Read Online Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) by Alice J. Wisler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alice J. Wisler
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congested with geriatric confinement. I flex my arms a few times and in the reflection of a parked Cadillac check my hair. Still black, coarse. There is no graying or balding. I take my brush from my purse, enjoying the way the bristles run down my strands, making my hair full of life. Being almost thirty isn’t bad at all today.
Inside Minnie’s car, I fasten my seat belt. As she backs the Intrepid out of the driveway, I recite my verb tenses. Leave, leaving, left. Go, going, gone. The home makes Zane afraid of germs. I just like to make sure my brain still works. I roll down the window and fill my lungs with pine mulch that is being spread around a nearby hotel’s grounds, the scent of turnip greens and boiled potatoes far behind.
“That wasn’t too bad, now was it?” Minnie heads south on Route 12.
“No.” Sorry, Mom, but I will not tell the whole truth right now.
As we continue toward the inlet bridge, I try to ignore the fact that she’s following a pickup much too closely. My palms begin to sweat. Before I can say a word, the truck stops, Minnie’s foot slams the brake, and we both lurch forward.
I gasp.
The truck makes a left turn; Minnie accelerates. “Why people can’t use their turn signals is beyond me.”
I find my breath as we pass a twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit sign.
Moments later, I see a tear making its way down my friend’s cheek.
“Minnie, she is so lucky to have you.” I let my words come out like a lullaby for a toddler who needs assurance that the world is safe.
She stares at a battered Buick with a Kentucky license plate in front of us. “Will you play the flute?”
We are now on the bridge, and I can see beaches dotted with people and lined with an array of billowy umbrellas and colorful chairs. Closer to us are clusters of fishermen with rods waiting for the perfect catch of the day.
“The flute?”
“At her funeral.”
I almost say that she should not think this way, that her mother is not going to die, that she’ll be giving piano lessons again in no time. But that’s not the truth, either.
“Yes,” I say and feel tears bite the backs of my eyes.
“ ‘Jesus Loves Me’ would be good.”
That’s one of the first songs Irvy taught Minnie on the piano.
I find my voice. “I can do that.”
“Thanks.” She sniffs twice, then, “No backing out.”
10
My dad started me on making lists, informing me that life goes smoother when you can read what you need to do.
Today’s to-do list has the words buy flowers on the top. I know just the kind I want to buy for Minnie. She’s always been fond of pink roses; there were vases of them at her wedding, and they were in her bridal bouquet.
Last night when I got up to go to the bathroom, wishing I hadn’t drunk three glasses of iced tea at dinner, I heard muffled weeping from Minnie’s bedroom. I paused at her door to listen. I considered knocking to see what was wrong, but the noise soon decreased. My desire to go back to a warm bed overruled.
This morning I woke with two thoughts on my mind. The first was that my article about Davis and his realty business is due on Selena’s desk by five today. The second was the reason Minnie was crying last night. Today is an anniversary that no one wants to have on his or her calendar. A year ago Lawrence died when an angry sea capsized his fishing boat.
When Minnie leaves for her shift at Over the Edge, she lets me know that this afternoon she’ll be at Sheerly’s. This is a job I got for my friend when she confided in me about her need for another part-time job in order to pay her part of the rent. Minnie isn’t licensed to cut hair, but she sweeps it up with the broom, makes hair appointments, collects payments, and orders hair care products. She says Sheerly is easy to work for and always sings or hums. “And the things I learn about everybody there,” she says in a hushed voice. “Sheerly’s clients love to share . . . a lot of stuff.” My guess is
Inside Minnie’s car, I fasten my seat belt. As she backs the Intrepid out of the driveway, I recite my verb tenses. Leave, leaving, left. Go, going, gone. The home makes Zane afraid of germs. I just like to make sure my brain still works. I roll down the window and fill my lungs with pine mulch that is being spread around a nearby hotel’s grounds, the scent of turnip greens and boiled potatoes far behind.
“That wasn’t too bad, now was it?” Minnie heads south on Route 12.
“No.” Sorry, Mom, but I will not tell the whole truth right now.
As we continue toward the inlet bridge, I try to ignore the fact that she’s following a pickup much too closely. My palms begin to sweat. Before I can say a word, the truck stops, Minnie’s foot slams the brake, and we both lurch forward.
I gasp.
The truck makes a left turn; Minnie accelerates. “Why people can’t use their turn signals is beyond me.”
I find my breath as we pass a twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit sign.
Moments later, I see a tear making its way down my friend’s cheek.
“Minnie, she is so lucky to have you.” I let my words come out like a lullaby for a toddler who needs assurance that the world is safe.
She stares at a battered Buick with a Kentucky license plate in front of us. “Will you play the flute?”
We are now on the bridge, and I can see beaches dotted with people and lined with an array of billowy umbrellas and colorful chairs. Closer to us are clusters of fishermen with rods waiting for the perfect catch of the day.
“The flute?”
“At her funeral.”
I almost say that she should not think this way, that her mother is not going to die, that she’ll be giving piano lessons again in no time. But that’s not the truth, either.
“Yes,” I say and feel tears bite the backs of my eyes.
“ ‘Jesus Loves Me’ would be good.”
That’s one of the first songs Irvy taught Minnie on the piano.
I find my voice. “I can do that.”
“Thanks.” She sniffs twice, then, “No backing out.”
10
My dad started me on making lists, informing me that life goes smoother when you can read what you need to do.
Today’s to-do list has the words buy flowers on the top. I know just the kind I want to buy for Minnie. She’s always been fond of pink roses; there were vases of them at her wedding, and they were in her bridal bouquet.
Last night when I got up to go to the bathroom, wishing I hadn’t drunk three glasses of iced tea at dinner, I heard muffled weeping from Minnie’s bedroom. I paused at her door to listen. I considered knocking to see what was wrong, but the noise soon decreased. My desire to go back to a warm bed overruled.
This morning I woke with two thoughts on my mind. The first was that my article about Davis and his realty business is due on Selena’s desk by five today. The second was the reason Minnie was crying last night. Today is an anniversary that no one wants to have on his or her calendar. A year ago Lawrence died when an angry sea capsized his fishing boat.
When Minnie leaves for her shift at Over the Edge, she lets me know that this afternoon she’ll be at Sheerly’s. This is a job I got for my friend when she confided in me about her need for another part-time job in order to pay her part of the rent. Minnie isn’t licensed to cut hair, but she sweeps it up with the broom, makes hair appointments, collects payments, and orders hair care products. She says Sheerly is easy to work for and always sings or hums. “And the things I learn about everybody there,” she says in a hushed voice. “Sheerly’s clients love to share . . . a lot of stuff.” My guess is
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