Read Online Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan May Warren
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road, kicking stones before her with red galoshes. She balanced a stick over her shoulder, and a handkerchief tied to the end held a soggy peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich and a few stolen peanut butter cookies. Enough to get her through the night, during which a wagon train headed west would find her and collect her for their journey to the Oregon Trail and the Little House on the Prairie. And should they happen to run into any renegade outlaws, she knew just how to handle them —with her six-gun cap shooter tied to her leg.
PJ traced her first escape route as she drove toward her mother’s home, remembering how big the hill had seemed, how cold and ominous the pond, dotted with shiny oak leaves. She’d reached the railroad tracks crossing Chapel Hills when her father pulled up in his ’85 Jaguar, a sleek green lizard, rolled down the window, and stuck his elbow out. He looked regal with his thick black hair, those rich green eyes, a grey worsted wool suit against a black tie. “It’s gonna get cold, PJ,” he said. “And your mother has stew on.”
PJ still made a face, even in her memories.
He had laughed. “All good cowgirls eat stew.”
PJ remembered the way she crawled into the car, sliding on the sleek leather seats, smelling his cologne. He wouldn’t behome long —probably had a meeting to attend somewhere —yet for that moment, he’d been her champion.
She still missed him most in the fall. “Your cowgirl finally left town, Daddy.”
Pulling up to the house, PJ let her VW idle in the driveway, noting the differences in the colonial. The basketball hoop had vanished, along with the cherry tree in the front yard. The evergreens loomed dark green and shaggy along the side of the property —at least they blocked the view of the Haugens’ modern monstrosity, as her mother called it. Art deco —giant glass blocks on end or even on their points. PJ always wondered what it might be like to live in that crystal palace, all that light shining in, the sound of rain splattering against the glass.
“PJ, I see you sitting out there!”
Her mother had appeared at the door, just an outline through the screen of the mudroom entryway.
PJ got out, stepping over a few loose bricks on the cobblestone sidewalk.
Elizabeth held the door open for her. “Seems like ages.”
“It has been ages,” PJ said, noting the wide-leg capris that did nothing to camouflage her mother’s cast.
“Well, you’re here now, and I’m so glad, because I have a little project for you.” She patted PJ on the shoulder. “I’m glad you wore your cleaning clothes.”
No, she’d worn her best plaid shorts and her favorite green tee.
“Don’t forget to take off your shoes.”
PJ shook off her flip-flops and followed her mother through the house, albeit slowly, thanks to the crutches that did wonders for slowing her down. “You got granite countertops.”
“Of course.”
“And took out the screened porch.”
“I know. I wanted a room we could use all year round.”
We. PJ didn’t ask who that might be since, to her knowledge, her mother lived here alone. Indeed, a CSI specialist moving through the house might find scant evidence anyone lived here. Not a dish in the sink, a magnet on the fridge. A freshly shaken chenille carpet under the honey oak table —now how did her mother do that? Even the pillows in the family room lay plumped and undisturbed on a set of bourbon brown leather furniture.
“You finally recarpeted the family room.”
“Twice, actually.”
PJ dreaded what she might see as they climbed the stairs. Five bedrooms for four people —she always wondered why her mother never filled them. Had been afraid to ask. She noticed her mother’s door remained shut. But the guest bedrooms hosted new wallpaper, pillowy comforters, fresh flowers on the cherry bedside tables.
“You running a B and B, Mom?”
Elizabeth frowned at her. “What?”
PJ peeked into Connie’s room.
PJ traced her first escape route as she drove toward her mother’s home, remembering how big the hill had seemed, how cold and ominous the pond, dotted with shiny oak leaves. She’d reached the railroad tracks crossing Chapel Hills when her father pulled up in his ’85 Jaguar, a sleek green lizard, rolled down the window, and stuck his elbow out. He looked regal with his thick black hair, those rich green eyes, a grey worsted wool suit against a black tie. “It’s gonna get cold, PJ,” he said. “And your mother has stew on.”
PJ still made a face, even in her memories.
He had laughed. “All good cowgirls eat stew.”
PJ remembered the way she crawled into the car, sliding on the sleek leather seats, smelling his cologne. He wouldn’t behome long —probably had a meeting to attend somewhere —yet for that moment, he’d been her champion.
She still missed him most in the fall. “Your cowgirl finally left town, Daddy.”
Pulling up to the house, PJ let her VW idle in the driveway, noting the differences in the colonial. The basketball hoop had vanished, along with the cherry tree in the front yard. The evergreens loomed dark green and shaggy along the side of the property —at least they blocked the view of the Haugens’ modern monstrosity, as her mother called it. Art deco —giant glass blocks on end or even on their points. PJ always wondered what it might be like to live in that crystal palace, all that light shining in, the sound of rain splattering against the glass.
“PJ, I see you sitting out there!”
Her mother had appeared at the door, just an outline through the screen of the mudroom entryway.
PJ got out, stepping over a few loose bricks on the cobblestone sidewalk.
Elizabeth held the door open for her. “Seems like ages.”
“It has been ages,” PJ said, noting the wide-leg capris that did nothing to camouflage her mother’s cast.
“Well, you’re here now, and I’m so glad, because I have a little project for you.” She patted PJ on the shoulder. “I’m glad you wore your cleaning clothes.”
No, she’d worn her best plaid shorts and her favorite green tee.
“Don’t forget to take off your shoes.”
PJ shook off her flip-flops and followed her mother through the house, albeit slowly, thanks to the crutches that did wonders for slowing her down. “You got granite countertops.”
“Of course.”
“And took out the screened porch.”
“I know. I wanted a room we could use all year round.”
We. PJ didn’t ask who that might be since, to her knowledge, her mother lived here alone. Indeed, a CSI specialist moving through the house might find scant evidence anyone lived here. Not a dish in the sink, a magnet on the fridge. A freshly shaken chenille carpet under the honey oak table —now how did her mother do that? Even the pillows in the family room lay plumped and undisturbed on a set of bourbon brown leather furniture.
“You finally recarpeted the family room.”
“Twice, actually.”
PJ dreaded what she might see as they climbed the stairs. Five bedrooms for four people —she always wondered why her mother never filled them. Had been afraid to ask. She noticed her mother’s door remained shut. But the guest bedrooms hosted new wallpaper, pillowy comforters, fresh flowers on the cherry bedside tables.
“You running a B and B, Mom?”
Elizabeth frowned at her. “What?”
PJ peeked into Connie’s room.
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