Read Online Philly Stakes by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Gillian Roberts
Tags: General Fiction
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I might never connect. I wasn’t going to ignore her signals for help ever again.
My feet and head both still hurt, but I hauled myself up and pulled the boots back on. With Mackenzie detecting elsewhere, I had a long Friday afternoon and evening ahead to get my shopping out of the way so that I could wait for Laura’s call tomorrow. Maybe I’d finish my Christmas cards.
I wandered toward Wanamaker’s men’s department. The big shopping problem was, of course, none else than Mackenzie. It was important to find the absolutely right gift for our first Christmas. Something loving—but not so intensely so that it produced a fight-or-flight response. Something that meant a great deal—but not too much. Something much more in focus than we were.
My headache increased in the damp wind, but through its little lightning strikes of pain flipped a mental catalogue of menswear. Men’s gift options were limited, expensive and subtle. What’s the male equivalent of good, but noncommittal costume jewelry? C.K. wasn’t of the gold chain, pinky ring or cuff links variety, and tie clips didn’t say much.
He had a good wallet. He didn’t wear cologne.
All dress shirts look alike, and didn’t you have to measure arms and necks, anyway?
Belts, braces, socks, even cashmere; handkerchiefs, even of the finest weave, were impossibly boring—or overpriced.
Men’s games were an obvious choice. Things that clicked, whirred, shifted gears and went from zero to a thousand in a second. Prizes for the testosterone set. And out of my price range.
Robes were nice, but his mother gave him one every year. He didn’t wear pajamas.
Ties were the ultimate cartoon-strip gift. Besides, every man I’ve known fixates on one pattern—paisleys, amoebas at play, tiny ducks. Mackenzie was a stripe man. Debating green stripes vs. blue seemed a major nonevent and surely receiving the final choice would be the same.
I found a cable-knit sweater the color of his eyes, but it cost too much. I touched it, loved it, imagined it warming and cozying his flesh, and it still cost too much. If only I had learned to knit like everybody else.
When I found myself fondling a soap-on-a-rope, I knew I needed a break.
I felt better as soon as I left the land of slacks and socks and was surrounded by the soaring central court, nine stories of gilded columns, and shoppers who looked much less impatient and discouraged than I. There was something permanent and comforting in the old, space-wasting, extravagant architecture. It gave a benediction to shopping as did the rich Bach cantata that poured out of the massive pipe organ, flooding the court and sanctifying our purchases.
I gravitated toward the enormous bronze eagle, the city’s designated meeting place.
And bumped, literally, into a very startled Laura Clausen.
“I’m sorry!” she said after a moment. “I didn’t see you. I was…thinking.”
We stood there awkwardly. I, too, apologized for not paying attention, then finally asked a potentially rude but real question. “Are you…shopping?” I didn’t expect her to rend her clothes or keen, but still, it seemed odd to be in John Wanamaker’s less than twenty-four hours after her father was incinerated.
“No.” Her voice was tiny and fearful, and I was sorry I’d asked. “My mother—I had to walk her to the doctor.” She looked at her watch. “She’ll be a while, so I came here.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think better when there are lots of people I don’t know around.” I saw a flicker of the Save me terror, and then it disappeared.
“I got your message,” I said. “I’m not in any rush.”
She shrugged again. Here she was in the heart of the great emporium, completely out of style in her baggy Doris Day good-girl togs. The essence of innocence, and so small. She was delicately made, fragile, peering out of enormous dark eyes with such intensity that I felt guilty for all I didn’t know or have to offer.
“I called you
My feet and head both still hurt, but I hauled myself up and pulled the boots back on. With Mackenzie detecting elsewhere, I had a long Friday afternoon and evening ahead to get my shopping out of the way so that I could wait for Laura’s call tomorrow. Maybe I’d finish my Christmas cards.
I wandered toward Wanamaker’s men’s department. The big shopping problem was, of course, none else than Mackenzie. It was important to find the absolutely right gift for our first Christmas. Something loving—but not so intensely so that it produced a fight-or-flight response. Something that meant a great deal—but not too much. Something much more in focus than we were.
My headache increased in the damp wind, but through its little lightning strikes of pain flipped a mental catalogue of menswear. Men’s gift options were limited, expensive and subtle. What’s the male equivalent of good, but noncommittal costume jewelry? C.K. wasn’t of the gold chain, pinky ring or cuff links variety, and tie clips didn’t say much.
He had a good wallet. He didn’t wear cologne.
All dress shirts look alike, and didn’t you have to measure arms and necks, anyway?
Belts, braces, socks, even cashmere; handkerchiefs, even of the finest weave, were impossibly boring—or overpriced.
Men’s games were an obvious choice. Things that clicked, whirred, shifted gears and went from zero to a thousand in a second. Prizes for the testosterone set. And out of my price range.
Robes were nice, but his mother gave him one every year. He didn’t wear pajamas.
Ties were the ultimate cartoon-strip gift. Besides, every man I’ve known fixates on one pattern—paisleys, amoebas at play, tiny ducks. Mackenzie was a stripe man. Debating green stripes vs. blue seemed a major nonevent and surely receiving the final choice would be the same.
I found a cable-knit sweater the color of his eyes, but it cost too much. I touched it, loved it, imagined it warming and cozying his flesh, and it still cost too much. If only I had learned to knit like everybody else.
When I found myself fondling a soap-on-a-rope, I knew I needed a break.
I felt better as soon as I left the land of slacks and socks and was surrounded by the soaring central court, nine stories of gilded columns, and shoppers who looked much less impatient and discouraged than I. There was something permanent and comforting in the old, space-wasting, extravagant architecture. It gave a benediction to shopping as did the rich Bach cantata that poured out of the massive pipe organ, flooding the court and sanctifying our purchases.
I gravitated toward the enormous bronze eagle, the city’s designated meeting place.
And bumped, literally, into a very startled Laura Clausen.
“I’m sorry!” she said after a moment. “I didn’t see you. I was…thinking.”
We stood there awkwardly. I, too, apologized for not paying attention, then finally asked a potentially rude but real question. “Are you…shopping?” I didn’t expect her to rend her clothes or keen, but still, it seemed odd to be in John Wanamaker’s less than twenty-four hours after her father was incinerated.
“No.” Her voice was tiny and fearful, and I was sorry I’d asked. “My mother—I had to walk her to the doctor.” She looked at her watch. “She’ll be a while, so I came here.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think better when there are lots of people I don’t know around.” I saw a flicker of the Save me terror, and then it disappeared.
“I got your message,” I said. “I’m not in any rush.”
She shrugged again. Here she was in the heart of the great emporium, completely out of style in her baggy Doris Day good-girl togs. The essence of innocence, and so small. She was delicately made, fragile, peering out of enormous dark eyes with such intensity that I felt guilty for all I didn’t know or have to offer.
“I called you
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