiptoe down the stairs. Martin and Rory were in the kitchen, and I saw that Martin had relented enough to pour the boy a cup of coffee and microwave a couple of cinnamon rolls for him. Rory looked up when I entered, and let a gleam of admiration show a little too obviously. So I didn’t offer to fix him any bacon or eggs.
“Rory here was just telling me about Craig,” Martin said. He was sitting opposite our visitor, his arms crossed over his chest, his face relaxed and cool. Mr. Skeptical.
“What was he saying?” I slipped into a chair at one end of the table. The back part of my brain was wondering if I could borrow a baby monitor from someone. Wasn’t that what the surveillance thing was called?
“I was telling Mr. Bartell, I’ve been Craig’s friend since we were little. Our folks were friends, too. Then when Craig’s mom and dad died, Craig moved in with his aunt and uncle, Mr.
and Mrs. Harbor. His brother Dylan was old enough to be on his own, but too young to keep an eye on Craig, and the Harbors were glad to have him.” Rory paused to take a bite of cinnamon roll, and I worked on keeping the relationships straight in my head.
“And that was the couple at Regina’s wedding, the people who acted in the place of Craig’s parents?”
“That was his aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Harbor,” Rory confirmed. “They had raised four girls of their own. But now Mr. Harbor, he’s kind of sickly.”
Martin and I sat blinking at him like foolish owls.
“Would that be Hugh Harbor?” Martin asked, obviously dredging the name up from his distant memory.
“Yep,” Rory mumbled, caught with more sweet roll in his mouth. “Mrs. Harbor used to be a Thurlkill.”
“And your folks?”
“My mother, Cathy, used to be a Thurlkill, too,” Rory said, seeming rather proud of the fact.
“Me and Craig’re kind of related. My dad is Chuck Brown, his dad was Ross Graham.”
Martin looked away from the table, letting his gaze light on the front of the refrigerator. I knew he was thinking deep thoughts because his fingers were twiddling, the way they do when he’s having ideas he can’t talk about.
“Craig’s brother was at the wedding,” he said abruptly. “He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“Dylan’s a great guy,” Rory agreed readily. “And he and his wife Shondra, they have the cutest little girl.”
Martin did a little more staring and twiddling.
I felt like I had to say something.
“Rory, when you feel like freshening up, there’s a toothbrush in a plastic wrapper in the top drawer in the downstairs bathroom,” I told our surprise guest. “There are extra towels in the closet by the
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