Read Online Lyon's Legacy: Catalyst Chronicles, Book One by Sandra Ulbrich Almazan - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Ulbrich Almazan
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without giving myself away.
It was mid-afternoon in Chicago when we arrived, windy and much colder than I expected. I stopped into the women’s restroom to inspect myself. All the practice wearing skirts and sweaters was paying off; I looked halfway presentable. I straightened my stockings, retied the long pink scarf restraining my hair, and buttoned up my coat. Then I hailed a taxi to take me to Sean Franklin Lyon.
Chapter Five
As the taxi took me from Midway Airport to Morgan Park, the South Side neighborhood where Sean lived with his grandmother, I gawked at the city like a tourist. This Chicago was much different from the one I knew. Even though this city was younger than mine, the buildings seemed older, built out of brick and steel instead of reinforced plastic and glass. The cars were bigger, noisier, and dirtier. The people seemed odd in their similarity; the men all wore suits, and the women dresses. There wasn’t much variety in their skin tones or hairstyles. Ethnic stores and restaurants were hard to spot. Chicago neighborhoods weren’t as diverse in this time as they were in mine, so that made sense.
After a while, I leaned back against the patched seat to figure out how to approach Sean. How could I tell him I was a cousin he’d never heard of and make him believe me? Maybe I could pret end I was new to Chicago; I could tell him that I was looking for a job. Or graduate school; I was applying to one of the colleges in Chicago. Which ones were around during the TwenCen? The only one I could think of was the University of Chicago. They still did research there in my time; I hoped they did so now.
We finally arrived in the Morgan Park neighborhood. Despite the cold, children jumped rope or played games on the sidewalk. They eyed me curiously as I stepped out of the cab in front of Sean’s hous e. It looked just like any other one on the block. This neighborhood had been bombed out before I was born, so I’d never seen it. The rose bushes Sean’s Grandpa Patrick had planted under the windows were brown in the late fall, but I’d read about how Sean used to play in front of them when he was a boy.
I took a deep breath as I faced the house. Time to see if my unplanned plan would work. I wished I had a letter of introduction or some other way to convince Sean’s grandmother I was a relative. All I had t o rely on were my looks—and my memory. I hoped I had all my ancestors correctly linked.
I dragged my suitcase over the steps and knocked on the door. As I waited for someone to answer, I wiped my sweaty palms on my coat. Sean’s grandmother, his mother’s mo m, opened the door partway. She looked a little younger than she did in the 2-D pictures I’d seen of her. Her hair was more gray than dark brown. Her plain blue dress did little to accent her features, but even though her mouth was sternly closed, I could see a few faint laugh lines at the corners.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Murphy.” I smiled as politely as I knew how. “I’m Joanna Lyon, Sean’s cousin.”
Her eyes were flat with distrust. “His cousin?”
“My father was William Lyon, James Lyon’s brother.” I was pleas ed I got the lie out smoothly, but my cheeks grew warm.
“I know Jamie.” Her voice was cool. Sean’s father had joined the Army after getting his wife pregnant, but from what I knew of family history, he’d done so to get out of raising a child instead of to defend his country. Mary Murphy stared at me again. “Where are you from?”
“California. I’ve come to Chicago for graduate school.”
“You sure do look like a Lyon.” Now she opened the door enough to let me inside. “Where are you staying? Why don’t you come in for a while, and I’ll make you something to eat. You must be hungry, traveling all that way.”
She led me down a dim hallway to the kitchen. A calendar of saints hung on one wall, and white lace curtains lent dignity to the scratched table and well-used pots.
It was mid-afternoon in Chicago when we arrived, windy and much colder than I expected. I stopped into the women’s restroom to inspect myself. All the practice wearing skirts and sweaters was paying off; I looked halfway presentable. I straightened my stockings, retied the long pink scarf restraining my hair, and buttoned up my coat. Then I hailed a taxi to take me to Sean Franklin Lyon.
Chapter Five
As the taxi took me from Midway Airport to Morgan Park, the South Side neighborhood where Sean lived with his grandmother, I gawked at the city like a tourist. This Chicago was much different from the one I knew. Even though this city was younger than mine, the buildings seemed older, built out of brick and steel instead of reinforced plastic and glass. The cars were bigger, noisier, and dirtier. The people seemed odd in their similarity; the men all wore suits, and the women dresses. There wasn’t much variety in their skin tones or hairstyles. Ethnic stores and restaurants were hard to spot. Chicago neighborhoods weren’t as diverse in this time as they were in mine, so that made sense.
After a while, I leaned back against the patched seat to figure out how to approach Sean. How could I tell him I was a cousin he’d never heard of and make him believe me? Maybe I could pret end I was new to Chicago; I could tell him that I was looking for a job. Or graduate school; I was applying to one of the colleges in Chicago. Which ones were around during the TwenCen? The only one I could think of was the University of Chicago. They still did research there in my time; I hoped they did so now.
We finally arrived in the Morgan Park neighborhood. Despite the cold, children jumped rope or played games on the sidewalk. They eyed me curiously as I stepped out of the cab in front of Sean’s hous e. It looked just like any other one on the block. This neighborhood had been bombed out before I was born, so I’d never seen it. The rose bushes Sean’s Grandpa Patrick had planted under the windows were brown in the late fall, but I’d read about how Sean used to play in front of them when he was a boy.
I took a deep breath as I faced the house. Time to see if my unplanned plan would work. I wished I had a letter of introduction or some other way to convince Sean’s grandmother I was a relative. All I had t o rely on were my looks—and my memory. I hoped I had all my ancestors correctly linked.
I dragged my suitcase over the steps and knocked on the door. As I waited for someone to answer, I wiped my sweaty palms on my coat. Sean’s grandmother, his mother’s mo m, opened the door partway. She looked a little younger than she did in the 2-D pictures I’d seen of her. Her hair was more gray than dark brown. Her plain blue dress did little to accent her features, but even though her mouth was sternly closed, I could see a few faint laugh lines at the corners.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Murphy.” I smiled as politely as I knew how. “I’m Joanna Lyon, Sean’s cousin.”
Her eyes were flat with distrust. “His cousin?”
“My father was William Lyon, James Lyon’s brother.” I was pleas ed I got the lie out smoothly, but my cheeks grew warm.
“I know Jamie.” Her voice was cool. Sean’s father had joined the Army after getting his wife pregnant, but from what I knew of family history, he’d done so to get out of raising a child instead of to defend his country. Mary Murphy stared at me again. “Where are you from?”
“California. I’ve come to Chicago for graduate school.”
“You sure do look like a Lyon.” Now she opened the door enough to let me inside. “Where are you staying? Why don’t you come in for a while, and I’ll make you something to eat. You must be hungry, traveling all that way.”
She led me down a dim hallway to the kitchen. A calendar of saints hung on one wall, and white lace curtains lent dignity to the scratched table and well-used pots.
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