Read Online Diamonds and Cole by Micheal Maxwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Micheal Maxwell
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Sicily by the grace of Saint Teresa.
A truck’s air horn blasted Cole out of his reverie. The light changed and with it his memories. No longer in the quiet countryside of his youth, the unforgiving traffic reminded him of that. Jolted back to the present, Cole floored the accelerator, shot into the intersection, and made the left turn toward Vintage Glenn Estates.
The one constant in the landscape was irrigation canals. Every mile or so, there was a small bridge over a concrete river. As a kid, Cole and everyone he knew swam in them. Now, they looked very small and dirty, and would be the last places he would take a cool dip on a 100-plus summer day.
The reality of where he was going and what he was about to do began to form a knot in Cole’s stomach. His first thoughts about meeting Allen Christopher were violent and colored in blood. Cole knew that was not the path he would take, but playing through scenes of bludgeoning Christopher with various objects helped vent his anger. He tried a litany of curses and profane names in his mental role-playing that helped hone the edge of his hatred for what this man had done to Ellie. What he would actually say and do were as much a mystery to Cole as the reason he was driving “out in the country” to see him.
Ahead on the left, Cole spotted a tall stone fence that curved into what the sign called “Vintage Glenn Estates, The Place to Be Who You Really Are.” This place would be who Allen Christopher really was, because it wasn’t the house he shared with Ellie. When they were first married, Ellie told Cole they had bought a single-story Victorian house built in the ‘20s. It was on a tree-lined street in the old part of town, across from a large park. Ellie described the things she had done with it, the way she had decorated. She was so proud, that she always had a Charles Dickens Christmas party during the holidays. She had confided to Cole that, as bad as her marriage was, she still took great pride in her home and her lovely things. Cole was sure she didn’t know that Christopher had sold the house.
Cole drove through the stone gates of Vintage Glenn Estates and found Peppertree Lane with no trouble; 1438 was in the middle of the block. The garage door was up, and the interior was nearly void of the stuff that usually crowds out all but the smallest car. The landscaping was obviously new; there were lines in the sod where it hadn’t grown together. Cole pulled up across the street.
A young man in a pair of baggy shorts and a faded blue T-shirt was coming out of the garage. An early ‘80s BMW was parked in front of the house behind a fairly new Mustang. In the driveway was a new Mercedes Benz. A young couple with a stroller passed Cole on the sidewalk and gave him a less-than-neighborly glare. He waved and smiled.
A door on the rear wall of the garage was open, giving Cole a straight shot into the backyard. As he watched, a young woman in sweatpants and a tank top walked by the door several times with a shovel. The young man who Cole took for Chad pushed a wheelbarrow full of peat moss behind the young woman who must have been his sister Ann. Then, there he was, Allen Christopher, carrying a sapling tree in a five-gallon pot.
Cole got out of the car and crossed the street. He had never seen such an empty, sterile garage in his life. The walls were taped and textured, but not painted. A small stack of paint cans, probably for touch up, sat in the corner. A recycling bin was on the wall opposite the water heater, and a snowboard and two pairs of skis were hung on the right wall. On the wall next to the rear door was a white plastic sign that said “Mercedes Benz Parking Only.” The floor was swept clean, the broom leaning strangely out of place next to a door that led into the house. Cole walked into the backyard.
“When’d you move in?” Cole said, trying to sound friendly.
“We’re not buying anything!” Christopher called across the yard.
“Not
A truck’s air horn blasted Cole out of his reverie. The light changed and with it his memories. No longer in the quiet countryside of his youth, the unforgiving traffic reminded him of that. Jolted back to the present, Cole floored the accelerator, shot into the intersection, and made the left turn toward Vintage Glenn Estates.
The one constant in the landscape was irrigation canals. Every mile or so, there was a small bridge over a concrete river. As a kid, Cole and everyone he knew swam in them. Now, they looked very small and dirty, and would be the last places he would take a cool dip on a 100-plus summer day.
The reality of where he was going and what he was about to do began to form a knot in Cole’s stomach. His first thoughts about meeting Allen Christopher were violent and colored in blood. Cole knew that was not the path he would take, but playing through scenes of bludgeoning Christopher with various objects helped vent his anger. He tried a litany of curses and profane names in his mental role-playing that helped hone the edge of his hatred for what this man had done to Ellie. What he would actually say and do were as much a mystery to Cole as the reason he was driving “out in the country” to see him.
Ahead on the left, Cole spotted a tall stone fence that curved into what the sign called “Vintage Glenn Estates, The Place to Be Who You Really Are.” This place would be who Allen Christopher really was, because it wasn’t the house he shared with Ellie. When they were first married, Ellie told Cole they had bought a single-story Victorian house built in the ‘20s. It was on a tree-lined street in the old part of town, across from a large park. Ellie described the things she had done with it, the way she had decorated. She was so proud, that she always had a Charles Dickens Christmas party during the holidays. She had confided to Cole that, as bad as her marriage was, she still took great pride in her home and her lovely things. Cole was sure she didn’t know that Christopher had sold the house.
Cole drove through the stone gates of Vintage Glenn Estates and found Peppertree Lane with no trouble; 1438 was in the middle of the block. The garage door was up, and the interior was nearly void of the stuff that usually crowds out all but the smallest car. The landscaping was obviously new; there were lines in the sod where it hadn’t grown together. Cole pulled up across the street.
A young man in a pair of baggy shorts and a faded blue T-shirt was coming out of the garage. An early ‘80s BMW was parked in front of the house behind a fairly new Mustang. In the driveway was a new Mercedes Benz. A young couple with a stroller passed Cole on the sidewalk and gave him a less-than-neighborly glare. He waved and smiled.
A door on the rear wall of the garage was open, giving Cole a straight shot into the backyard. As he watched, a young woman in sweatpants and a tank top walked by the door several times with a shovel. The young man who Cole took for Chad pushed a wheelbarrow full of peat moss behind the young woman who must have been his sister Ann. Then, there he was, Allen Christopher, carrying a sapling tree in a five-gallon pot.
Cole got out of the car and crossed the street. He had never seen such an empty, sterile garage in his life. The walls were taped and textured, but not painted. A small stack of paint cans, probably for touch up, sat in the corner. A recycling bin was on the wall opposite the water heater, and a snowboard and two pairs of skis were hung on the right wall. On the wall next to the rear door was a white plastic sign that said “Mercedes Benz Parking Only.” The floor was swept clean, the broom leaning strangely out of place next to a door that led into the house. Cole walked into the backyard.
“When’d you move in?” Cole said, trying to sound friendly.
“We’re not buying anything!” Christopher called across the yard.
“Not
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