Read Online Death by Marriage by Blair Bancroft - Free Book Online
Authors: Blair Bancroft
Ads: Link
didn’t recognize evil, even when it wormed its way right into my bed.
Tonight it was Crystal’s turn to cook. She’d gotten up early this morning and popped all the ingredients for a pot roast with vegies into a crockpot. Voilà ! Instant supper. Mom had called to say she had a late house showing, rare on a Saturday afternoon. Since this was the age of the cellphone, we had the table set and I was pouring scotch onto a tumbler full of ice cubes when she walked through the door. She tossed her purse onto a marquetry side table in the foyer and grabbed the glass.
“Bless you!” Mom said, and drained half the scotch in one swallow. Jo—short for Jo-Ann—Wallace, is an inch or so shorter than I am, but she makes up for it in attitude. Or maybe it’s what they called “carriage” back in the nineteenth century. That thing where girls had to walk around with books on their heads so they’d learn to stand up straight and hold their heads high. Mom sails through life like a Coast Guard cutter after drug smugglers. She inherited a small-time real estate business, which my grandfather ran more like a hobby, and skyrocketed it into the top agency in Sarasota County, heavily aided by advertising as Jo Wallace Real Estate in an era when Gulfcoast women did not dabble in real estate or any profession except teacher, librarian, nurse, and hair-stylist. Many a customer had been shocked to discover “Jo” was female. But, in the end, it hadn’t kept them from buying.
No one has ever seen a gray hair on Mom’s head. It’s as beautifully sandy blonde as it was when I was a child, shaped into vaguely tousled designer perfection by the owner/operator of Beauty Is Us, Golden Beach’s finest salon. She may have put on a pound or five, but she still looks as if she belongs on a runway instead of fighting the daily cut-throat battle of real estate in Golden Beach. Whether wearing a pantsuit, skirt suit, or tailored dress, Mom’s the ultimate model of a professional businesswoman, complete with unchipped manicure and pedicure.
“Pot roast,” Mom chortled, taking her place at the head of the table. “Crystal, you are a treasure.”
Crystal beamed. She needed that, I realized, afte r the day we’d had.
Mom looked up, fork poised halfway to her mouth. Concern clouded her sharp eyes. “Scott is late. Don’t tell me there was another emergency.”
“I’m not sure he went to work,” I said, squirming. “I had a call from Zack Stevens about one o’clock asking if I knew where he was.” Zack managed the marina at the jetties, and he had added with more than a hint of annoyance that Jeb Brannigan was working his ass off trying to keep up with distress calls from weekend boaters.
“Oh.” One word that concealed a hundred meanings. Mom loved Scott, but she’d given up her illusions years ago. Someday Scott might grow up. Evidentl y, it wasn’t going to be today.
I could tell Mom shared my bad feeling about his absence. After last night, Scott needed support from his family, and I had my doubts about the kind of sympathy he might be getting elsewhere. Okay, so where Scott is concerned, I tend to hover. Unfortunately, he’d never given us any reason not to.
After supper I cleaned up, while Mom went off to put her day’s notes into the computer and Crystal did her laundry. Then I climbed the stairs to the third floor. Saturday night in Golden Beach and I had a date in the attic with Randi Wolff. It’s not quite an attic. Half the third floor was a gloomy attic; the other half had been designed for two bedrooms and a bath for live-in “help,” an era that was gone in less than a decade after the house was built. Until the birth of DreamWear, the rooms had remained empty.
To make a workshop, we’d taken out the wall between the two bedrooms and added a large skylight. I had a design table, a cutting table, and a sewing machine table, surrounded by cabinets along all four walls. Mom and I had also tackled nearly
Tonight it was Crystal’s turn to cook. She’d gotten up early this morning and popped all the ingredients for a pot roast with vegies into a crockpot. Voilà ! Instant supper. Mom had called to say she had a late house showing, rare on a Saturday afternoon. Since this was the age of the cellphone, we had the table set and I was pouring scotch onto a tumbler full of ice cubes when she walked through the door. She tossed her purse onto a marquetry side table in the foyer and grabbed the glass.
“Bless you!” Mom said, and drained half the scotch in one swallow. Jo—short for Jo-Ann—Wallace, is an inch or so shorter than I am, but she makes up for it in attitude. Or maybe it’s what they called “carriage” back in the nineteenth century. That thing where girls had to walk around with books on their heads so they’d learn to stand up straight and hold their heads high. Mom sails through life like a Coast Guard cutter after drug smugglers. She inherited a small-time real estate business, which my grandfather ran more like a hobby, and skyrocketed it into the top agency in Sarasota County, heavily aided by advertising as Jo Wallace Real Estate in an era when Gulfcoast women did not dabble in real estate or any profession except teacher, librarian, nurse, and hair-stylist. Many a customer had been shocked to discover “Jo” was female. But, in the end, it hadn’t kept them from buying.
No one has ever seen a gray hair on Mom’s head. It’s as beautifully sandy blonde as it was when I was a child, shaped into vaguely tousled designer perfection by the owner/operator of Beauty Is Us, Golden Beach’s finest salon. She may have put on a pound or five, but she still looks as if she belongs on a runway instead of fighting the daily cut-throat battle of real estate in Golden Beach. Whether wearing a pantsuit, skirt suit, or tailored dress, Mom’s the ultimate model of a professional businesswoman, complete with unchipped manicure and pedicure.
“Pot roast,” Mom chortled, taking her place at the head of the table. “Crystal, you are a treasure.”
Crystal beamed. She needed that, I realized, afte r the day we’d had.
Mom looked up, fork poised halfway to her mouth. Concern clouded her sharp eyes. “Scott is late. Don’t tell me there was another emergency.”
“I’m not sure he went to work,” I said, squirming. “I had a call from Zack Stevens about one o’clock asking if I knew where he was.” Zack managed the marina at the jetties, and he had added with more than a hint of annoyance that Jeb Brannigan was working his ass off trying to keep up with distress calls from weekend boaters.
“Oh.” One word that concealed a hundred meanings. Mom loved Scott, but she’d given up her illusions years ago. Someday Scott might grow up. Evidentl y, it wasn’t going to be today.
I could tell Mom shared my bad feeling about his absence. After last night, Scott needed support from his family, and I had my doubts about the kind of sympathy he might be getting elsewhere. Okay, so where Scott is concerned, I tend to hover. Unfortunately, he’d never given us any reason not to.
After supper I cleaned up, while Mom went off to put her day’s notes into the computer and Crystal did her laundry. Then I climbed the stairs to the third floor. Saturday night in Golden Beach and I had a date in the attic with Randi Wolff. It’s not quite an attic. Half the third floor was a gloomy attic; the other half had been designed for two bedrooms and a bath for live-in “help,” an era that was gone in less than a decade after the house was built. Until the birth of DreamWear, the rooms had remained empty.
To make a workshop, we’d taken out the wall between the two bedrooms and added a large skylight. I had a design table, a cutting table, and a sewing machine table, surrounded by cabinets along all four walls. Mom and I had also tackled nearly
Similar Books
