Read Online Sunday Kind of Love by Dorothy Garlock - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Garlock
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it.
Fortunately, it hadn’t gone far. The notebook lay on the water’s surface, a couple of feet from the bank, in a small eddy undisturbed by the current. Gwen knew that she had to act quickly. Even if the river didn’t steal it away, the paper would soon be ruined and all her writings lost.
So without hesitation, she stepped into the shallow water. It was chillier than expected, but Gwen bit down on her lip and inched forward. The water rose from her ankles to her calves, then to her knees. Her every instinct shouted that she was in danger, that she should get out of the river, but she paid them no mind. Her notebook was so tantalizingly close, yet still just out of reach.
But then, unexpectedly, the notebook began to race away from her, as if someone was pulling it on a string. Gwen lunged for it. Immediately, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. One moment, the river’s muddy bottom was beneath her foot; the next, it was gone, leaving behind a dark nothingness for her to fall into. Unable to stop herself, Gwen plunged beneath the water, soaking every inch of her. The powerful, insistent river grabbed her, just as it had the notebook, dragging Gwen away from the bank. Terrified, she fought with all her might, struggling to break free, but she was caught, completely at the river’s mercy.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
Even as she shouted, Gwen knew that no one would hear her. All the while she’d been walking, she hadn’t seen another person.
No one was coming to her rescue.
She was all alone.
Hank steered down the dark, windswept roads just outside Buckton, his pickup truck’s windshield wipers sweeping away what little rain continued to fall. Lightning flashed occasionally, but the storm was moving off. His window was down, his arm draped over the door frame, the breeze tugging at his shirt. Tony Bennett’s silky voice sang in the cab.
His hope had been that some time away from his workshop, far from his father and his drinking, would clear his head, but Hank couldn’t stop thinking about Pete. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of his brother: the pond tucked among the evergreens off Route 32, where they used to swim in summertime; the steep hill on Caleb Ellroy’s land they’d sled down in winter; and the ball diamond Roger Auster’s dad cut into an abandoned wheat field so the boys would have a place to play baseball.
There was no escape from his memories.
Hank drove for miles, twisting and turning down the narrow, tree-lined roads. Finally he stopped at an intersection, the way branching in opposite directions. With the engine idling loudly, he peered out the rain-streaked windshield at the hill that rose to his right, a route that led away from Buckton and toward home. Hank’s heart thundered like the storm, his mouth as dry as cotton. The accident that had claimed Pete’s life happened on that road, on a stormy night a lot like this one, at about the same time…
“Damn it,” he muttered, squeezing the steering wheel.
Pressing down hard on the accelerator, Hank turned left, his tires skidding as he headed toward the river. He hadn’t gone the other way since his brother had died.
“Look at that poor man. Isn’t he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months back…”
His father’s words rolled around in his head. Even though Hank spent plenty of time alone, holed up in his workshop, he knew that to many in Buckton, he was a murderer. Undoubtedly some wished he was behind bars; luckily for him, the county attorney had chosen not to press charges, figuring that living with what had happened was punishment enough. Regardless, Hank was still a prisoner of the past. On his few trips to town, he’d heard plenty, some comments whispered, others spoken right to his face.
“…don’t know why he doesn’t leave. Folks will never forget what he done.”
“His poor father! First his wife, then his son! It’s not fair.”
“…been
Fortunately, it hadn’t gone far. The notebook lay on the water’s surface, a couple of feet from the bank, in a small eddy undisturbed by the current. Gwen knew that she had to act quickly. Even if the river didn’t steal it away, the paper would soon be ruined and all her writings lost.
So without hesitation, she stepped into the shallow water. It was chillier than expected, but Gwen bit down on her lip and inched forward. The water rose from her ankles to her calves, then to her knees. Her every instinct shouted that she was in danger, that she should get out of the river, but she paid them no mind. Her notebook was so tantalizingly close, yet still just out of reach.
But then, unexpectedly, the notebook began to race away from her, as if someone was pulling it on a string. Gwen lunged for it. Immediately, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. One moment, the river’s muddy bottom was beneath her foot; the next, it was gone, leaving behind a dark nothingness for her to fall into. Unable to stop herself, Gwen plunged beneath the water, soaking every inch of her. The powerful, insistent river grabbed her, just as it had the notebook, dragging Gwen away from the bank. Terrified, she fought with all her might, struggling to break free, but she was caught, completely at the river’s mercy.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
Even as she shouted, Gwen knew that no one would hear her. All the while she’d been walking, she hadn’t seen another person.
No one was coming to her rescue.
She was all alone.
Hank steered down the dark, windswept roads just outside Buckton, his pickup truck’s windshield wipers sweeping away what little rain continued to fall. Lightning flashed occasionally, but the storm was moving off. His window was down, his arm draped over the door frame, the breeze tugging at his shirt. Tony Bennett’s silky voice sang in the cab.
His hope had been that some time away from his workshop, far from his father and his drinking, would clear his head, but Hank couldn’t stop thinking about Pete. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of his brother: the pond tucked among the evergreens off Route 32, where they used to swim in summertime; the steep hill on Caleb Ellroy’s land they’d sled down in winter; and the ball diamond Roger Auster’s dad cut into an abandoned wheat field so the boys would have a place to play baseball.
There was no escape from his memories.
Hank drove for miles, twisting and turning down the narrow, tree-lined roads. Finally he stopped at an intersection, the way branching in opposite directions. With the engine idling loudly, he peered out the rain-streaked windshield at the hill that rose to his right, a route that led away from Buckton and toward home. Hank’s heart thundered like the storm, his mouth as dry as cotton. The accident that had claimed Pete’s life happened on that road, on a stormy night a lot like this one, at about the same time…
“Damn it,” he muttered, squeezing the steering wheel.
Pressing down hard on the accelerator, Hank turned left, his tires skidding as he headed toward the river. He hadn’t gone the other way since his brother had died.
“Look at that poor man. Isn’t he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months back…”
His father’s words rolled around in his head. Even though Hank spent plenty of time alone, holed up in his workshop, he knew that to many in Buckton, he was a murderer. Undoubtedly some wished he was behind bars; luckily for him, the county attorney had chosen not to press charges, figuring that living with what had happened was punishment enough. Regardless, Hank was still a prisoner of the past. On his few trips to town, he’d heard plenty, some comments whispered, others spoken right to his face.
“…don’t know why he doesn’t leave. Folks will never forget what he done.”
“His poor father! First his wife, then his son! It’s not fair.”
“…been
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