Read Online Bone by Bone by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol O'Connell
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of the runaway soldier he hunted; he knew nothing about the woman who had raised him.
As a boy, he had been comfortable with the notion that the housekeeper had sprung to life on the day his mother was buried. At the age of three, Oren had been too young to remember Hannah’s arrival in Coventry, but he knew the story told a hundred times: The judge had laid his dead wife to rest in the family plot and returned to his house in the company of neighbors, whose extra arms were needed to carry casseroles and baby Joshua. Oren had played the little man that day and walked everywhere on his own two toddler’s legs, bumping into everything, “—blinded by tears, and batting away every hand that offered comfort.” Those were his father’s words.
Judge Henry Hobbs had always told the tale in the same way, word for word. “So we come back from the cemetery, and there’s young Hannah—a stranger and a trespasser— standing on my front porch like she owns the place.” The story had been repeated until the children’s eyes had glazed over, and this segment of oral history was burned into their little brains. “Real brassy for a runt housebreaker,” the judge would always say.
The young stranger, Hannah Rice, had greeted the funeral party and served them a feast made from scratch materials found in the pantry. Her bite-size bits of finger food—with three flavors apiece—lingered for years in the memories of all those present on that long-ago afternoon, but the fine coffee had been enough to ensure Hannah’s legend in the neighborhood.
Her suitcase had been unpacked in the upstairs guest room hours before her future employer had even known of her existence, and the judge still had no idea who she was at the close of the funeral supper. That evening, while she cleaned up after the mourners, the judge had thought to ask for her name. Days later, they had come to terms on a salary, but he had never pried into her past.
That would have been rude.
Apart from a core of third- and fourth-generation lifers, there had always been a coming and going of residents. Some were attracted by the raw beauty of the coastline; others sought the privacy of in-country wood-lands. One abiding charm of the place was the whole town’s lack of curiosity about the outside world—as if a citizen’s life had not begun until they set foot in Coventry. A fair number of outsiders had come here to hide themselves away until they could reinvent their lives or rest up from a chase. After a month or a decade, some of these people would decamp with no word of goodbye or forwarding address, but others stayed long enough to be buried in local ground. After thirty-four years, Hannah appeared to have staying power.
Oren had become curious about her past, but he loved that little woman dearly, and he would never ask for her story, nor would he betray the fact that she had surely been a fugitive.
Henry Hobbs spoke to his housekeeper’s back as she pulled down two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Why did you do it, Hannah? I know you convinced the boy to come home. Why now of all times?”
“You have to stop calling him boy .” It was her custom to deflect every rebuke with one of her own. “I know how you hate change—oh, don’t I know it—but boys will grow into men.” She set the mugs on the table and turned to the window that looked out on the meadow. “At least the reporters are gone.” She sighed. “That’s one small mercy. They’re all following Ferris Monty. He took them on a walking tour of Coventry.”
“My idea.” Addison Winston’s voice preceded him down the hall, and now he materialized in the doorway. A puff of smoke and a whiff of sulfur would not have surprised Hannah.
“Don’t worry about Oren,” said the grinning attorney. “After all this time, there can’t be much of a case against him.”
The judge rose from his chair, knocking it over in his rush to make a stand. “There’s no case—period!” He pounded
As a boy, he had been comfortable with the notion that the housekeeper had sprung to life on the day his mother was buried. At the age of three, Oren had been too young to remember Hannah’s arrival in Coventry, but he knew the story told a hundred times: The judge had laid his dead wife to rest in the family plot and returned to his house in the company of neighbors, whose extra arms were needed to carry casseroles and baby Joshua. Oren had played the little man that day and walked everywhere on his own two toddler’s legs, bumping into everything, “—blinded by tears, and batting away every hand that offered comfort.” Those were his father’s words.
Judge Henry Hobbs had always told the tale in the same way, word for word. “So we come back from the cemetery, and there’s young Hannah—a stranger and a trespasser— standing on my front porch like she owns the place.” The story had been repeated until the children’s eyes had glazed over, and this segment of oral history was burned into their little brains. “Real brassy for a runt housebreaker,” the judge would always say.
The young stranger, Hannah Rice, had greeted the funeral party and served them a feast made from scratch materials found in the pantry. Her bite-size bits of finger food—with three flavors apiece—lingered for years in the memories of all those present on that long-ago afternoon, but the fine coffee had been enough to ensure Hannah’s legend in the neighborhood.
Her suitcase had been unpacked in the upstairs guest room hours before her future employer had even known of her existence, and the judge still had no idea who she was at the close of the funeral supper. That evening, while she cleaned up after the mourners, the judge had thought to ask for her name. Days later, they had come to terms on a salary, but he had never pried into her past.
That would have been rude.
Apart from a core of third- and fourth-generation lifers, there had always been a coming and going of residents. Some were attracted by the raw beauty of the coastline; others sought the privacy of in-country wood-lands. One abiding charm of the place was the whole town’s lack of curiosity about the outside world—as if a citizen’s life had not begun until they set foot in Coventry. A fair number of outsiders had come here to hide themselves away until they could reinvent their lives or rest up from a chase. After a month or a decade, some of these people would decamp with no word of goodbye or forwarding address, but others stayed long enough to be buried in local ground. After thirty-four years, Hannah appeared to have staying power.
Oren had become curious about her past, but he loved that little woman dearly, and he would never ask for her story, nor would he betray the fact that she had surely been a fugitive.
Henry Hobbs spoke to his housekeeper’s back as she pulled down two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Why did you do it, Hannah? I know you convinced the boy to come home. Why now of all times?”
“You have to stop calling him boy .” It was her custom to deflect every rebuke with one of her own. “I know how you hate change—oh, don’t I know it—but boys will grow into men.” She set the mugs on the table and turned to the window that looked out on the meadow. “At least the reporters are gone.” She sighed. “That’s one small mercy. They’re all following Ferris Monty. He took them on a walking tour of Coventry.”
“My idea.” Addison Winston’s voice preceded him down the hall, and now he materialized in the doorway. A puff of smoke and a whiff of sulfur would not have surprised Hannah.
“Don’t worry about Oren,” said the grinning attorney. “After all this time, there can’t be much of a case against him.”
The judge rose from his chair, knocking it over in his rush to make a stand. “There’s no case—period!” He pounded
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