Read Online The Cottage Next Door by Georgia Bockoven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Georgia Bockoven
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one of the first microchips that increased layers without increasing size. What they did led to the microchip we have now that’s the size of a dot. I looked them up and discovered they were on the Forbes list of the country’s billionaires. Although last I heard they’d given the majority of it away.”
“I’d like to do that one day.” She stopped to pick up an almost perfectly round, flattened shell. “Of course before I can give money away, I have to figure out how to make it.”
“You don’t need a lot to give away some.”
She looked at him to see if he was serious. “You do that?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s no big deal.”
She didn’t know one person near her own age who didn’t think buying Girl Scout cookies was a major charitable contribution. “Any charity in particular?”
He seemed uncomfortable at the question, and for a minute Diana thought he was going to brush it off. “Lupus Foundation and Make a Wish,” he finally said.
When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut and not pry into people’s private lives? “I’m sorry. That was none of my business.”
“Ask me whatever you want.”
“I’m assuming you’re involved in those two particular charities because it’s personal?”
It was, but he answered anyway. “I know there’s no way they’re going to come up with a cure in time for Shiloh, but I’d like to think one day there’ll be a child who doesn’t have to face what she does.”
“I don’t know anything about lupus.”
“It’s an autoimmune disease that doesn’t follow a set course. It can show up in a dozen different ways, from rashes to kidney failure to heart disease to joint pain.”
“How long have you known Jeremy and Shiloh?”
“Jeremy and I go back to my freshman year in college when Peter hired him to add another bedroom to his house. Paul, my brother, and I needed a place to stay when we were here. Jeremy and his wife had adopted Shiloh as an infant and by the time she was two, they were deep into dealing with her lupus. The next summer he hired me to do the scut work that came with rebuilding a house that had structural damage from one of our smaller earthquakes. I worked for him three summers, and to supplement the poverty wages he paid, he taught me the difference between being a craftsman who builds solid wood cabinets from scratch and one who installs factory-made MDF laminate.”
“My great-grandfather was a craftsman. He hand made every door and staircase and piece of furniture in the house he built for my great-grandmother.” And now, thanks to her, it was all gone, even the furniture.
Diana stopped to pick up another shell, feeling a shiver of excitement at the idea that she was actually doing something she’d spent her childhood dreaming about. Until she’d pulled into the driveway and stepped out of her ten-year-old Camry, she’d never truly believed she would ever leave Kansas. And here she was—walking on a beach with the Pacific Ocean stretching out before her like a magical blue carpet.
“It’s a sand dollar,” Michael said when she held out the shell to him. “When they’re alive they’re covered by small hairs that help them move across the ocean floor.” He held the sand dollar tilted to the moonlight to show her the pattern on the shell.
“That’s so pretty,” she said. “It’s like a flower. Would it be okay if I kept it? It’s not against the law or anything, is it?”
Michael laughed. “The first kid who finds it in the morning will step on it just to hear the crunch. It’s almost as satisfying as popping seaweed pods.”
“Or bubble wrap?”
“Oh, no—you’re not one of those,” he said with teasing distain.
“Compulsively so.”
He found another sand dollar and handed it to her. “For your collection.”
She tucked them in her sweatshirt pocket and paused a minute to watch Michael as he searched the shoreline for more shells. When he stopped to see why she
“I’d like to do that one day.” She stopped to pick up an almost perfectly round, flattened shell. “Of course before I can give money away, I have to figure out how to make it.”
“You don’t need a lot to give away some.”
She looked at him to see if he was serious. “You do that?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s no big deal.”
She didn’t know one person near her own age who didn’t think buying Girl Scout cookies was a major charitable contribution. “Any charity in particular?”
He seemed uncomfortable at the question, and for a minute Diana thought he was going to brush it off. “Lupus Foundation and Make a Wish,” he finally said.
When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut and not pry into people’s private lives? “I’m sorry. That was none of my business.”
“Ask me whatever you want.”
“I’m assuming you’re involved in those two particular charities because it’s personal?”
It was, but he answered anyway. “I know there’s no way they’re going to come up with a cure in time for Shiloh, but I’d like to think one day there’ll be a child who doesn’t have to face what she does.”
“I don’t know anything about lupus.”
“It’s an autoimmune disease that doesn’t follow a set course. It can show up in a dozen different ways, from rashes to kidney failure to heart disease to joint pain.”
“How long have you known Jeremy and Shiloh?”
“Jeremy and I go back to my freshman year in college when Peter hired him to add another bedroom to his house. Paul, my brother, and I needed a place to stay when we were here. Jeremy and his wife had adopted Shiloh as an infant and by the time she was two, they were deep into dealing with her lupus. The next summer he hired me to do the scut work that came with rebuilding a house that had structural damage from one of our smaller earthquakes. I worked for him three summers, and to supplement the poverty wages he paid, he taught me the difference between being a craftsman who builds solid wood cabinets from scratch and one who installs factory-made MDF laminate.”
“My great-grandfather was a craftsman. He hand made every door and staircase and piece of furniture in the house he built for my great-grandmother.” And now, thanks to her, it was all gone, even the furniture.
Diana stopped to pick up another shell, feeling a shiver of excitement at the idea that she was actually doing something she’d spent her childhood dreaming about. Until she’d pulled into the driveway and stepped out of her ten-year-old Camry, she’d never truly believed she would ever leave Kansas. And here she was—walking on a beach with the Pacific Ocean stretching out before her like a magical blue carpet.
“It’s a sand dollar,” Michael said when she held out the shell to him. “When they’re alive they’re covered by small hairs that help them move across the ocean floor.” He held the sand dollar tilted to the moonlight to show her the pattern on the shell.
“That’s so pretty,” she said. “It’s like a flower. Would it be okay if I kept it? It’s not against the law or anything, is it?”
Michael laughed. “The first kid who finds it in the morning will step on it just to hear the crunch. It’s almost as satisfying as popping seaweed pods.”
“Or bubble wrap?”
“Oh, no—you’re not one of those,” he said with teasing distain.
“Compulsively so.”
He found another sand dollar and handed it to her. “For your collection.”
She tucked them in her sweatshirt pocket and paused a minute to watch Michael as he searched the shoreline for more shells. When he stopped to see why she
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