Read Online Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Beth Hoffman
Ads: Link
through the open windows and the scenery flew by in blurry smears of gray, I got a pretty good idea why Aunt Tootie’s husband had a guardian angel made for the hood of her car. I looked at my aunt and said, “Looks like you’re not afraid to drive anymore.”
Oh, how she laughed.
I watched out the window and read every sign we passed. Finally I saw one that advertised a motel. “Look,” I said, pointing to a dimly lit sign at the side of the road. “Mountain View Travel Lodge—ten point five miles.”
“Good job, sugar. We’ll be relaxing in bed in no time.”
The headlights carved a hole through the foggy darkness as she zoomed down the highway. I felt like she was driving me straight into a silver-edged dream. I had no idea where we were, and to be honest, I don’t think Aunt Tootie did, either. All I knew was that I was flying through the night in a fancy car with a woman who showed up out of nowhere and offered to take me, messed-up life and all, to a place called Savannah.
It was nearly five o’clock the following evening when we approached a narrow, vine-covered bridge. Three words were written on a sign at the side of the road, and as we roared by, I whispered them to myself: “Welcome to Savannah.”
The biggest trees I’d ever seen reached out to one another as if trying to hold hands over wide, brick-paved streets, and grand old houses stood tall and proud on smooth shade-dappled lawns. Like a curious spaniel, I leaned my head out the window and breathed in. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of freshly cut grass.
Aunt Tootie slowed and turned onto a shady street called West Gaston. “Well, here we are,” she said, pulling to a stop at the curb. “Welcome to your new home, sugar.” She gestured to a house surrounded by lush gardens and an iron fence that looked like countless yards of black lace. The house, which was made of stucco and painted the color of lemonade, was three stories tall and had lots of arched windows. Wide stone steps stretched high above the street and ended at double front doors.
“We’ll leave the car here. After we unload the trunk, I’ll pull it around back to the garage.” She grabbed her handbag and we climbed out of the car. While she headed up the steps, I lagged behind and craned my neck to see all that surrounded me. I had the sensation that an unseen hand had plunked me into a giant slingshot, pulled back, and let go. I was catapulting into a new world and nothing could have prepared me for it.
The front hall—which Aunt Tootie called the foy-yay—was, to my way of thinking, a room unto itself. An alabaster chandelier sent a wash of mellow light over walls the color of peach sherbet. The ceiling soared over my head and was framed by elaborately carved moldings, and to the left was a stairway that had a wide ribbon of flowery carpet running down its center.
My aunt chattered like a sparrow as she flitted from room to room. “This is your home now, honey, and I want you to know where everything is so you feel comfortable. You have no idea how much I love this old house. It was built back in 1858. Thanks to General Sherman, Savannah was spared the ravages of the Civil War . . .”
I tried to listen to all she said, but her voice faded into the plump upholstery and richly patterned carpets. Each room was a vision of beauty, and each had vases overflowing with all sorts of fresh flowers.
“Oh, look what Oletta did,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping to smell a vase full of yellow roses. “Aren’t they pretty? She went out to the garden and cut all these flowers while I was gone. I love coming home to a house full of bouquets—it makes me feel happy.”
I studied the face of a tall grandfather clock and lightly touched its beveled-glass door. “Who’s Oletta?”
“She runs my house, and she’s the finest cook I’ve ever known. Just wait, you’ll think you went straight to heaven when you taste her chocolate cream pie.”
“But if you live
Oh, how she laughed.
I watched out the window and read every sign we passed. Finally I saw one that advertised a motel. “Look,” I said, pointing to a dimly lit sign at the side of the road. “Mountain View Travel Lodge—ten point five miles.”
“Good job, sugar. We’ll be relaxing in bed in no time.”
The headlights carved a hole through the foggy darkness as she zoomed down the highway. I felt like she was driving me straight into a silver-edged dream. I had no idea where we were, and to be honest, I don’t think Aunt Tootie did, either. All I knew was that I was flying through the night in a fancy car with a woman who showed up out of nowhere and offered to take me, messed-up life and all, to a place called Savannah.
It was nearly five o’clock the following evening when we approached a narrow, vine-covered bridge. Three words were written on a sign at the side of the road, and as we roared by, I whispered them to myself: “Welcome to Savannah.”
The biggest trees I’d ever seen reached out to one another as if trying to hold hands over wide, brick-paved streets, and grand old houses stood tall and proud on smooth shade-dappled lawns. Like a curious spaniel, I leaned my head out the window and breathed in. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of freshly cut grass.
Aunt Tootie slowed and turned onto a shady street called West Gaston. “Well, here we are,” she said, pulling to a stop at the curb. “Welcome to your new home, sugar.” She gestured to a house surrounded by lush gardens and an iron fence that looked like countless yards of black lace. The house, which was made of stucco and painted the color of lemonade, was three stories tall and had lots of arched windows. Wide stone steps stretched high above the street and ended at double front doors.
“We’ll leave the car here. After we unload the trunk, I’ll pull it around back to the garage.” She grabbed her handbag and we climbed out of the car. While she headed up the steps, I lagged behind and craned my neck to see all that surrounded me. I had the sensation that an unseen hand had plunked me into a giant slingshot, pulled back, and let go. I was catapulting into a new world and nothing could have prepared me for it.
The front hall—which Aunt Tootie called the foy-yay—was, to my way of thinking, a room unto itself. An alabaster chandelier sent a wash of mellow light over walls the color of peach sherbet. The ceiling soared over my head and was framed by elaborately carved moldings, and to the left was a stairway that had a wide ribbon of flowery carpet running down its center.
My aunt chattered like a sparrow as she flitted from room to room. “This is your home now, honey, and I want you to know where everything is so you feel comfortable. You have no idea how much I love this old house. It was built back in 1858. Thanks to General Sherman, Savannah was spared the ravages of the Civil War . . .”
I tried to listen to all she said, but her voice faded into the plump upholstery and richly patterned carpets. Each room was a vision of beauty, and each had vases overflowing with all sorts of fresh flowers.
“Oh, look what Oletta did,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping to smell a vase full of yellow roses. “Aren’t they pretty? She went out to the garden and cut all these flowers while I was gone. I love coming home to a house full of bouquets—it makes me feel happy.”
I studied the face of a tall grandfather clock and lightly touched its beveled-glass door. “Who’s Oletta?”
“She runs my house, and she’s the finest cook I’ve ever known. Just wait, you’ll think you went straight to heaven when you taste her chocolate cream pie.”
“But if you live
Similar Books
