Read Online The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Therese Walsh
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“Sorry.”
“Maeve,” he said, “turn around.”
But I ran out, closed and locked the door from the hall. Water spurted from beneath it. The wood shook as Noel pounded on it from the other side.
“Open the door!”
I sat up in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat, and saw that it was just after 4:00 a.m. I heard more pounding. Real. This was not Kit forgetting her key.
I grabbed my robe, flung limbs where they belonged. I looked out the peephole and saw him, though I hardly believed it was true until I opened the door and met his eyes. And then I threw myself into my father’s arms.
ALL THE SCENTS that were Castine hugged around my dad’s body like a net; he couldn’t escape them if he tried. He seemed thinner, his body and his salted hair, but his smile looked just the same. I didn’t ask why he hadn’t called to say he was coming or waited to travel during the day. My guess was that he’d finished his weekend chores and decided right then to make the trip, and hit the road.
“It’s so great you’re here,” I told him. “What made you come?”
“Well, you know how I love my girls,” he said, and I smiled what felt like the first honest smile in a decade. “I even brought one of them along.”
My jaw slackened, but when I looked out at the blue pickup on the road I saw only a little fur face in the window. I didn’t have to ask to know my mother wasn’t hunkered down beneath the tarp-covered bulge in back, waiting for her moment to surprise me. The last time we’d met, over two years ago at a halfway mark in Boston, she’d barely offered a word.
“That’s Sparky. I hope you don’t mind I brought her.”
“No, she’ll be fine. Cute.”
“Your mother wants me to bring you home for Christmas.”
“No, Dad.” I didn’t believe him, but even if it was true, it was only so she could ignore me a little more directly.
He looked past me and into my living room—the sparse walls, squared-off piles of paper on the oak desk in the corner, uncluttered stone fireplace, single denim sofa, and entertainment unit with a television and no CD player. “No Christmas tree?”
“My landlady doesn’t like trees,” I said. “Fire hazard.”
The dog, a little thing with a white body and brown head, curled up on my couch when my father brought her in. Sam must’ve found a good hiding spot.
“The couch is a pullout,” I said as he set down his duffel. “So you’ll have a place to sleep, if your dog will share with you. I’d offer you Kit’s bed, but I never know when she might actually use it, and I think you’d give her a heart attack if she found you under her sheets. I doubt even she could perform CPR on herself.”
He smiled. “I can sleep anywhere.”
“Are you tired?” It was, after all, still four-something in the morning. “Or are you hungry?”
This was a rhetorical question with my father. I poached three eggs, firm, the way he liked them, brewed coffee. We made careful small talk in my kitchen. Ned Baker—a hellion I’d gone to school with—got married last month, Dad said. I told him about a student of mine also named Ned Baker who was just as troublesome as the Ned back home.
“Must be the name,” he said. I agreed, and then we fell into a silence that felt necessary but a little uncomfortable—like a straw bed when you’re just too exhausted to care about the bits and pieces sticking into your side.
“How long can you stay?” I asked as he scraped up the last of his eggs.
“Like I said, your mother wants me to bring you—”
“I can’t go home with you, Dad. If Mom really wanted to see me, she could’ve gotten in the truck with you and come.” I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. I swallowed guilt when he turned and looked out the kitchen window.
“There’s lightning,” he said. “Storm’s coming.”
“Lightning in late December? It’s been a little warm, but—”
Thunder like cannon fire rattled my windows, and that was all it took. Adrenaline
“Maeve,” he said, “turn around.”
But I ran out, closed and locked the door from the hall. Water spurted from beneath it. The wood shook as Noel pounded on it from the other side.
“Open the door!”
I sat up in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat, and saw that it was just after 4:00 a.m. I heard more pounding. Real. This was not Kit forgetting her key.
I grabbed my robe, flung limbs where they belonged. I looked out the peephole and saw him, though I hardly believed it was true until I opened the door and met his eyes. And then I threw myself into my father’s arms.
ALL THE SCENTS that were Castine hugged around my dad’s body like a net; he couldn’t escape them if he tried. He seemed thinner, his body and his salted hair, but his smile looked just the same. I didn’t ask why he hadn’t called to say he was coming or waited to travel during the day. My guess was that he’d finished his weekend chores and decided right then to make the trip, and hit the road.
“It’s so great you’re here,” I told him. “What made you come?”
“Well, you know how I love my girls,” he said, and I smiled what felt like the first honest smile in a decade. “I even brought one of them along.”
My jaw slackened, but when I looked out at the blue pickup on the road I saw only a little fur face in the window. I didn’t have to ask to know my mother wasn’t hunkered down beneath the tarp-covered bulge in back, waiting for her moment to surprise me. The last time we’d met, over two years ago at a halfway mark in Boston, she’d barely offered a word.
“That’s Sparky. I hope you don’t mind I brought her.”
“No, she’ll be fine. Cute.”
“Your mother wants me to bring you home for Christmas.”
“No, Dad.” I didn’t believe him, but even if it was true, it was only so she could ignore me a little more directly.
He looked past me and into my living room—the sparse walls, squared-off piles of paper on the oak desk in the corner, uncluttered stone fireplace, single denim sofa, and entertainment unit with a television and no CD player. “No Christmas tree?”
“My landlady doesn’t like trees,” I said. “Fire hazard.”
The dog, a little thing with a white body and brown head, curled up on my couch when my father brought her in. Sam must’ve found a good hiding spot.
“The couch is a pullout,” I said as he set down his duffel. “So you’ll have a place to sleep, if your dog will share with you. I’d offer you Kit’s bed, but I never know when she might actually use it, and I think you’d give her a heart attack if she found you under her sheets. I doubt even she could perform CPR on herself.”
He smiled. “I can sleep anywhere.”
“Are you tired?” It was, after all, still four-something in the morning. “Or are you hungry?”
This was a rhetorical question with my father. I poached three eggs, firm, the way he liked them, brewed coffee. We made careful small talk in my kitchen. Ned Baker—a hellion I’d gone to school with—got married last month, Dad said. I told him about a student of mine also named Ned Baker who was just as troublesome as the Ned back home.
“Must be the name,” he said. I agreed, and then we fell into a silence that felt necessary but a little uncomfortable—like a straw bed when you’re just too exhausted to care about the bits and pieces sticking into your side.
“How long can you stay?” I asked as he scraped up the last of his eggs.
“Like I said, your mother wants me to bring you—”
“I can’t go home with you, Dad. If Mom really wanted to see me, she could’ve gotten in the truck with you and come.” I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. I swallowed guilt when he turned and looked out the kitchen window.
“There’s lightning,” he said. “Storm’s coming.”
“Lightning in late December? It’s been a little warm, but—”
Thunder like cannon fire rattled my windows, and that was all it took. Adrenaline
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