Read Online Sweet Karoline by Catherine Astolfo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catherine Astolfo
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time heals all wounds didn't work for me. My odd behaviors began to betray me as the weeks went by. It was as though my wound became infected, filling my whole being with pus, clogging my thought processes.
Karoline and I co-owned a sporty little red convertible whose roof we rarely saw. The air going past was thick, noisy and smelled of fuel, but we didn't care. As long as it was warm and a bit of sun shone through the smog, we had the top down. Scarves tied jauntily around our heads like 1940's movie stars.
For the first couple of weeks after the funeral I drove to work as though everything was still the same. I imagined Karoline beside me, chatting, sharing breakfast sandwiches and coffee.
" Did you see this article about the murder in that movie theatre? Gruesome or what?" she might say, peering over the newspaper at me.
Her nose was far too turned up, so you could see right up her nostrils when she lifted her chin this way.
" What do you think about that smarmy old councilor? Do you think he's really guilty of fraud?" or "I hate these bloody ads. Look at that. Advertising sanitary pads. Is nothing sacred?"
Her opinions were always sarcastic, always designed to get a reaction. More often than not, Giulio and I responded to her comments with a smile, a giggle or a shrug, but sometimes we'd get into a merry old discussion.
I adored being with Karoline at the end of work because I was always the one doing the talking. Almost every day I would be asking her opinion, getting her advice, telling her about my clients, nattering on and on. Mornings, Karoline was the passenger. Evenings were my time while she drove.
Before Italy Giulio was there, too. He'd always sit quietly in the back seat. Looking up now and then from his reading, he'd smile indulgently at our babble or join in with a pithy comment or two. Those were the days when we shared everything. Or at least, I did.
Until Karoline was gone I had forgotten how blatantly the commuters paid attention to me. When I stopped at a red light or crawled along in insect trails of traffic, someone was bound to look over and whistle. Or ask me out. Or ask me who I was. Stopping dead still was like being under a spotlight. It was Karoline who had shielded me from their intrusiveness. She'd give them her famous stare, which froze people in their tracks, as Giulio always said.
I remember someone referring to Karoline's eyes as beady, her look witchlike. I thought her eyes, small and framed by bushy brows, mirrored intelligence and an I-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me attitude. Her hair was plain, her dress commonplace, her demeanor unassuming. No one stared at her. I admired the fact that she wasn't noticed, and respected that she didn't care. I was so imperceptive.
The staring eyes on the freeway were piranhas piercing my armor. I was at their mercy without Karoline.
I didn't really think I was speaking aloud to Karoline-not-there. At first I was convinced my fellow commuters were reading my mind. They stared at me even more ferociously as I gabbed away inside the convertible. There wasn't anyone else but Karoline to whom I could voice my complaints or my opinions or tell about my day, so I deliberately imagined she was still there listening raptly. I decided I needed to confide in my friend as though she could hear me. I needed her to tell me what to do as she always had. What could be the harm?
Once I began to talk to Karoline again I suppose I paid less attention to the road. Particularly in the evenings when it was her turn to drive. Sometimes I pretended it was three years ago and the oddballs were still an indestructible trio. The Polack, the Half and Half and the Eye-Tie lived and worked in the most fascinating city in the world, traveling every day to our amazing, challenging, well-paid jobs. We had left Shirley O'Connor and our small-minded hometown far behind. We had prospects. We knew lots of important people. Most of all, we had each other.
Until the incident
Karoline and I co-owned a sporty little red convertible whose roof we rarely saw. The air going past was thick, noisy and smelled of fuel, but we didn't care. As long as it was warm and a bit of sun shone through the smog, we had the top down. Scarves tied jauntily around our heads like 1940's movie stars.
For the first couple of weeks after the funeral I drove to work as though everything was still the same. I imagined Karoline beside me, chatting, sharing breakfast sandwiches and coffee.
" Did you see this article about the murder in that movie theatre? Gruesome or what?" she might say, peering over the newspaper at me.
Her nose was far too turned up, so you could see right up her nostrils when she lifted her chin this way.
" What do you think about that smarmy old councilor? Do you think he's really guilty of fraud?" or "I hate these bloody ads. Look at that. Advertising sanitary pads. Is nothing sacred?"
Her opinions were always sarcastic, always designed to get a reaction. More often than not, Giulio and I responded to her comments with a smile, a giggle or a shrug, but sometimes we'd get into a merry old discussion.
I adored being with Karoline at the end of work because I was always the one doing the talking. Almost every day I would be asking her opinion, getting her advice, telling her about my clients, nattering on and on. Mornings, Karoline was the passenger. Evenings were my time while she drove.
Before Italy Giulio was there, too. He'd always sit quietly in the back seat. Looking up now and then from his reading, he'd smile indulgently at our babble or join in with a pithy comment or two. Those were the days when we shared everything. Or at least, I did.
Until Karoline was gone I had forgotten how blatantly the commuters paid attention to me. When I stopped at a red light or crawled along in insect trails of traffic, someone was bound to look over and whistle. Or ask me out. Or ask me who I was. Stopping dead still was like being under a spotlight. It was Karoline who had shielded me from their intrusiveness. She'd give them her famous stare, which froze people in their tracks, as Giulio always said.
I remember someone referring to Karoline's eyes as beady, her look witchlike. I thought her eyes, small and framed by bushy brows, mirrored intelligence and an I-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me attitude. Her hair was plain, her dress commonplace, her demeanor unassuming. No one stared at her. I admired the fact that she wasn't noticed, and respected that she didn't care. I was so imperceptive.
The staring eyes on the freeway were piranhas piercing my armor. I was at their mercy without Karoline.
I didn't really think I was speaking aloud to Karoline-not-there. At first I was convinced my fellow commuters were reading my mind. They stared at me even more ferociously as I gabbed away inside the convertible. There wasn't anyone else but Karoline to whom I could voice my complaints or my opinions or tell about my day, so I deliberately imagined she was still there listening raptly. I decided I needed to confide in my friend as though she could hear me. I needed her to tell me what to do as she always had. What could be the harm?
Once I began to talk to Karoline again I suppose I paid less attention to the road. Particularly in the evenings when it was her turn to drive. Sometimes I pretended it was three years ago and the oddballs were still an indestructible trio. The Polack, the Half and Half and the Eye-Tie lived and worked in the most fascinating city in the world, traveling every day to our amazing, challenging, well-paid jobs. We had left Shirley O'Connor and our small-minded hometown far behind. We had prospects. We knew lots of important people. Most of all, we had each other.
Until the incident
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