Read Online Queen of Broken Hearts by Cassandra King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cassandra King
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old World War II movie. Her white hair is in a braid down her back, and before docking the boat, she removes a wide-brimmed hat thatâs tied on at a rakish angle. After a spry leap, she secures the boat to a post and removes a bucket of fish and her fishing gear, placing them on the dock. Zoe heads our way as though to greet us, but instead she stops and places two fingers at the corners of her mouth, letting out a sharp, loud whistle.
âWatch this!â I say, clutching Lexâs arm again.
In response to Zoe Catherineâs whistle, we hear the rustle of hundreds of wings, and the once quiet setting comes alive with the sound of birds. From the trees, droves of silver-gray doves descend on Zoe as though part of some ancient biblical ritual, called forth by the Almighty Himself. The cattails sway as they release scores of ducks, which scramble up the creek bank, waddling and quacking as they make their ponderous way toward the figure in fatigues, calling them to their supper. From the yard, the guineas gobble joyously as they hurry down to the creek, their pear-shaped, awkward bodies rocking from side to side. Even the penned birds join in the cacophony, fluttering their wings against the confinement of their cages as they squawk. Then the magnificent crescendoâthe peacocks and peahens, crying their terrible but majestic cry as they strut toward us, the peacocks dragging their great long tail feathers behind them. Zoe pulls out a covered metal can kept in the lean-to next to the dock and begins to scatter their feed far and wide, the motion causing the doves, which have perched on her shoulders, to lift their wings and float downward, cooing as they land at her feet. She stands poised among her beloved birds like some unholy statue of Saint Francis, decked out in boots and army fatigues by pranksters.
I turn to see Lexâs expression, and it doesnât let me down. âHoly shit!â he says, eyebrows shooting straight up. His eyes meet mine, and he raises his voice to be heard over the deafening clamor. âGuess thatâs why she calls this place the Landing, huh?â
Even though itâs still hot outside, the twilight air heavy and damp, neither Lex nor I utter a word of protest when Zoe Catherine insists on our staying for a visit, then leads us to a bluff overlooking the creek bank, underneath the low-lying branches of a live oak. She wants to hear every detail of my meeting with George Johnson, since she missed it after losing track of time fishing. Iâm so grateful Zoe hasnât read the paper yet that Iâm tempted to slip into her house and hide it before she has a chance to. At least weâll be long gone then. I know Zoe Catherine well enough to know that sheâll pitch a fit when she sees the letter to the editor, and I donât want to be in her presence when she does.
Fortunately for us, a strong breeze blows across the creek, bringing the taste of salt as it scatters the mosquitoes and gnats that could make sitting outside impossible, no matter what time of day. This little bluff is one of Zoeâs favorite places, and sheâs assembled a seating area of twig chairs out here, nestled under the sweeping branches of the oak as though they sprang from the tree and obligingly formed themselves into chairs for our pleasure.
âYâall sit tight till I get back,â Zoe says. âIâm gonna run inside and get us some of my scuppernong wine to go with that carrot cake you brought.â Sheâs her usual frisky self this afternoon, black eyes shining mischievously, and Iâm also grateful that I didnât bring the photograph. Again I wonder what on earth I was thinking. Zoe shuts down whenever Mack is mentioned, her eyes blank and her normally expressive face stilled, frozen in a mask of unresolved grief. She and her only child were estranged on and off for years, and death robbed her of any chance of reconciliation.
Zoe Catherine
âWatch this!â I say, clutching Lexâs arm again.
In response to Zoe Catherineâs whistle, we hear the rustle of hundreds of wings, and the once quiet setting comes alive with the sound of birds. From the trees, droves of silver-gray doves descend on Zoe as though part of some ancient biblical ritual, called forth by the Almighty Himself. The cattails sway as they release scores of ducks, which scramble up the creek bank, waddling and quacking as they make their ponderous way toward the figure in fatigues, calling them to their supper. From the yard, the guineas gobble joyously as they hurry down to the creek, their pear-shaped, awkward bodies rocking from side to side. Even the penned birds join in the cacophony, fluttering their wings against the confinement of their cages as they squawk. Then the magnificent crescendoâthe peacocks and peahens, crying their terrible but majestic cry as they strut toward us, the peacocks dragging their great long tail feathers behind them. Zoe pulls out a covered metal can kept in the lean-to next to the dock and begins to scatter their feed far and wide, the motion causing the doves, which have perched on her shoulders, to lift their wings and float downward, cooing as they land at her feet. She stands poised among her beloved birds like some unholy statue of Saint Francis, decked out in boots and army fatigues by pranksters.
I turn to see Lexâs expression, and it doesnât let me down. âHoly shit!â he says, eyebrows shooting straight up. His eyes meet mine, and he raises his voice to be heard over the deafening clamor. âGuess thatâs why she calls this place the Landing, huh?â
Even though itâs still hot outside, the twilight air heavy and damp, neither Lex nor I utter a word of protest when Zoe Catherine insists on our staying for a visit, then leads us to a bluff overlooking the creek bank, underneath the low-lying branches of a live oak. She wants to hear every detail of my meeting with George Johnson, since she missed it after losing track of time fishing. Iâm so grateful Zoe hasnât read the paper yet that Iâm tempted to slip into her house and hide it before she has a chance to. At least weâll be long gone then. I know Zoe Catherine well enough to know that sheâll pitch a fit when she sees the letter to the editor, and I donât want to be in her presence when she does.
Fortunately for us, a strong breeze blows across the creek, bringing the taste of salt as it scatters the mosquitoes and gnats that could make sitting outside impossible, no matter what time of day. This little bluff is one of Zoeâs favorite places, and sheâs assembled a seating area of twig chairs out here, nestled under the sweeping branches of the oak as though they sprang from the tree and obligingly formed themselves into chairs for our pleasure.
âYâall sit tight till I get back,â Zoe says. âIâm gonna run inside and get us some of my scuppernong wine to go with that carrot cake you brought.â Sheâs her usual frisky self this afternoon, black eyes shining mischievously, and Iâm also grateful that I didnât bring the photograph. Again I wonder what on earth I was thinking. Zoe shuts down whenever Mack is mentioned, her eyes blank and her normally expressive face stilled, frozen in a mask of unresolved grief. She and her only child were estranged on and off for years, and death robbed her of any chance of reconciliation.
Zoe Catherine
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