Read Online Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) by Celia Jerome - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Celia Jerome
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theyâll put down as cause.â
Elladaire was fussy, which was a polite way of saying she was difficult. She spit the oatmeal all over my sleep shirt, threw the bottle across the kitchen, mashed her bananas and Cheerios into my hair when I picked her up, and peed on the couch while I was changing her. Her eyes filled with tears, her lower lip started to quiver.
I stood ready with wet towels and a fire extinguisher. I was exhausted, hungry, and filthy, and couldnât do anything about any of it because I couldnât take my eyes off her for a second, not until she took a nap. Here I was, wiped out and at my witâs end, and it wasnât nine oâclock in the morning yet.
Bad mother that I am, I found some idiot kidsâ show on the TV. A goofy clown sang and danced and flashed bright colors. Elladaire was fascinated. I put the wet towel on my forehead.
Then I heard the thunder. The rain was bad enough, but now we had an electric storm, too? Elladaire and I could hide in the bathroom. No, then sheâd grow up afraid of lightning like me. For now she just seemed startled.
I wondered about the fireflies. Where did they go in the rain? For that matter, where did butterflies and ladybugs go so their wings didnât get wet? Under trees, I guess, though Iâve never seen any during storms.
I waited for the next flash or boom, but the thunder rolled on, louder, closer. Elladaireâs eyes got wider.
That was not thunder, I realized, but a truck barreling too fast down the private access. It was most likely a wholesaler desperate for Grandma Eveâs fresh produce. Or a manure deliveryman in a hurry to get back on the main street before our dirt road turned to muck in the rain. What if Elladaire and I had been walking down to the farm? Worse, what if the loud noise frightened the baby into crying? I felt like shouting to the dumbass driver what I thought, except this wasnât mid-Manhattan, and I couldnât use those words in front of a child.
The truck screeched to a halt in front of my property. Maybe Iâd have the chance to vent my anger after all. I went to the door and saw a battered, mud-spattered camper stopped there.
âYouâre lost,â I yelled, then pointed. âThe farm is that way, and you are driving too fast.â
The driver of the rusty RV rolled down his window. âYou Willow Tate?â
A mad stalker? Elladaireâs drugged-out father? An avid entomologist? An irate tourist whose campground was shut because of the brush fire danger?
âYes, I am Willow Tate.â I hoped my voice didnât sound as shaky as I felt. A stranger was getting out of the camper. He wasnât real big or broad, but he seemed threatening anyway. I couldnât tell his age from here, not through the rain, but he didnât move stiffly like an old man, or fluidly like a young one. He just seemed tightly coiled, controlled, determined. His light hair was buzzed short, but he had a scruffy start-up beard, maybe to cover some of the angry red marks on his left cheek. Damn, heâd been in a firefight with the lightning bugs, and lost. Now he was blaming me.
He took a couple of steps up the path to the porch where I waited. I clutched Elladaire a little closer to my chest. If he got too close, made a hostile move, I was ready. I wasnât any meek little pen pusher waiting to be shoved around. I had a weapon and I wasnât afraid to use it. âIâm sorry, baby,â I whispered to Elladaire as I got ready to pinch her into crying. If this angry man thought the fireflies were bad, he hadnât seen a flame-throwing toddler.
He came closer still. Little Red barked furiously and ran past me to attack his ankle. The man looked down. He had more scars or burns on the top of his head. I couldnât help my imagination taking over. Here was the villain of my fire wizard book. This was one evil dude, the perfect foil to my do-good hero. I could see them
Elladaire was fussy, which was a polite way of saying she was difficult. She spit the oatmeal all over my sleep shirt, threw the bottle across the kitchen, mashed her bananas and Cheerios into my hair when I picked her up, and peed on the couch while I was changing her. Her eyes filled with tears, her lower lip started to quiver.
I stood ready with wet towels and a fire extinguisher. I was exhausted, hungry, and filthy, and couldnât do anything about any of it because I couldnât take my eyes off her for a second, not until she took a nap. Here I was, wiped out and at my witâs end, and it wasnât nine oâclock in the morning yet.
Bad mother that I am, I found some idiot kidsâ show on the TV. A goofy clown sang and danced and flashed bright colors. Elladaire was fascinated. I put the wet towel on my forehead.
Then I heard the thunder. The rain was bad enough, but now we had an electric storm, too? Elladaire and I could hide in the bathroom. No, then sheâd grow up afraid of lightning like me. For now she just seemed startled.
I wondered about the fireflies. Where did they go in the rain? For that matter, where did butterflies and ladybugs go so their wings didnât get wet? Under trees, I guess, though Iâve never seen any during storms.
I waited for the next flash or boom, but the thunder rolled on, louder, closer. Elladaireâs eyes got wider.
That was not thunder, I realized, but a truck barreling too fast down the private access. It was most likely a wholesaler desperate for Grandma Eveâs fresh produce. Or a manure deliveryman in a hurry to get back on the main street before our dirt road turned to muck in the rain. What if Elladaire and I had been walking down to the farm? Worse, what if the loud noise frightened the baby into crying? I felt like shouting to the dumbass driver what I thought, except this wasnât mid-Manhattan, and I couldnât use those words in front of a child.
The truck screeched to a halt in front of my property. Maybe Iâd have the chance to vent my anger after all. I went to the door and saw a battered, mud-spattered camper stopped there.
âYouâre lost,â I yelled, then pointed. âThe farm is that way, and you are driving too fast.â
The driver of the rusty RV rolled down his window. âYou Willow Tate?â
A mad stalker? Elladaireâs drugged-out father? An avid entomologist? An irate tourist whose campground was shut because of the brush fire danger?
âYes, I am Willow Tate.â I hoped my voice didnât sound as shaky as I felt. A stranger was getting out of the camper. He wasnât real big or broad, but he seemed threatening anyway. I couldnât tell his age from here, not through the rain, but he didnât move stiffly like an old man, or fluidly like a young one. He just seemed tightly coiled, controlled, determined. His light hair was buzzed short, but he had a scruffy start-up beard, maybe to cover some of the angry red marks on his left cheek. Damn, heâd been in a firefight with the lightning bugs, and lost. Now he was blaming me.
He took a couple of steps up the path to the porch where I waited. I clutched Elladaire a little closer to my chest. If he got too close, made a hostile move, I was ready. I wasnât any meek little pen pusher waiting to be shoved around. I had a weapon and I wasnât afraid to use it. âIâm sorry, baby,â I whispered to Elladaire as I got ready to pinch her into crying. If this angry man thought the fireflies were bad, he hadnât seen a flame-throwing toddler.
He came closer still. Little Red barked furiously and ran past me to attack his ankle. The man looked down. He had more scars or burns on the top of his head. I couldnât help my imagination taking over. Here was the villain of my fire wizard book. This was one evil dude, the perfect foil to my do-good hero. I could see them
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