Read Online Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson - Free Book Online Page A

Christmas, on the one-year anniversary of Mom’s death, Anise decorated our house so beautifully. No small feat considering how gigantic the place is. She used some of Mom’s decorations and hung most of Mom’s ornaments on the tree, telling Dad that it would make it morelike “Joan did it than me.” But did that even remotely make Heather happy? No. As soon as she walked into the entryway and saw everything, she crossed her arms, stalked from one room to the other like a drill sergeant, and then sternly said to Dad, “Can I see you a moment, please? In your office?”
    Anise, Dad, and I had retreated into the kitchen by then. Heather made it only as far as the wide arched doorway leading into the family room. Like she couldn’t stand to walk into the kitchen if Mom was not in it and Anise was.
    Heather and Dad left, but not before Dad gave Anise a quick kiss on the cheek and she patted him on the shoulder, leaving me to wonder even more about their relationship. They had this way of communication through touching . . . something I didn’t really remember between Dad and Mom. But maybe they had it and, a year later, I could no longer recall it.
    I don’t know.
    Anise leaned against the small oak kitchen island and sighed after Dad left the room.
    â€œI’m sorry, Anise,” I said from the angular bar between the kitchen and the breakfast nook. I’d deposited my Sassi dance bag there not ten minutes before the front door opened and Hurricane Heather stormed in. I now glanced at my watch. I barely had time to get to the studio. Maybe I’d make it if I went five miles over the speed limit. Or ten.
    Anise fought back tears, shook her head, took a deep breath, and said, “Have you got everything you need for today?” Which was just like her. She’s about looking out for someone else. Maybe this had been the connection between her and me. The other being she had years of danceexperience and she seemed genuinely interested in both my father and my training.
    So, try hard as I may, I could not not like her.
    I nodded. “I do.”
    â€œDid I hear you tell your dad you’ve got a dress rehearsal tonight for the winter showcase?”
    â€œYeah. I won’t be home until pretty late.”
    â€œCan you define late?” She smiled at me in that way that says “I’m not trying to be your mother, I just don’t want your father to worry.”
    â€œWe’re done at nine. I’ll stay to help lock up and . . . I’d say by nine-thirty, nine-forty-five.”
    â€œWant me to save you some dinner?”
    And there was another thing I liked about Anise. She cooked healthy and I was so into healthy. “That’d be super.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “That’d be supper .”
    We giggled, and I was thankful her spirits lifted before I’d left. I didn’t think I could have concentrated like I needed to otherwise.
    I threw my bag over my shoulder, gave a quick wave, and said, “Tell Dad . . . well . . . tell him I said bye.” Within seconds, I was out the door leading to the garage.
    Something else about Anise I admired was the way she handled the car situation. Just before Mom died, Dad and she bought me a new Ford Mustang. White exterior, red interior, fully loaded, convertible, brand new. Mom was so proud to see me drive away in it the first time, and Dad was equally as thrilled when I returned home an hour later. Their baby, they said, off in a Mustang. The whole thing had made them a little nervous, I guess.
    By then, Mom had stopped driving and had given her car to a church charity league. She specifically asked that a single mother who needed transportation for getting to work be gifted with it. For a while there, I saw a young woman in Mom’s car, driving around town, three kids in the backseat. I knew it was Mom’s because she had this Jesus fish etched on the back