Read Online Mad River Road by Joy Fielding - Free Book Online Page B

futures were uncertain, and whose presents were on hold. Not surprisingly, these included a large number of single mothers and their offspring. When Emma and her young son had arrived in town looking for an inexpensive apartment in a safe neighborhood, preferably one within walking distance of an elementary school, the real estate agent had thought for only half a second before directing her to Mad River Road. True, the houses were in less than stellar condition, and you could be booted out with only two months’ notice, but the inhabitants of the street had worked hard at sprucing up their surroundings, planting flowers in the front gardens and painting the exteriors of the houses a variety of interesting pastels. Besides, where else could you find a two-bedroom home in the city for this kind of money? “It’s a charming little house,” the realtor had pronounced. “Lots of potential.”
    The potential for a fresh start, Emma remembered thinking. Except that potential cost money, Emma thought, and she was going through what little cash she’d managed to hide from her ex-husband at a speed she hadn’t imagined. Soon there’d be nothing left.
    She tucked shoulder-length dark hair behind her right ear, listening to the sound of birds in the nearby trees, andwondering absently, What kind of birds, what kind of trees? She should know these things. She should know what kinds of birds—robins, blue jays, cardinals?—serenaded her in the mornings as she walked her son to school. She should know the types of trees—maple, oak, elm?—that lined both sides of the long street and threw deep shadows across her small patch of front lawn. She should know stuff like that. Just as she should know the names of the flowers—peonies, posies, pansies?—that old Mrs. Discala had recently planted along the sidewalk in front of her house. Emma fished her house key out of the side pocket of her jeans, pulled open the screen door, and unlocked the next. Both squealed loudly in protest. Probably need oil, she thought, wondering fleetingly, What kind of oil? Animal, mineral, vegetable?
    Inside, the house was stuffy, but Emma dismissed the idea of opening a window. In truth, the temperature suited her mood, which was lethargic and verging on depressed. Today was supposed to be the day she went out looking for a job, but her son hadn’t slept well last night—another nightmare—which meant, of course, that she hadn’t slept well either, and she doubted the bags under her normally vibrant blue eyes would make a good impression on a prospective employer. Her eyes had always been her best and most striking feature. They were large and oval and dominated an otherwise blandly pretty face. Besides, she hadn’t really decided what kind of job she was looking for. “I’ll look later,” she told the morning paper, still lying on the light hardwood floor inside the front door.
    She crossed the small foyer that divided the house into two uninteresting halves, the living room to the left onlymarginally bigger than the dining room on the right, the kitchen behind the dining room barely big enough to accommodate the round white table and two folding chairs she’d picked up at a secondhand shop, along with most of the other furniture. An oddly shaped brown sofa that had probably been some designer’s idea of modern took up most of the living room. It sat against the front window next to a surprisingly comfortable beige-and-green armchair, a small set of white stacking tables in between. The dining room consisted of four gray plastic chairs grouped around a square, medium-size table, the table completely covered by a floral tablecloth Emma had bought to hide its deeply scarred surface. The walls throughout the house were dull white, the floors bare and crying for carpets. Still, there was something about the idea of putting down carpets that smacked too much of permanence. How could she think of planting roots, of settling down, of moving ahead