Read Online Postcards From Last Summer by Roz Bailey - Free Book Online Page B

there, as long as she had a chance to do her “thing,” which was daily workout sessions at a gym where the women idolized emaciated models and talked about the evils of carbs and alcohol. Uncle Thomas was the sort of guy you could talk to, a lot like his brother, who used to be Elle’s confidant before he’d decided that having a teenaged daughter made him feel too old. Unfortunately, Uncle Thomas was gone from the house most of the day and evening, absorbed in the business of lawyering for Keller and Steinberg.
    â€œIt’s just for the summer,” her mother had stressed, back in the safety of their close but cozy London flat. “In September, as soon as the dorms open, you’ll have your own room in New Haven.”
    â€œI don’t understand why I can’t stay here,” Elle had insisted, causing her parents to exchange that look again: the pale, stone-faced panic that their daughter was going to unearth a boulder they’d hoped was safely embedded. “Or I could go to Africa. Wouldn’t Africa be a fabulous life experience?”
    â€œNigeria is no place for a young woman these days,” her mother said candidly. An immunologist, Genevieve DuBois was employed by the World Health Organization, and at this point in her career a move to their offices in Nigeria was the key to advancement. Elle got that, and though she would miss her mother, she could live with the distance if it would keep her near her chums in London. “Right now, your education is of utmost importance.”
    â€œAnd your mother and I agree that it’s time you returned Stateside. Time for some cultural exposure, too.”
    â€œI have all the culture I need here in London,” Elle argued. “I don’t see why I can’t stay here with Dad.”
    At that point she’d caught her mother scowling at her father, a quick facial barb before she turned away, pretending to study the flower box of petunias outside the kitchen window. Elle felt the moment like an earthquake along a major fault; the earth was rumbling and two geographic plates were rumbling, rubbing against each other, pushing for power even as they shifted away from each other.
    â€œWhat?” Elle pressed. “What is it?”
    â€œYou can’t stay here,” her mother hissed. “Dad is giving up the flat.”
    â€œGenevieve! I thought we agreed—”
    â€œI never agreed to anything,” Elle said. “Why didn’t anyone ask me what I wanted? Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?”
    â€œThere’s nothing to tell,” he snapped. “Your mother’s off to her new job in Africa and you’re to return to the States to finish university.”
    â€œBut why aren’t you keeping the flat?” Tears were welling in her eyes, damned tears over this unexpected ambush. She swiped at her face with one hand, then pointed to her small bedroom. “I can stay in my room. Right there . . .” Her voice was quavering.
    â€œIt’s too late,” her mother said. “Dad’s decided he needs a new start. Another stab at . . . oh, I don’t know, what is it you’re looking for, Jasper?”
    Never before had Elle seen her father gripped by horror. “This is not the appropriate time or place,” he growled.
    The strain was obvious on Genevieve DuBois’s stricken face as she turned back to Elle. “Pardon me for being inappropriate, but I really don’t know the proper way to tell our daughter that you’re shacking up with your twentysomething girlfriend.”
    That had been the moment when Elle’s life rumbled out of control.
    Suddenly, her father wouldn’t talk to her, not in the honest, open way they’d always maintained. After Dad packed a suitcase and slipped out of the apartment with a guilty kiss to her forehead, Mom had apologized halfheartedly, her voice cracking with emotion as she said that Dad was “in