Read Online Hemingway's Girl by Erika Robuck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Erika Robuck
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Let’s get you inside in the shade.”
That evening, Mariella watched the child’s every move, and felt relieved when it was
time for bed and Lulu seemed well, though especially tired. Eva went to bed early,
leaving Mariella to help the girls wash up. She’d tucked them into the bed they shared
in the tiny room and started out the door, when Lulu called her back in.
“Lie with us,” she said.
Mariella didn’t want to, because she’d had it in the back of her mind that she’d go
to Sloppy Joe’s once they fell asleep. She’d already chosen a dress from her closet
that she rarely wore, andhung it in the bathroom, just in case. She knew that if she lay down with the girls,
she might fall asleep.
“It’s late,” said Mariella.
“Please,” said Lulu. “Tell us about the rich house where you work.”
Mariella sighed and climbed into the bed. Lulu had asked to hear about the rich house
every night since she started work at the Hemingways’. She was pretty sure her younger
sisters could tell about it themselves. But she indulged them, taking them into the
house in their minds, past the peacocks and huge tropical flowers, past the wrought-iron
railings, through the rooms with their fancy chandeliers reflecting off rounded windows
and wall mirrors, across the walkway to the writing cottage, where dead animals guarded
the words of the famous writer.
“It’s the lion that guards the cottage,” said Mariella. “Anyone who enters first sees
its jaws wide-open on the floor, and dares not disturb it.”
“What is a lion?” asked Lulu slowly, drowsily.
“It’s a big huge cat, with big huge teeth, and a woolly mane of hair like sun rays
around its head.”
“Are you scared it will bite you?”
Mariella thought of how the lion reminded her of Hemingway. She felt warm all over
and thought of his gaze in the cottage, and his touch on her hand when she’d dropped
the towels, and his leg against hers at the bar.
“No.”
Soon the sound of the girls’ rhythmic breathing filled the room. For a moment, Mariella
wanted to melt into the bed with them, but the thought of him pulled her away and
into the bathroom, where she put on the dress she was outgrowing, brushed back her
hair in barrettes, and ran a tube of her mother’s lipstick over her lips. She wouldn’t
allow herself to think it was the hope of running into Hemingway again that drew her
back to the bar.She told herself it was the camaraderie, the freedom, the friendship.
Mariella stepped into Sloppy Joe’s and was suddenly filled with dread at the thought
of seeing Hemingway. Would he think she’d dressed up for him? Had she dressed up for
him? Would he think her too forward? Would he be annoyed? Or would he greet her the
same way he did last weekend? Mariella didn’t even know whether she’d act like she
was looking for him. She didn’t know what she wanted from him even if they met.
A buxom, bleached-blond woman with red lips laughed in the midst of a group of soldiers.
A bottle shattered on the floor near Mariella, and a drunk knocked her into the wall
as he pushed past her to vomit in the street.
Mariella ran her ring finger along her lower lip to smooth the edge of the lipstick
and ran her hands down the front of her dress. She looked at his place at the bar
and, mercifully, Papa wasn’t in his usual seat. Mariella stood on her toes and scanned
the crowd, but her limited height gave her a view only of the faces closest to her.
The crowd opened and she saw a man who looked familiar, buried in the shadows at the
end of the bar. He wore a white shirt tucked into blue dungarees. His dark hair was
clipped close to his head. He had a young face, almost feminine. But his eyes were
old and blue, and one had a yellowed, fading bruise around it, and a scar like a line.
He was smoking, and the tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange when he inhaled.
Gavin.
His gaze met hers,
That evening, Mariella watched the child’s every move, and felt relieved when it was
time for bed and Lulu seemed well, though especially tired. Eva went to bed early,
leaving Mariella to help the girls wash up. She’d tucked them into the bed they shared
in the tiny room and started out the door, when Lulu called her back in.
“Lie with us,” she said.
Mariella didn’t want to, because she’d had it in the back of her mind that she’d go
to Sloppy Joe’s once they fell asleep. She’d already chosen a dress from her closet
that she rarely wore, andhung it in the bathroom, just in case. She knew that if she lay down with the girls,
she might fall asleep.
“It’s late,” said Mariella.
“Please,” said Lulu. “Tell us about the rich house where you work.”
Mariella sighed and climbed into the bed. Lulu had asked to hear about the rich house
every night since she started work at the Hemingways’. She was pretty sure her younger
sisters could tell about it themselves. But she indulged them, taking them into the
house in their minds, past the peacocks and huge tropical flowers, past the wrought-iron
railings, through the rooms with their fancy chandeliers reflecting off rounded windows
and wall mirrors, across the walkway to the writing cottage, where dead animals guarded
the words of the famous writer.
“It’s the lion that guards the cottage,” said Mariella. “Anyone who enters first sees
its jaws wide-open on the floor, and dares not disturb it.”
“What is a lion?” asked Lulu slowly, drowsily.
“It’s a big huge cat, with big huge teeth, and a woolly mane of hair like sun rays
around its head.”
“Are you scared it will bite you?”
Mariella thought of how the lion reminded her of Hemingway. She felt warm all over
and thought of his gaze in the cottage, and his touch on her hand when she’d dropped
the towels, and his leg against hers at the bar.
“No.”
Soon the sound of the girls’ rhythmic breathing filled the room. For a moment, Mariella
wanted to melt into the bed with them, but the thought of him pulled her away and
into the bathroom, where she put on the dress she was outgrowing, brushed back her
hair in barrettes, and ran a tube of her mother’s lipstick over her lips. She wouldn’t
allow herself to think it was the hope of running into Hemingway again that drew her
back to the bar.She told herself it was the camaraderie, the freedom, the friendship.
Mariella stepped into Sloppy Joe’s and was suddenly filled with dread at the thought
of seeing Hemingway. Would he think she’d dressed up for him? Had she dressed up for
him? Would he think her too forward? Would he be annoyed? Or would he greet her the
same way he did last weekend? Mariella didn’t even know whether she’d act like she
was looking for him. She didn’t know what she wanted from him even if they met.
A buxom, bleached-blond woman with red lips laughed in the midst of a group of soldiers.
A bottle shattered on the floor near Mariella, and a drunk knocked her into the wall
as he pushed past her to vomit in the street.
Mariella ran her ring finger along her lower lip to smooth the edge of the lipstick
and ran her hands down the front of her dress. She looked at his place at the bar
and, mercifully, Papa wasn’t in his usual seat. Mariella stood on her toes and scanned
the crowd, but her limited height gave her a view only of the faces closest to her.
The crowd opened and she saw a man who looked familiar, buried in the shadows at the
end of the bar. He wore a white shirt tucked into blue dungarees. His dark hair was
clipped close to his head. He had a young face, almost feminine. But his eyes were
old and blue, and one had a yellowed, fading bruise around it, and a scar like a line.
He was smoking, and the tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange when he inhaled.
Gavin.
His gaze met hers,
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