Read Online Helen Keller in Love by Kristin Cashore - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristin Cashore
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led me toward the cabin. I stumbled over the rocky path, the damp air of the woods around us. Peter pulled open the cabin door and the musty odor of bathing suits and picnic baskets reminded me of summers on King’s Pond.
“We’ll tell Annie—and your mother when she gets here. Just not yet,” Peter said.
“But when? We can’t hide out here all day. The second Annie sees you she’ll have you driven to the train.”
“More like she’ll have me shot.” Peter laughed. “I saw her myself at breakfast. If looks could kill, you’d be digging my grave right now.”
“And get this dress dirty?” I picked up the hem of my favorite sassy blue dress. “Sorry, but you’d have to call the undertaker yourself.”
“Your concernis touching. Still, we have to tell her.”
“Tell her what, exactly?” I cocked my head. That morning over a hurried breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries in our kitchen, Peter dabbed at bits of blueberry staining my mouth as I told him Annie wanted to replace him.
“We’ll tell Annie that I’m staying put. The rental house is mine, I’m your private secretary, and that’s that.”
“And that’s because … ?”
“That’s because we’re …” Peter stopped.
“We’re what?” I was still a post-Victorian woman. No matter how much the people Annie and I knew preached free love, I still couldn’t claim a man as my own.
“We’re …” Still he waited.
“Comrades? I do have a Bolshevik flag hanging in my bedroom.”
“Then you must be armed. May I frisk you?”
“Only if I can frisk you back.”
“But we’re not comrades, we’re not a couple.”
“No.”
“Not in love.”
“Definitely not that.”
“We’re … interested parties.”
“What are we, lawyers?” I laughed again.
“Lawyers?” Peter’s voice turned rough under my fingers. “They commit about as much high crime as bankers, in my book. We’re definitely not lawyers. But we are adults. Two consenting adults.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say more. I’d gone too far. What was I consenting to? I understood Peter didn’t see the complexities of my personal life. He could never really take on the responsibility of caring for me.
“Maybe there are no words for it,” I lied, smoothing Peter’s hair. “But whatever we tell them, at least we’re in this together.”
“Right.” He pulled me toward the cabin. “Come inside.”
“Lead on.”
Somethingwas wrong inside that cabin. I can tell people’s moods by their hands: a shy hand gives off a tentative feel; a bold, brash person’s hand vibrates with fervor. And the liar? The liar’s hand shifts and trembles while the liar’s words say yes, but the hand says, “Don’t listen to me.” I trust what people say with their hands. People control their faces, they don’t want to show their emotions to the world. But their hands? I’ll say this. They give a person away.
I trusted Peter’s hands. I trusted them on me.
But I also trusted how they shook, ever so slightly, that day.
He leaned me against the warm wooden wall and said he wasn’t afraid: with his hands on me he said we would tell Annie and Mother that we were a couple, that he’d stay on as my private secretary, their wishes be damned. But his hands had the soft, marshy feel of someone wanting to flee.
It was his hands that told me what to do next.
“Can you be quiet?” Peter backed me up against the cabin’s wooden wall where every summer I’d hung my bathing suit on the third peg. Far off, I could feel the thrum of a motorboat crossing the pond.
“Can
I
be
quiet
?” I laughed back. I wanted Peter to undo the seedlike buttons of my silk dress. But he reached behind me to grab my bathing suit.
“Why don’t you take off this pretty dress, and put this on? It’s about time I got that swim you promised me.”
“I never break a promise.”
My flirtation was working
.
“I can only swim in circles,” I said, as we headed out into the warm air and across
“We’ll tell Annie—and your mother when she gets here. Just not yet,” Peter said.
“But when? We can’t hide out here all day. The second Annie sees you she’ll have you driven to the train.”
“More like she’ll have me shot.” Peter laughed. “I saw her myself at breakfast. If looks could kill, you’d be digging my grave right now.”
“And get this dress dirty?” I picked up the hem of my favorite sassy blue dress. “Sorry, but you’d have to call the undertaker yourself.”
“Your concernis touching. Still, we have to tell her.”
“Tell her what, exactly?” I cocked my head. That morning over a hurried breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries in our kitchen, Peter dabbed at bits of blueberry staining my mouth as I told him Annie wanted to replace him.
“We’ll tell Annie that I’m staying put. The rental house is mine, I’m your private secretary, and that’s that.”
“And that’s because … ?”
“That’s because we’re …” Peter stopped.
“We’re what?” I was still a post-Victorian woman. No matter how much the people Annie and I knew preached free love, I still couldn’t claim a man as my own.
“We’re …” Still he waited.
“Comrades? I do have a Bolshevik flag hanging in my bedroom.”
“Then you must be armed. May I frisk you?”
“Only if I can frisk you back.”
“But we’re not comrades, we’re not a couple.”
“No.”
“Not in love.”
“Definitely not that.”
“We’re … interested parties.”
“What are we, lawyers?” I laughed again.
“Lawyers?” Peter’s voice turned rough under my fingers. “They commit about as much high crime as bankers, in my book. We’re definitely not lawyers. But we are adults. Two consenting adults.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say more. I’d gone too far. What was I consenting to? I understood Peter didn’t see the complexities of my personal life. He could never really take on the responsibility of caring for me.
“Maybe there are no words for it,” I lied, smoothing Peter’s hair. “But whatever we tell them, at least we’re in this together.”
“Right.” He pulled me toward the cabin. “Come inside.”
“Lead on.”
Somethingwas wrong inside that cabin. I can tell people’s moods by their hands: a shy hand gives off a tentative feel; a bold, brash person’s hand vibrates with fervor. And the liar? The liar’s hand shifts and trembles while the liar’s words say yes, but the hand says, “Don’t listen to me.” I trust what people say with their hands. People control their faces, they don’t want to show their emotions to the world. But their hands? I’ll say this. They give a person away.
I trusted Peter’s hands. I trusted them on me.
But I also trusted how they shook, ever so slightly, that day.
He leaned me against the warm wooden wall and said he wasn’t afraid: with his hands on me he said we would tell Annie and Mother that we were a couple, that he’d stay on as my private secretary, their wishes be damned. But his hands had the soft, marshy feel of someone wanting to flee.
It was his hands that told me what to do next.
“Can you be quiet?” Peter backed me up against the cabin’s wooden wall where every summer I’d hung my bathing suit on the third peg. Far off, I could feel the thrum of a motorboat crossing the pond.
“Can
I
be
quiet
?” I laughed back. I wanted Peter to undo the seedlike buttons of my silk dress. But he reached behind me to grab my bathing suit.
“Why don’t you take off this pretty dress, and put this on? It’s about time I got that swim you promised me.”
“I never break a promise.”
My flirtation was working
.
“I can only swim in circles,” I said, as we headed out into the warm air and across
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