Read Online Saturday Morning by Lauraine Snelling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauraine Snelling
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hope you are one of those.
While Kiss wasn’t committing to anything by word or gesture, at least she was looking around. If she was feeling anything—anythingat all—she was hiding it well. What had happened to her to cause her to be so withdrawn and sullen? Every girl had her own story, some worse than others. Some left before they had a chance to recuperate from their physical and mental wounds, some healed quickly and then left … and some never healed. And some like Celia never left.
They continued down the hall, Hope leading the way, Kiss following at a safe distance. “Here are the showers,” Hope said, opening the door to a huge bathroom that had been transformed by a former guest into a garden of hand-painted sunflowers. “There’s soap and shampoo, and the towels are over there.” She pointed to a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves. “We ask that you use only one towel, and when you’re finished with it, please dump it in the hamper. While you’re showering, someone will bring you clean clothes.”
Kiss stepped back. “You’re not going to take these,” she said, sticking her hands in the pockets of her leather short shorts. “These shorts cost me big time.”
“No one will take them, but after you’ve eaten, you might want to throw them in the wash with the rest of your things. We have washers and dryers in the basement.”
Kiss walked over to the shelf and grabbed a towel. “I’ll take a shower, but I’m not staying here,” she said, turning to Hope.
“I see.” Hope glanced down at her watch. “Lunch is at noon if you decide you’re hungry.” She waited a moment, hoping for some response, but when none came, she smiled and left.
How many times over the last couple of years had she played this wait-and-see game? Dozens. If only there were something she could say or do that—She broke off, laughing at herself. She was doing it again— if onlying.
Too much coffee leads to indigestion.
Hope knew no other way around the pressure, or so it seemed lately. She rubbed her midriff and felt a belch rising. Not now. But then, why not now? She was alone in the mauve and gray waiting room, so nobody would hear her. Better now than later, when she was in the middle of a conversation, she thought, putting her hand in front of her mouth to muffle the sound.
Feeling somewhat better, she eyed the large silver sculpture that stood near the receptionist’s desk. She knew nothing about contemporary art, but knowing Peter, it stood to reason that the sculpture had been created either by one of his clients or by a renowned artist.
Too bad it didn’t have a brass nameplate, like some of the oils, so she could tell what it was. She cocked her head this way and that to study it from different angles, but she still had no clue as to what it might be. Finally, she gave up and took a recent copy of Architectural Digest off the small glass table next to her chair. The featured homes were like nothing she had ever seen, and some of them were like nothing she ever wanted to see. She quickly thumbed through the pages, hoping to find a house she could relate to, but they were all too formal or too exotic or just “too too.”
She returned the magazine to its pile and picked up one of thethree issues of Smithsonian Magazine. An article on Jamaica caught her eye, and the first line grabbed her and carried her into the story and back to her beginnings.
“Mr. Kent will see you now.” The svelte personal assistant, or so her nameplate read, appeared as if by magic and nodded toward the double doors leading to Peter’s office.
Hope debated taking the magazine with her, and begging Peter to give it to her, or leaving it behind. The day’s busy schedule loomed in front of her, telling her there would be no time to finish the article. No surprise there. These days there was hardly time to breathe. She put the magazine down and followed Miss Swaying Hips into Peter’s office. How does she do that?
“Ms. Hope
While Kiss wasn’t committing to anything by word or gesture, at least she was looking around. If she was feeling anything—anythingat all—she was hiding it well. What had happened to her to cause her to be so withdrawn and sullen? Every girl had her own story, some worse than others. Some left before they had a chance to recuperate from their physical and mental wounds, some healed quickly and then left … and some never healed. And some like Celia never left.
They continued down the hall, Hope leading the way, Kiss following at a safe distance. “Here are the showers,” Hope said, opening the door to a huge bathroom that had been transformed by a former guest into a garden of hand-painted sunflowers. “There’s soap and shampoo, and the towels are over there.” She pointed to a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves. “We ask that you use only one towel, and when you’re finished with it, please dump it in the hamper. While you’re showering, someone will bring you clean clothes.”
Kiss stepped back. “You’re not going to take these,” she said, sticking her hands in the pockets of her leather short shorts. “These shorts cost me big time.”
“No one will take them, but after you’ve eaten, you might want to throw them in the wash with the rest of your things. We have washers and dryers in the basement.”
Kiss walked over to the shelf and grabbed a towel. “I’ll take a shower, but I’m not staying here,” she said, turning to Hope.
“I see.” Hope glanced down at her watch. “Lunch is at noon if you decide you’re hungry.” She waited a moment, hoping for some response, but when none came, she smiled and left.
How many times over the last couple of years had she played this wait-and-see game? Dozens. If only there were something she could say or do that—She broke off, laughing at herself. She was doing it again— if onlying.
Too much coffee leads to indigestion.
Hope knew no other way around the pressure, or so it seemed lately. She rubbed her midriff and felt a belch rising. Not now. But then, why not now? She was alone in the mauve and gray waiting room, so nobody would hear her. Better now than later, when she was in the middle of a conversation, she thought, putting her hand in front of her mouth to muffle the sound.
Feeling somewhat better, she eyed the large silver sculpture that stood near the receptionist’s desk. She knew nothing about contemporary art, but knowing Peter, it stood to reason that the sculpture had been created either by one of his clients or by a renowned artist.
Too bad it didn’t have a brass nameplate, like some of the oils, so she could tell what it was. She cocked her head this way and that to study it from different angles, but she still had no clue as to what it might be. Finally, she gave up and took a recent copy of Architectural Digest off the small glass table next to her chair. The featured homes were like nothing she had ever seen, and some of them were like nothing she ever wanted to see. She quickly thumbed through the pages, hoping to find a house she could relate to, but they were all too formal or too exotic or just “too too.”
She returned the magazine to its pile and picked up one of thethree issues of Smithsonian Magazine. An article on Jamaica caught her eye, and the first line grabbed her and carried her into the story and back to her beginnings.
“Mr. Kent will see you now.” The svelte personal assistant, or so her nameplate read, appeared as if by magic and nodded toward the double doors leading to Peter’s office.
Hope debated taking the magazine with her, and begging Peter to give it to her, or leaving it behind. The day’s busy schedule loomed in front of her, telling her there would be no time to finish the article. No surprise there. These days there was hardly time to breathe. She put the magazine down and followed Miss Swaying Hips into Peter’s office. How does she do that?
“Ms. Hope
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