Read Online Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) by Jeanne C. Stein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne C. Stein
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pick up John-John’s thoughts. An irritant until it dawns on me that maybe now that we’re engaged, it might not be a bad thing that I can’t read Frey’s thoughts anymore. Nor he mine. It would take great effort to have to continually sanitize one’s thoughts, especially if angry or disappointed. I swivel back around to face the front and leave father and son to their discussion.
I remember from past trips that it takes about an hour to reach the estate. I know we’re close when we see the most famous building in Lorgues silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky. La Collégiale Saint-Martin church rises like a great fortress, towering above the countryside. It looks out over green fields broken in color only by the brilliant contrast of those fields of lavender, one of Provence’s most famous crops.
Now that we’re near, dread makes my heart beat faster. What will Mom look like? Will she be thin and pale? Will she be weak? Or in pain? How will I bear it?
I twist my hands in my lap. I have to be strong.
We pull off the main road and onto the winding drive that leads to the estate. As always, I marvel at how striking it is. The grounds set up like an old bastide, the house on a hilltop surrounded by the vineyards and gardens. The vines are just coming to life, delicate leaves on dark trunks. The gardens are alive with flowers—the pink of wild thyme, yellow of daffodils, vibrantly hued flowers on blooming cherry and almond trees. The house itself, now coming into view, is covered on the south wall by climbing wisteria and its fragile-looking flowers, purple tinged with blue, are in full bloom, pendulous clusters that perfume the air even from this distance.
But in spite of the beauty, there’s something else I can’t forget—that it was built by Avery centuries before. According to the records, the house was built in three distinct periods, the sixteenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was updated and renovated many times in the course of history. Now, it’s thoroughly modern inside, though the outside still retains much of its historic façade. Avery, again, and his penchant for good living.
My parents know nothing of its real provenance, of course. Only what was manufactured for them.
I push those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter who owned the property before. All that matters is that my family loves living here.
The house glows under the spring sunshine like a welcoming beacon. The front door opens as soon as we pull into the gravel turnaround. Trish runs out to meet the car. In her jeans and T-shirt, blonde hair pulled back from her face, she looks so young and fragile. But even as we embrace, I look beyond her, anxious to see Mom.
Trish follows my gaze. “She’s upstairs. She’s having a bad day.” She hugs me again. “But when she sees you, she’ll be so happy.”
Dad shoos me toward the house and takes care of introducing Frey and John-John to Trish. Like my dad, Trish knows Frey. He taught at the school she attended when my family first became aware of her existence. They know him as human, not other-natured.
I faintly catch the exchange of greetings but my concentration is on getting to my mother.
I take the stairs two at a time. My parent’s bedroom is at the end of the hall, a large, corner room with windows that overlook the vineyards and gardens. The door stands open and I force myself to slow down, tiptoe toward it, not wanting to risk waking her if she’s asleep.
She isn’t. She’s standing beside the bed, slipping a dressing gown over a silk nightdress. When she sees me, she lets the gown drop to the floor and hurries into my arms.
Her hug is as fierce as ever. But beneath my hands, I feel the ridge of her backbone. In the months since I last saw her, she’s lost weight. A lot of weight. And her hair is so thin, I see pink scalp between sparse strands of gold-gray. I have to bite back a sob.
I push myself gently away and lead her back to bed. “Come on. Get
I remember from past trips that it takes about an hour to reach the estate. I know we’re close when we see the most famous building in Lorgues silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky. La Collégiale Saint-Martin church rises like a great fortress, towering above the countryside. It looks out over green fields broken in color only by the brilliant contrast of those fields of lavender, one of Provence’s most famous crops.
Now that we’re near, dread makes my heart beat faster. What will Mom look like? Will she be thin and pale? Will she be weak? Or in pain? How will I bear it?
I twist my hands in my lap. I have to be strong.
We pull off the main road and onto the winding drive that leads to the estate. As always, I marvel at how striking it is. The grounds set up like an old bastide, the house on a hilltop surrounded by the vineyards and gardens. The vines are just coming to life, delicate leaves on dark trunks. The gardens are alive with flowers—the pink of wild thyme, yellow of daffodils, vibrantly hued flowers on blooming cherry and almond trees. The house itself, now coming into view, is covered on the south wall by climbing wisteria and its fragile-looking flowers, purple tinged with blue, are in full bloom, pendulous clusters that perfume the air even from this distance.
But in spite of the beauty, there’s something else I can’t forget—that it was built by Avery centuries before. According to the records, the house was built in three distinct periods, the sixteenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was updated and renovated many times in the course of history. Now, it’s thoroughly modern inside, though the outside still retains much of its historic façade. Avery, again, and his penchant for good living.
My parents know nothing of its real provenance, of course. Only what was manufactured for them.
I push those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter who owned the property before. All that matters is that my family loves living here.
The house glows under the spring sunshine like a welcoming beacon. The front door opens as soon as we pull into the gravel turnaround. Trish runs out to meet the car. In her jeans and T-shirt, blonde hair pulled back from her face, she looks so young and fragile. But even as we embrace, I look beyond her, anxious to see Mom.
Trish follows my gaze. “She’s upstairs. She’s having a bad day.” She hugs me again. “But when she sees you, she’ll be so happy.”
Dad shoos me toward the house and takes care of introducing Frey and John-John to Trish. Like my dad, Trish knows Frey. He taught at the school she attended when my family first became aware of her existence. They know him as human, not other-natured.
I faintly catch the exchange of greetings but my concentration is on getting to my mother.
I take the stairs two at a time. My parent’s bedroom is at the end of the hall, a large, corner room with windows that overlook the vineyards and gardens. The door stands open and I force myself to slow down, tiptoe toward it, not wanting to risk waking her if she’s asleep.
She isn’t. She’s standing beside the bed, slipping a dressing gown over a silk nightdress. When she sees me, she lets the gown drop to the floor and hurries into my arms.
Her hug is as fierce as ever. But beneath my hands, I feel the ridge of her backbone. In the months since I last saw her, she’s lost weight. A lot of weight. And her hair is so thin, I see pink scalp between sparse strands of gold-gray. I have to bite back a sob.
I push myself gently away and lead her back to bed. “Come on. Get
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