Read Online Leota's Garden by Francine Rivers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Francine Rivers
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walking shoes, did they? If she wasn’t in such dire need of groceries, she’d tell him to go back to wherever he came from. However, she had enough sense left to know she didn’t have much choice. The idea of pandering to this twerp went against her grain. But so did going hungry. She was down to living on canned vegetables. She couldn’t wait another three days for that Decker woman to find and send another volunteer. Volunteer? He looked as though he’d been drafted!
“I know where my shoes are, young man. You can sit right there and wait while I get them.” She pointed at the couch. When he didn’t move, she shrugged and headed for the bedroom. Fine. Let him stand there. Not only did she not care whether he was comfortable or not; she just might take an extra-long time with her shoes, just to spite this Prince Charming!
Corban glanced at the couch again. It looked about as comfortable as a bed of nails. He’d made the right decision to stand. He sighed as the woman shuffled away. As slowly as she was moving, he might as well take the opportunity to look around.
The living room and dining area were all one room with thick wood molding up one wall and over the ceiling as the dividing line. The dining room table was old-fashioned, made of solid, dark wood with claw feet. On top was a crocheted doily and a vase containing dusty plastic flowers. There was a china hutch against the back wall that was overcrowded with dishes and glassware. No Wedgwood. No Royal Doulton.
The rug was faded. Whatever color it had been, it was gray and worn now. A path to the kitchen. A path to the hall where she’d disappeared. The brightest spot of color in the two rooms was the knit afghan thrown over the back of the ugly sofa. A big overstuffed chair sat squat and lumpy beside a step-style end table that was overloaded with books andmagazines. Another equally burdened and dusty end table was at the other end of the couch. The matching lamps were imitation Greek urns with yellowing shades. Over the mantel hung a landscape print—one of those reprints like a hundred thousand others anyone can buy, complete with its tacky, ornate, gold-painted frame. A half-dozen pictures and a few figurines stood on the mantel. One was of a little girl with three geese. Another was of a boy sitting on a fence. Here and there on the walls around the room were framed pictures, mostly handmade. The biggest was an embroidered sampler of blooming morning glories and bold, black, ornate lettering proclaiming, “As for me and my family, we will serve the Lord. Joshua 24:15.”
A braided, half-circle rug lay in front of a fireplace that probably hadn’t been lit in a decade. On the small, brick hearth were a big, dust-covered seashell, a tarnished brass cricket, and a pair of big old black boots.
Everything she had was old, faded, broken-down junk. The most expensive pieces the old woman owned appeared to be the big Naugahyde recliner and the large, box-style television set in the front corner of her living room. There’d be no estate sale here. A rummage sale, more likely.
Corban could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps coming closer. He glanced toward the doorway and noticed the iron-grate floor heater smack-dab in front of the open doorway to her bathroom. The entire room, from the floor to the middle of the wall, was a nightmare of pink, black, and green tile.
When the old woman returned, he cringed inwardly. She was wearing a long brown coat with a collar and big, black, plastic buttons and thick-soled, brown slip-on shoes. Ignoring him, she walked over to her recliner and leaned down. When she straightened, she held an old black purse by its handle, looking for all the world as though she had a rat by the throat. She held it in front of her with both hands and looked at him dolefully. “I’ll need my grocery list. It’s on the counter to the right of the kitchen sink.”
Imperious old hag. “Yes, ma’am.”
As they went out, she
“I know where my shoes are, young man. You can sit right there and wait while I get them.” She pointed at the couch. When he didn’t move, she shrugged and headed for the bedroom. Fine. Let him stand there. Not only did she not care whether he was comfortable or not; she just might take an extra-long time with her shoes, just to spite this Prince Charming!
Corban glanced at the couch again. It looked about as comfortable as a bed of nails. He’d made the right decision to stand. He sighed as the woman shuffled away. As slowly as she was moving, he might as well take the opportunity to look around.
The living room and dining area were all one room with thick wood molding up one wall and over the ceiling as the dividing line. The dining room table was old-fashioned, made of solid, dark wood with claw feet. On top was a crocheted doily and a vase containing dusty plastic flowers. There was a china hutch against the back wall that was overcrowded with dishes and glassware. No Wedgwood. No Royal Doulton.
The rug was faded. Whatever color it had been, it was gray and worn now. A path to the kitchen. A path to the hall where she’d disappeared. The brightest spot of color in the two rooms was the knit afghan thrown over the back of the ugly sofa. A big overstuffed chair sat squat and lumpy beside a step-style end table that was overloaded with books andmagazines. Another equally burdened and dusty end table was at the other end of the couch. The matching lamps were imitation Greek urns with yellowing shades. Over the mantel hung a landscape print—one of those reprints like a hundred thousand others anyone can buy, complete with its tacky, ornate, gold-painted frame. A half-dozen pictures and a few figurines stood on the mantel. One was of a little girl with three geese. Another was of a boy sitting on a fence. Here and there on the walls around the room were framed pictures, mostly handmade. The biggest was an embroidered sampler of blooming morning glories and bold, black, ornate lettering proclaiming, “As for me and my family, we will serve the Lord. Joshua 24:15.”
A braided, half-circle rug lay in front of a fireplace that probably hadn’t been lit in a decade. On the small, brick hearth were a big, dust-covered seashell, a tarnished brass cricket, and a pair of big old black boots.
Everything she had was old, faded, broken-down junk. The most expensive pieces the old woman owned appeared to be the big Naugahyde recliner and the large, box-style television set in the front corner of her living room. There’d be no estate sale here. A rummage sale, more likely.
Corban could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps coming closer. He glanced toward the doorway and noticed the iron-grate floor heater smack-dab in front of the open doorway to her bathroom. The entire room, from the floor to the middle of the wall, was a nightmare of pink, black, and green tile.
When the old woman returned, he cringed inwardly. She was wearing a long brown coat with a collar and big, black, plastic buttons and thick-soled, brown slip-on shoes. Ignoring him, she walked over to her recliner and leaned down. When she straightened, she held an old black purse by its handle, looking for all the world as though she had a rat by the throat. She held it in front of her with both hands and looked at him dolefully. “I’ll need my grocery list. It’s on the counter to the right of the kitchen sink.”
Imperious old hag. “Yes, ma’am.”
As they went out, she
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