Read Online The Heat of the Moon: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) by Sandra Parshall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Parshall
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Luke said.
I pulled myself back to the conversation. “Oh, right, a country boy, you said. Where is this farm?”
“Pennsylvania. And I’ve never milked a cow, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a horse farm. Palominos and Shetlands. I’m the only one in the family who’s not part of the operation.”
He told me about his mother, who was financial manager for the business, his younger sisters, Janet, Emily, and Margaret, all married with kids and all expert horse trainers, and his father, who loved a good joke as much as a fine Palomino.
I could picture them: tall, lanky, sandy-haired, wholesome as wheat. Easy-going people who were exactly what they seemed. I imagined Luke laughing at the dinner table with his family.
“Rachel?”
Neither of us had spoken for a couple of minutes.
His fingers brushed my shoulder, trailed down my arm. His hand closed around mine.
A tremor went through me, delicious and alarming. I disengaged my hand from his, smiling so the action wouldn’t seem abrupt. “Ready for lunch?”
He stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Whoa,” he said. “I think I could fit my whole apartment in here.”
I glanced around, trying to see it as he did: walls lined with pale oak cabinets, center island, breakfast table in one corner. Bigger than many kitchens, I supposed. The spotless uncluttered surfaces, the white tile floor and white walls made it seem even more spacious.
“Can I have the ten-cent tour of the house?” he asked.
Leading him through the downstairs rooms, I had the acute sensation that Mother was somehow looking on as this stranger invaded her sanctuary.
“It’s perfect,” he said in the living room. “I’d be afraid to touch anything.”
Just as well, I thought.
When he stepped into the den, a cozy space with plump blue-striped chairs and sofa, Luke exclaimed, “A proud mother wall!”
“A what?”
He waved a hand at a collection of framed photos. “My mom’s got a wall just like this in the den back home. All the high points in her kids’ lives. I call it her proud mother wall. She’s got one of these hanging up too.” He tapped a framed letter: my acceptance at Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine. Luke had attended Cornell ten years before me.
“Our mother lets no milestone go unrecorded,” I said.
Here we were, smiling through the years: me with my prize-winning science fair exhibits, Michelle in a filmy costume for a small role with the Washington Ballet, me in cap and gown between Mother and Michelle, Mish in cap and gown between Mother and me. Birthdays, Christmases, beginnings, endings. But no photos of our father, no pictures at all from our early childhoods.
“Your sister?” Luke studied a shot of Michelle blowing out candles on her twenty-first birthday. “Older, younger?”
“Three years younger. She’s a graduate student at GW, getting a doctorate in psychology.”
“Ah. Any special interest?”
“Autistic children.”
“Whew. She must like a challenge.”
“She has an incredible empathy with them. Maybe that’s what it takes to break through. I think she’ll be great at it.”
“You two must be good friends. Not many adult siblings could live together in peace. And with their mother, to boot.”
“Well,” I said, “there are different kinds of peace.”
His eyebrows lifted quizzically. “What does that mean? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
His gaze lingered on my face a second before he turned back to the pictures. “Are these your grandparents?”
In my high school graduation picture I was flanked by Michelle and Mother on one side and a white-haired couple on the other.
“No,” I said. “They’re old friends of my mother’s. Theodore and Renee Antanopoulos. But I guess they’ve always seemed a little like grandparents. Renee died not long after that picture was taken, but Theo’s still very much alive.”
A thought struck me: How much did Theo know
I pulled myself back to the conversation. “Oh, right, a country boy, you said. Where is this farm?”
“Pennsylvania. And I’ve never milked a cow, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a horse farm. Palominos and Shetlands. I’m the only one in the family who’s not part of the operation.”
He told me about his mother, who was financial manager for the business, his younger sisters, Janet, Emily, and Margaret, all married with kids and all expert horse trainers, and his father, who loved a good joke as much as a fine Palomino.
I could picture them: tall, lanky, sandy-haired, wholesome as wheat. Easy-going people who were exactly what they seemed. I imagined Luke laughing at the dinner table with his family.
“Rachel?”
Neither of us had spoken for a couple of minutes.
His fingers brushed my shoulder, trailed down my arm. His hand closed around mine.
A tremor went through me, delicious and alarming. I disengaged my hand from his, smiling so the action wouldn’t seem abrupt. “Ready for lunch?”
He stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Whoa,” he said. “I think I could fit my whole apartment in here.”
I glanced around, trying to see it as he did: walls lined with pale oak cabinets, center island, breakfast table in one corner. Bigger than many kitchens, I supposed. The spotless uncluttered surfaces, the white tile floor and white walls made it seem even more spacious.
“Can I have the ten-cent tour of the house?” he asked.
Leading him through the downstairs rooms, I had the acute sensation that Mother was somehow looking on as this stranger invaded her sanctuary.
“It’s perfect,” he said in the living room. “I’d be afraid to touch anything.”
Just as well, I thought.
When he stepped into the den, a cozy space with plump blue-striped chairs and sofa, Luke exclaimed, “A proud mother wall!”
“A what?”
He waved a hand at a collection of framed photos. “My mom’s got a wall just like this in the den back home. All the high points in her kids’ lives. I call it her proud mother wall. She’s got one of these hanging up too.” He tapped a framed letter: my acceptance at Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine. Luke had attended Cornell ten years before me.
“Our mother lets no milestone go unrecorded,” I said.
Here we were, smiling through the years: me with my prize-winning science fair exhibits, Michelle in a filmy costume for a small role with the Washington Ballet, me in cap and gown between Mother and Michelle, Mish in cap and gown between Mother and me. Birthdays, Christmases, beginnings, endings. But no photos of our father, no pictures at all from our early childhoods.
“Your sister?” Luke studied a shot of Michelle blowing out candles on her twenty-first birthday. “Older, younger?”
“Three years younger. She’s a graduate student at GW, getting a doctorate in psychology.”
“Ah. Any special interest?”
“Autistic children.”
“Whew. She must like a challenge.”
“She has an incredible empathy with them. Maybe that’s what it takes to break through. I think she’ll be great at it.”
“You two must be good friends. Not many adult siblings could live together in peace. And with their mother, to boot.”
“Well,” I said, “there are different kinds of peace.”
His eyebrows lifted quizzically. “What does that mean? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
His gaze lingered on my face a second before he turned back to the pictures. “Are these your grandparents?”
In my high school graduation picture I was flanked by Michelle and Mother on one side and a white-haired couple on the other.
“No,” I said. “They’re old friends of my mother’s. Theodore and Renee Antanopoulos. But I guess they’ve always seemed a little like grandparents. Renee died not long after that picture was taken, but Theo’s still very much alive.”
A thought struck me: How much did Theo know
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