Read Online Belonging to Taylor by Kay Hooper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kay Hooper
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years of practice behind him. The brilliant mind was discovered while they weeded and pruned in the backyard, when several of Luke's low and somewhat hurried remarks and questions forced Trevor to dredge into memories of college courses just to hold his own with the man.
He also, more than once, caught a gleam of laughter in Luke's vivid but benign eyes, and slowly realized that Taylor had been right: Her father very consciously used absurdity to unwind. His was a very demanding profession, and a serious one; obviously, laughter was Luke's way of dealing with that. And since every member of his family lovingly played their ridiculous parts, it was an easy and natural thing for him to do.
As for Sara, Trevor discovered to his own wry satisfaction that his court-sharpened senses had not been at fault: She was definitely not as vague as she appeared and acted. He came unexpectedly into the den on Saturday afternoon to find her engrossed in a book. That in itself seemed unusual enough, because Sara rarely sat, obviously preferring to wander about in the yard or house with a vague and fleeting interest in just about everything. But it was the title of the book that caught Trevor's astonished eyes, and long moments passed before it sunk into his brain that she was reading philosophy.
Clearly feeling a startled stare—or, for all he knew, feeling it telepathically—she lifted her eyes to meet his. In her vivid gray eyes was the intelligence he'd seen only once before, and in back of that was a rueful smile.
"You went to college," he said firmly, as if she were going to argue with him.
"Between babies," she answered sedately.
Suspicious, he demanded, "Phi Beta Kappa?"
Her smile was as sweet and vague as ever, but the vividness didn't leave her eyes. She nodded. Marking her place in her book with one slender finger, she rose to her feet. "Do you really think, Trevor," she said tranquilly, "that a stupid woman could have kept up with Luke all these years?"
"Not stupid," he protested.
"Just not all here?" She laughed softly at his bemusement. "It's so dull being just like everyone else," she murmured. "And so boring for the children. We laugh at ourselves, you know, and most families can't." Her eyes were blue again. "That hat with the feathers. So pretty on the wall. I'll have to find a place for it somewhere."
"Sara—" he managed as she was turning away.
"Yes, Trevor?"
He sighed. "Nothing."
Her eyes gleamed at him briefly. "It so often is." She wandered away.
Trevor could hardly help but laugh. He shook his head and left the room, still laughing.
Of the other members of the family, he also discovered a great deal. Dory, the pixie, was a stoic physically but timid in her emotions; she clung to him often in a way that gripped at his heart, but she was gruff in speech and tended to hide herself away from curious eyes if she was upset. She was obviously secure in her family's love but insecure in herself. She clearly considered Trevor a part of the family and treated him like an adored older brother. And she talked to him with vast seriousness, even confiding, as he was reading to her, why she hid in closets.
"I like the dark. It's quiet."
Touched, he said gently, "Is it loud everywhere else, Dory?"
She reflected gravely, those brilliant, solemn eyes meeting his directly. "Sometimes. In my head. Taylor says I'll learn to close the door in my head and not need a closet. Sometimes I can. But sometimes I can't, so I go into the closet."
"I'm sure Taylor's right," he said, inwardly uncertain.
A shy, fleeting smile crossed Dory's face. "You keep your door closed a lot," she observed. "Did you learn when you were little like me?"
Trevor thought he understood. "I'm different from the rest of you, honey. I don't have to close a door because I don't need one. I can't— hear things the way you can."
Peering intently at him, Dory laughed suddenly, an odd, gruff little laugh. "You don't know."
Puzzled, he asked, "Know
He also, more than once, caught a gleam of laughter in Luke's vivid but benign eyes, and slowly realized that Taylor had been right: Her father very consciously used absurdity to unwind. His was a very demanding profession, and a serious one; obviously, laughter was Luke's way of dealing with that. And since every member of his family lovingly played their ridiculous parts, it was an easy and natural thing for him to do.
As for Sara, Trevor discovered to his own wry satisfaction that his court-sharpened senses had not been at fault: She was definitely not as vague as she appeared and acted. He came unexpectedly into the den on Saturday afternoon to find her engrossed in a book. That in itself seemed unusual enough, because Sara rarely sat, obviously preferring to wander about in the yard or house with a vague and fleeting interest in just about everything. But it was the title of the book that caught Trevor's astonished eyes, and long moments passed before it sunk into his brain that she was reading philosophy.
Clearly feeling a startled stare—or, for all he knew, feeling it telepathically—she lifted her eyes to meet his. In her vivid gray eyes was the intelligence he'd seen only once before, and in back of that was a rueful smile.
"You went to college," he said firmly, as if she were going to argue with him.
"Between babies," she answered sedately.
Suspicious, he demanded, "Phi Beta Kappa?"
Her smile was as sweet and vague as ever, but the vividness didn't leave her eyes. She nodded. Marking her place in her book with one slender finger, she rose to her feet. "Do you really think, Trevor," she said tranquilly, "that a stupid woman could have kept up with Luke all these years?"
"Not stupid," he protested.
"Just not all here?" She laughed softly at his bemusement. "It's so dull being just like everyone else," she murmured. "And so boring for the children. We laugh at ourselves, you know, and most families can't." Her eyes were blue again. "That hat with the feathers. So pretty on the wall. I'll have to find a place for it somewhere."
"Sara—" he managed as she was turning away.
"Yes, Trevor?"
He sighed. "Nothing."
Her eyes gleamed at him briefly. "It so often is." She wandered away.
Trevor could hardly help but laugh. He shook his head and left the room, still laughing.
Of the other members of the family, he also discovered a great deal. Dory, the pixie, was a stoic physically but timid in her emotions; she clung to him often in a way that gripped at his heart, but she was gruff in speech and tended to hide herself away from curious eyes if she was upset. She was obviously secure in her family's love but insecure in herself. She clearly considered Trevor a part of the family and treated him like an adored older brother. And she talked to him with vast seriousness, even confiding, as he was reading to her, why she hid in closets.
"I like the dark. It's quiet."
Touched, he said gently, "Is it loud everywhere else, Dory?"
She reflected gravely, those brilliant, solemn eyes meeting his directly. "Sometimes. In my head. Taylor says I'll learn to close the door in my head and not need a closet. Sometimes I can. But sometimes I can't, so I go into the closet."
"I'm sure Taylor's right," he said, inwardly uncertain.
A shy, fleeting smile crossed Dory's face. "You keep your door closed a lot," she observed. "Did you learn when you were little like me?"
Trevor thought he understood. "I'm different from the rest of you, honey. I don't have to close a door because I don't need one. I can't— hear things the way you can."
Peering intently at him, Dory laughed suddenly, an odd, gruff little laugh. "You don't know."
Puzzled, he asked, "Know
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