Read Online Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel by Herta Feely - Free Book Online

Phoebe. To be absolutely certain, she’d simply ask her when she came home. Of course she’d have to phrase the question just so, but then she spent her life doing that.
    Isabel arrived home a few minutes past five. Maybe a little early to have a drink, but after such a harrowing manicure she breezed through the clean rooms and headed straight for the wine fridge in the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of Sonoma-Cutrer Chardonnay. The cork made a lovely popping sound, and the golden liquid gurgled as it filled the glass.
    On the way to the solarium, she picked up her worn leather briefcase in the hallway; maybe she’d review some briefs for a case going to trial in a few weeks. The large glassed-in room was her favorite. At least a dozen orchids were in full bloom, not only Phalaenopsis, but other rarer breeds, too. And in assorted colors.
    Curled up in the peacock chair, she was almost instantly greeted by Hagrid, who jumped on her lap and began to purr as Isabel stroked his thick black fur. She took a few sips of wine, stared outside at the brilliant display of fall in the backyard – two maples seemed aflame and a gingko’s gold leaves shimmered in the slight breeze – then closed her eyes. “Ahhh,” she said, finally relaxing and enjoying the quiet moment. It was 5:20.
    Instead of the legal brief, though, she picked up the latest copy of Phoebe’s Seventeen , which had arrived in the mail. It was yet one more way to get a handle on her daughter’s teenage mind, and something they could talk about.
    One by one she flipped the pages, taking in the teen fashions, admiring some, disparaging others. She examined the emaciated models – their toothpick legs, the dark bruises under some of their eyes – and wondered about their lives. She’d read about heroin addiction. Though Phoebe’s collage of teen idols included a couple such photos, from what she gathered Phoebe had no desire to be one of them. She had chosen the images for the clothing they wore. Among them was a short gathered skirt, which actually resembled an item Phoebe had copied and sewn. At times, Isabel felt a grudging admiration for her skill.
    She took another sip of wine then thought she heard movement at the front door. She suspected it was Phoebe and realized she’d given little thought to what she would say to her daughter. Her mind raced to find the right phrases and words. The doorbell rang and an alarmed Hagrid dug his claws into her thigh before scampering off.
    â€œOuch!” Isabel said in a half whisper.
    Fully expecting to see Phoebe when she opened the door, it startled her to see Jackson. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, “hi, honey.” Behind him a silver SUV tooted its horn. Though normally she might have taken a minute to chat with her friend Kat, now Isabel just waved and shouted, “Thank you.”
    â€œBye,” came the response. The vehicle sped off.
    â€œDid you forget your key, honey?” Isabel ushered Jackson inside.
    He shook his head and looked at her sheepishly. “I saw your car in the driveway.”
    She ran her fingers through his brown mop, a virtual replica of Ron’s. “You rascal you,” she said, “too lazy to get your key out, huh?” In the kitchen she offered her ten-year-old son a snack. After a few minutes of rather distractedly asking him about his day and getting short monosyllabic answers, she conveniently allowed him to play his new video game.
    She ran through several scenarios of what to say to Phoebe, expecting her at any moment. When she saw that it was nearly six, she grew worried. She should have been home by now. Only then did the specter of something actually having happened to her daughter return. What if Phoebe had been arrested? Police swoop in, arrest everyone in sight. Guilty or not. Had that girl talking to the policeman been Phoebe after all?
    No, she couldn’t have been arrested. The police