Read Online Promise Me A Rainbow by Cheryl Reavi - Free Book Online Page A

body and spirit. She took her shoes off as soon as she was inside the French doors, walking quietly into the entry hall and savoring the coolness of the wood flooring on the bottoms of her bare feet. She checked her mail and found a heavy, cream-colored envelope inside—an invitation to Jonathan’s wedding that was not addressed in Jonathan’s hand. If she hadn’t seen him yesterday, she supposed she would have found out about his impending marriage like this. No wonder he’d come out into the rain. She tossed the invitation into the flowered wastepaper basket, then fished it out again. She wanted to read it a few times before she burned it, and she wondered if that, too, were “vengefully healthy.”
    Poor Pat . . .
    If Catherine made up a list of people she was feeling sorry for today, it would be endless—and Catherine Holben would be right near the top.
    She didn’t see Mrs. Donovan as she passed her door. Still barefoot, she began to climb the three flights of stairs, juggling her shoes and her groceries and her purse. There was a strong cool draft coming down the stairwell; perhaps there was something practical in Mrs. Donovan’s screen door, after all.
    On the second landing she spilled the apples she’d bought out of her grocery bag, and she had to empty the bag and put them in the bottom to keep them from spilling again. She climbed the rest of the stairs, already anticipating a long, cool shower and something equally long and cool to drink.
    But—like Jonathan—Joe D’Amaro was sitting on the top step.

Chapter Four
     
    Joe D’Amaro said nothing, just stood up before she was halfway up the stairs. When she was near enough, he took the tilting bag of groceries out of her arms. Catherine perceived no sense of politeness in the gesture, simply his assessment that her arms were full and that she would need to open the door before they could address his reason for being here.
    “What kind of day have you had, Mr. D’Amaro?” she asked as she put the key into the lock.
    “It’s been a bitch,” he said without hesitation.
    “So has mine,” she said before she pushed open the door. “I think this will go a lot better if you remember that.”
    He looked at her thoughtfully, and once again she had the impression that he was about to smile.
    But he didn’t.
    “I’m here to talk about Fritz.”
    “Exactly. So let’s both keep the aggravations of the day out of it.”
    “Hey, fine with me,” he said as he followed her inside. “Where do you want the bag?”
    “I’ll take it.”
    She took the grocery bag from him and carried it into the kitchen, and she was a bit perturbed that he followed her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, or that she was worried that the kitchen might be in a mess—actually she rarely had clutter now that she lived alone. It was more that he presumed, seeming to expect her good will with little attendance to the social amenities on his part. It was as if he didn’t want her help, but he realized that perhaps he needed it, and that possibility had brought him here—but to hell with the p’s and q’s.
    Still, she had no quarrel with a man who cared about his children. She had been in her line of work too long not to know what a rarity that could be. She began to empty the bag, putting the milk away and glancing in his direction as she closed the refrigerator door. He was looking at the ceiling.
    She made no effort at small talk: how long he had lived in Wilmington, because his accent wasn’t North Carolinian, or how many children he had, because she already knew. She dumped the apples onto the kitchen table.
    “Would you like an apple, Mr. D’Amaro?” she asked instead. This time he was looking at the cabinet of Blue Willow dishes.
    “Yeah, it’s a long time until dinner,” he answered, again without hesitation. Clearly, he was a man who also didn’t vacillate.
    She tossed him one of the largest. “Do you want a knife to peel it?”
    “No,” he said,