Read Online Praying for Sleep by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online

shimmering gold-and-silver skirt and loose blouse. The greenhouse was chill and it was clear to Owen that she wore no bra beneath the satiny white cloth. He scanned her figure briefly, reflecting that while his wife with her boyish figure might be called striking or handsome, her sister was a purely voluptuous creature. At times it amazed him that they shared the same genes.
    “Let me look at it,” he said.
    Again, she turned her back and lifted her skirt. He clicked on a table lamp and shone it on her pale leg, then knelt to examine the wound.
    “Would it really float away?” she asked. “The greenhouse?”
    “Probably.”
    Portia smiled. “What would Lis do without her flowers? Do you have flood insurance?”
    “No. The house is below flood level. They wouldn’t write the policy.”
    “I don’t imagine the rosebushes’d be covered anyway.”
    “It depends on the policy. That’s a bargained risk.”
    “Once a lawyer always a lawyer,” Portia said. He looked up but again could not tell if she was taunting him. She continued, “That porch Lis mentioned? On this part of the yard? I think she’s wrong. I don’t think it got washed away. I think Father tore it down to build Mother the greenhouse.” Portia nodded toward a display of tall orange-red rosebushes. “Lis acts like it’s a holy site. But Mother didn’t even particularly want it.”
    “I thought that Ruth lived for her flowers.”
    “That’s the way Lis tells it. But nope. It was Father who insisted. My own theory is that it was to keep her, let’s say, occupied while he was away on business.”
    “Your mother’s name and ‘mischief’ aren’t words I’d ever put together.” Owen dabbed away a dot of blood and peered into the wound.
    “One never knows. Still waters and all. But then, was Father paranoid, or what?”
    “I wouldn’t know. I never liked him very much.”
    “Ooo, that hurts,” she whispered as he probed, and lowered her head. “When we were young we had Sunday dinner on that old porch. Two p.m. sharp. Father rang a bell and we had to be there on the button. Roast, potatoes, green beans. We’d eat while he lectured about literature or business or space flights. Politics sometimes. Mostly he liked astronauts.”
    “It’s really in there, the thorn. Just the tip. I can see it.”
    “Hurts like hell. Can you get it out?”
    “I’ve got some tweezers.” He pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
    She dug into her pocket and handed him a Bic lighter. “Here.” When he looked blank she laughed and said, “Sterilize it. Living in New York you learn to be careful about what you put into your body.”
    He took the lighter and ran a flame over the end of the tweezers.
    “A Swiss Army knife,” she said, watching him. “Does it have a corkscrew on it, and everything? Little scissors? A magnifying glass?”
    “You know, Portia, sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re making fun of somebody.”
    “It’s probably my abrasive big-city attitude. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” Portia fell silent and turned away, lowering her face to a rosebush. She inhaled deeply.
    “I didn’t know you smoked.” He returned the lighter to her.
    “I don’t. Not cigarettes. And then, after we’d have our dessert, which was accompanied by . . . ?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Port.”
    Owen said he should have guessed.
    “Do you like port, Owen?”
    “No. I don’t like port.”
    “Ow, Jesus, that hurts.”
    “Sorry.”
    He put his large hand on the front of Portia’s thigh and held it firmly as he pressed the tiny blade of the tweezers against the base of the thorn. “Keep your hem up, so it doesn’t get blood on it.” She hiked her skirt slightly higher and he caught a fast view of the lace trim on red panties. He pressed harder with the tweezers.
    Her eyes were closed and her teeth seated. “No, I can’t stand port either but I am an expert on the subject. I paid attention during dear Father’s