Read Online Everybody's Daughter by Marsha Qualey - Free Book Online
Authors: Marsha Qualey
Tags: Young Adult
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yourself comfortable while I get things. The tea water is hot, so it will just be a minute.”
Beamer slipped out of her ski boots and left them next to a jumbled pile of socks, sneakers, and boots by the door. She looked for a closet or hook for her jacket, found none, so laid it with Martin’s on the chair. She began browsing.
She had trespassed here a few times on hiking and skiing trips with friends. They had looked in through the windows and once, caught in a rainstorm, had forced the frail lock and sheltered inside. The lock had slipped easily; others had been in before them.
She recognized the few pieces of big furniture—the scarred table and chairs, the lumpy and worn armchair, the iron-framed bed in the corner. They had all belonged to old Mr. Dunn. Everything else she knew must be Martin’s, and the place was cluttered with his belongings. Books were piled on the table, clothes heaped on the bed, papers strewn on the floor, socks hung to dry on the baseboard heater. A disassembled bicycle hung on hooks on a wall, and a small but probably growing pyramid of beer and soda cans stood in a corner.
This is sexist, thought Beamer as she surveyed the clutter, but I don’t get the feeling there are any women living here. A crystal vase holding two very dead roses stood on the telephone table next to the bed. Beamer tapped the vase, and petals fell off onto a piece of paper. She brushed the petals aside and quickly, inadvertently, read the writing on the paper. “Melissa, Meredith, Kara, Breanna,” she read silently. Each name was followed by a phone number. Beamer shook her head. This guy doesn’t waste any time, she thought. She looked around the room. “A bachelor pad,” she whispered. “I’m in a real-life bachelor pad.” Still, she had to admit it was warm and comfortable. And quiet—no cackling horde of Woodies. I like it, she decided, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She lifted her hands to warm in front of the briskly burning fire.
“Everything’s ready,” announced Martin as he carried a tray out of the tiny kitchen, which was squeezed into a corner of the big room. He set the tray on the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Of course, it would probably look like this anyway. I’m not a natural homemaker.”
Beamer pointed to the freshly baked bread on the tray he had just set down. “Homemade bread? That’s pretty good homemaking.”
“Not really. It’s frozen dough. You just thaw it and toss it in the oven. I’m not sure how good it is, but it makes the place smell nice. It was really musty in here.”
Beamer held a hand over her steaming tea mug, then wiped the wet palm on her thigh. “It looks like you’ve settled in. What are you doing up here? Ice fishing?” Or are you after some other prey? she added silently, recalling the list of names.
Martin laughed. “I’ve never been ice fishing in my life, can you believe it? One of the men helping at your store couldn’t.”
“Which one?”
“Blond and no beard. He was quite friendly.”
“That was Daniel. ‘Friendly’ hardly says enough.”
“Anyway, I am going to be working for a semester at the community radio station in Grand River. It’s an internship. I’m a journalism major at Northwestern University.”
Beamer couldn’t restrain the groan. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I’m not too fond of reporters.”
Martin nodded. “I saw the article in the paper, and I’ve been following the bombing story all week. I thought the feature today was really nice. But we don’t have to talk about it. For once I will stifle my natural inclination to snoop.”
“Good.” They heard the cat scratching on the door. Martin let her in. After weaving through his legs, she walked to Beamer and took possession of her lap. “Hey, girl,” Beamer whispered, smoothing the black fur. “So why did you pick this radio station? Wouldn’t you
Beamer slipped out of her ski boots and left them next to a jumbled pile of socks, sneakers, and boots by the door. She looked for a closet or hook for her jacket, found none, so laid it with Martin’s on the chair. She began browsing.
She had trespassed here a few times on hiking and skiing trips with friends. They had looked in through the windows and once, caught in a rainstorm, had forced the frail lock and sheltered inside. The lock had slipped easily; others had been in before them.
She recognized the few pieces of big furniture—the scarred table and chairs, the lumpy and worn armchair, the iron-framed bed in the corner. They had all belonged to old Mr. Dunn. Everything else she knew must be Martin’s, and the place was cluttered with his belongings. Books were piled on the table, clothes heaped on the bed, papers strewn on the floor, socks hung to dry on the baseboard heater. A disassembled bicycle hung on hooks on a wall, and a small but probably growing pyramid of beer and soda cans stood in a corner.
This is sexist, thought Beamer as she surveyed the clutter, but I don’t get the feeling there are any women living here. A crystal vase holding two very dead roses stood on the telephone table next to the bed. Beamer tapped the vase, and petals fell off onto a piece of paper. She brushed the petals aside and quickly, inadvertently, read the writing on the paper. “Melissa, Meredith, Kara, Breanna,” she read silently. Each name was followed by a phone number. Beamer shook her head. This guy doesn’t waste any time, she thought. She looked around the room. “A bachelor pad,” she whispered. “I’m in a real-life bachelor pad.” Still, she had to admit it was warm and comfortable. And quiet—no cackling horde of Woodies. I like it, she decided, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She lifted her hands to warm in front of the briskly burning fire.
“Everything’s ready,” announced Martin as he carried a tray out of the tiny kitchen, which was squeezed into a corner of the big room. He set the tray on the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Of course, it would probably look like this anyway. I’m not a natural homemaker.”
Beamer pointed to the freshly baked bread on the tray he had just set down. “Homemade bread? That’s pretty good homemaking.”
“Not really. It’s frozen dough. You just thaw it and toss it in the oven. I’m not sure how good it is, but it makes the place smell nice. It was really musty in here.”
Beamer held a hand over her steaming tea mug, then wiped the wet palm on her thigh. “It looks like you’ve settled in. What are you doing up here? Ice fishing?” Or are you after some other prey? she added silently, recalling the list of names.
Martin laughed. “I’ve never been ice fishing in my life, can you believe it? One of the men helping at your store couldn’t.”
“Which one?”
“Blond and no beard. He was quite friendly.”
“That was Daniel. ‘Friendly’ hardly says enough.”
“Anyway, I am going to be working for a semester at the community radio station in Grand River. It’s an internship. I’m a journalism major at Northwestern University.”
Beamer couldn’t restrain the groan. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I’m not too fond of reporters.”
Martin nodded. “I saw the article in the paper, and I’ve been following the bombing story all week. I thought the feature today was really nice. But we don’t have to talk about it. For once I will stifle my natural inclination to snoop.”
“Good.” They heard the cat scratching on the door. Martin let her in. After weaving through his legs, she walked to Beamer and took possession of her lap. “Hey, girl,” Beamer whispered, smoothing the black fur. “So why did you pick this radio station? Wouldn’t you
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