Read Online Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst - Free Book Online
Authors: Milam McGraw Propst
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still couldn’t shake my feeling of dread as I looked at the boy. Harry Potter, he looked like Harry Potter. With shock, I remembered. That’s the kid from the middle school !
I ducked around the frozen food aisle. It was too late.
Here came his mother. “Mrs. Newberry, please forgive the interruption, but my son has talked so much about you and your visit to his school. You know, his school in Atlanta. Henry tells me you are down here writing your new novel.”
“Yes, and I really must be getting back to work,” I said sheepishly. Another lie. I had hit an all time low. Not only was I lying to schoolchildren, but I was also lying to their mothers.
“My son is not the only member of our family who is a fan of your work. I’ve read several of your books, Mrs. Newberry, the ones geared more for adults.”
“That’s lovely to know. Thank you.”
“Why yes, in fact, my book club has reviewed your novels. We girls always identify with you, and I, for one, love the way you make us find humor in the most human of things, particularly concerning our families.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes, indeed. Doesn’t everyone have an eccentric aunt? You make us feel, well almost normal!”
“I wish I felt normal.”
“We don’t mean to keep you, but there is just one more thing. Henry, here, is something of a writer himself. Perhaps you would enjoy reading some of his work?” Before I could utter a single word, she went on, “In fact, Henry, go out to the van right this minute and gather up your theme papers. I’ll chat with Mrs. Newberry while we wait.”
Henry wouldn’t budge.
Good boy.
“Henry? Go on, dear,” warbled the mother, as she attempted to push her son from behind. “Oh dear, you know how children can be. Henry is a bit shy, you understand.” Ever hopeful, the woman raised her chin, and, pointing her eyes toward the parking lot, she urged him with her head.
He didn’t yield.
Thank goodness.
I jumped in. “Yes, of course, I understand. I have two grown children. It really might be a good idea to let Henry share his work is his own good time.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” By then, she was frowning at the boy.
I wanted to embrace the young man with gratitude, but decided it was best not to give away my relief at being let off the hook. Reading theme papers was not my favorite form of recreation.
“Mrs. Newberry, my son and I do wish you the best of luck on your next book. We’ll both look forward to reading it.
The boy piped up. “Are you coming to my school, again?”
“If I’m invited,” I chirped. He likely wants another free period; anything but algebra .
I felt like the biggest fraud. I thanked the endearing mother but couldn’t look her straight in the eyes. Henry extended his hand. His long, dark eyelashes swept the back of his glasses.
What a nice kid he is, I concluded. I, on the other hand, was an absolute jerk.
His mother sighed. “Thank you for your offer to read Henry’s work. Maybe he’ll be more enthused when next we meet.”
“I’m sure he will be.”
As I hurriedly gathered groceries and pushed my cart to the check-out line, I felt lower than dirt. First a liar, now a hypocrite. I reviewed our conversation in my mind. Should I have explained to the mother and son that I simply have very little to say just now ? Nothing is worse than writing simply because you think you should. Yes, that’s what I should have said. I could have sounded lofty and profound.
Why is it that one always thinks of a perfect response five minutes after the opportunity passes?
I loaded my supplies in my car and drove from the parking lot.
The truth was, it was well past time for me to get back to writing, if for no other reason than to please Henry and his mother. A sudden clap of thunder rallied my attention. Drat , it was looking as if I would be stuck inside the condo for a while. Or was God Himself now speaking to me? Was He sentencing Honey Newberry to a writer’s prison?
I ducked around the frozen food aisle. It was too late.
Here came his mother. “Mrs. Newberry, please forgive the interruption, but my son has talked so much about you and your visit to his school. You know, his school in Atlanta. Henry tells me you are down here writing your new novel.”
“Yes, and I really must be getting back to work,” I said sheepishly. Another lie. I had hit an all time low. Not only was I lying to schoolchildren, but I was also lying to their mothers.
“My son is not the only member of our family who is a fan of your work. I’ve read several of your books, Mrs. Newberry, the ones geared more for adults.”
“That’s lovely to know. Thank you.”
“Why yes, in fact, my book club has reviewed your novels. We girls always identify with you, and I, for one, love the way you make us find humor in the most human of things, particularly concerning our families.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes, indeed. Doesn’t everyone have an eccentric aunt? You make us feel, well almost normal!”
“I wish I felt normal.”
“We don’t mean to keep you, but there is just one more thing. Henry, here, is something of a writer himself. Perhaps you would enjoy reading some of his work?” Before I could utter a single word, she went on, “In fact, Henry, go out to the van right this minute and gather up your theme papers. I’ll chat with Mrs. Newberry while we wait.”
Henry wouldn’t budge.
Good boy.
“Henry? Go on, dear,” warbled the mother, as she attempted to push her son from behind. “Oh dear, you know how children can be. Henry is a bit shy, you understand.” Ever hopeful, the woman raised her chin, and, pointing her eyes toward the parking lot, she urged him with her head.
He didn’t yield.
Thank goodness.
I jumped in. “Yes, of course, I understand. I have two grown children. It really might be a good idea to let Henry share his work is his own good time.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” By then, she was frowning at the boy.
I wanted to embrace the young man with gratitude, but decided it was best not to give away my relief at being let off the hook. Reading theme papers was not my favorite form of recreation.
“Mrs. Newberry, my son and I do wish you the best of luck on your next book. We’ll both look forward to reading it.
The boy piped up. “Are you coming to my school, again?”
“If I’m invited,” I chirped. He likely wants another free period; anything but algebra .
I felt like the biggest fraud. I thanked the endearing mother but couldn’t look her straight in the eyes. Henry extended his hand. His long, dark eyelashes swept the back of his glasses.
What a nice kid he is, I concluded. I, on the other hand, was an absolute jerk.
His mother sighed. “Thank you for your offer to read Henry’s work. Maybe he’ll be more enthused when next we meet.”
“I’m sure he will be.”
As I hurriedly gathered groceries and pushed my cart to the check-out line, I felt lower than dirt. First a liar, now a hypocrite. I reviewed our conversation in my mind. Should I have explained to the mother and son that I simply have very little to say just now ? Nothing is worse than writing simply because you think you should. Yes, that’s what I should have said. I could have sounded lofty and profound.
Why is it that one always thinks of a perfect response five minutes after the opportunity passes?
I loaded my supplies in my car and drove from the parking lot.
The truth was, it was well past time for me to get back to writing, if for no other reason than to please Henry and his mother. A sudden clap of thunder rallied my attention. Drat , it was looking as if I would be stuck inside the condo for a while. Or was God Himself now speaking to me? Was He sentencing Honey Newberry to a writer’s prison?
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