Read Online Capture the Wind for Me by Brandilyn Collins - Free Book Online Page A

wreck—flour on the counter, over my apron, on the floor. I brushed hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand and feverishly assembled the cobbler. I yanked open the oven door, leaving white fingerprints on the handle, and shoved the pan inside.
    That’s when it occurred to me that I hadn’t allowed time to fix myself up before supper. I could hardly serve a dignified meal with flour in my hair. I’d planned on cleaning up the kitchen too. The rest of the house already shone.
    Well, I’d just have to decide—kitchen or me.
    I took a deep breath and checked the time. I should call Clarissa home. She’d have to put her things away, take a bath. Which I had no time to oversee.
    I washed dough off my hands and dialed Della’s number. She huffily told me that Clarissa had gone over to Alma Sue’s.
    â€œWhy’d she go there?” I demanded, piling pans and utensils into the sink.
    â€œWhy does she always go to Alma Sue’s? To eat candy, that’s why.”
    Oh, great.
    For some reason God places a flaw in even the most adorable of creatures. To this day, Clarissa’s is her love for candy. She’s learned to curb her desires, I’m happy to report. But back then no matter what plans she might hold in her pretty little head, dangle any sugary concoction before her, and they’d melt away like ice on a hot brick.
    â€œI hate Alma Sue,” Della burst out. “She steals Clarissa away from me all the time.”
    â€œSorry, Della. Clarissa shouldn’t have gone.”
    â€œI told Mama. She said, ‘Don’t worry. When the candy’s gone, she’ll be back.’”
    Ouch. Bad enough I knew my sister’s weakness, but to hear a neighbor peg her so well. The thought incensed me. Just wait till Clarissa got home. Didn’t she find it even the tiniest bit demeaning that she allowed herself to be enticed away from her most loyal friend week after week?
    â€œWhen she comes back, Della, send her home, okay? We’re having company for supper, and she needs to get cleaned up.”
    Clarissa dragged in at 4:25, sticky-cheeked and frowning. I took one irritable look at her and declared she was headed for the bathtub. She balked, saying her stomach didn’t feel so hot. “Wonder why,” I retorted. “How much candy did you eat?”
    â€œDon’t be mad at me, Jackie.” Her face crumpled.
    Brother. I hauled her to the bathtub and turned on the faucets. Behind schedule or not, I couldn’t let her do that herself. Our hot water could scald in no time flat. She lay down on the floor, holding her belly. As the water ran, I coaxed her out of her clothes. She climbed into the tub, and I rubbed her forehead, like stroking a kitten.
    I really can’t blame the burnt cobbler on Clarissa. Truth is, I’d forgotten to set the timer. Back in the kitchen, as I languished over the sight of blackened crust, I realized I hadn’t put the pork in the oven. I shoved the meat in and banged the door shut.
    Well, fine. We’d have ice cream for dessert.
    I started in on the glaze. Stir and stir, don’t let it burn. Then the rice. I wondered how Clarissa was doing in the tub. The kitchen clock happily ticked past 5:00. That’s the last I remember checking it.
    Clarissa crept out to the kitchen and lay down on the hard floor near the table, holding her stomach. No doubt so I could have an unobstructed view of her suffering. I moved her to the family room couch, letting Winnie into the house to keep her company. I dawdled over my sister for a moment, making sad faces at her discomfort, covered her with a blanket, and gave her some medicine. Then rushed back to the kitchen. Stirred the glaze, watched the rice. Slowly, the burnt smell from the cobbler faded, replaced with the scents of the meat, bread, and orange sauce.
    The phone rang. It was Mrs. Crary, home from the softball game, saying their team had won, 3–2.