Read Online The Matriarch by Sharon; Hawes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharon; Hawes
Ads: Link
since I worked on the barricade. Its limbs reach out to the unfinished barricade that already looks barely adequate. The sun at the horizon behind The Tree sends a bright orange glow through its branches. It looks solid and powerful, like it’s been standing here for centuries.
“Oh it’s beautiful!” Charlotte cries out. “I had no idea it was so lovely.” She releases my arm and runs toward it.
“Don’t get too close!” I yell, suddenly afraid for her. Stopping beneath the fig-laden branches, she turns and laughs at me as I run up to her.
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Cass.” She gazes up into the tree. “There are so many of them! All different shapes and sizes. And the colors!”
“I know.” Though my run to her has been a short one, my breath is coming in gasps.
“Frank could go into the fig business. This thing is a prolific wonder. And look at all these fallen ones, ripe as can be.”
I’m clutching the basket to my chest, trying to calm down. “Don’t you notice that smell?”
“Well, sure. The fruit just needs to be gathered more often, that’s all. My God, you don’t even have to harvest them, they just fall off the tree right at your feet!” She laughs again, prying the basket from my hands and stooping to gather some up.
I watch her—a lovely young woman happily picking up fruit—and know I would rather eat shit than one of those fucking figs.
“A problem?” she asks, looking up at me.
“No, it’s nothing.” I force a smile. I start to kneel to help her, but she rises and touches my swollen head with her hand.
“How did this happen?” she asks, her voice soft.
I’m silent, my mind clouded by her nearness. I want to pull her close. As if reading my mind, she reaches behind my neck—her hand so cool there—and draws my face to hers. She kisses my temple, then my lips. I close my eyes, gratefully shutting out The Tree, and give myself to her kiss. Her lips part as I run my hands down her back to the swell of her hips.
A soft plopping sound. And then another. A chill brushes my neck and then my mind. I crack open an eye and see figs dropping to the ground. All around us. I suck in a breath and push Charlotte away. Her face is flushed, her mouth open in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” I say and grab her hand. I pull her along with me, out from under The Tree. The figs stop falling. “It’s not you,” I say. I put an arm around her and pull her close, my mouth at her ear. “It’s this fucking tree.”
She tries to laugh. “What, the figs scare you?”
What can I say, that I have a problem with fruit trees? That falling figs once wounded my mother?
“What’s wrong, Cass?”
“I … don’t know.” I kiss her forehead gently. “Let’s get back to the house.” I nudge her back toward The Tree. “Get that basket of figs for us, will you?”
We return to the house and find Frank and Louie in the kitchen preparing to fry up some steak and potatoes. While the old man can’t be called a gourmet chef, he is very good with the basics.
“Figs.” Charlotte plops the basket of fruit she’s gathered on the kitchen table and goes to Frank. She gives him a loud kiss on his whiskery cheek. “That’s some prolific tree you’ve got, Frank.”
He nods as he pounds the hell out of a slab of beef on the wooden counter top with a lethal looking mallet.
“Called Carla.” Head down, Frank is speaking to the meat. “No answer.” A shot glass of sour mash whiskey near him on the counter jumps when he whacks the beef. His eyes are red, his face rosy. “Cassidy, you peel them spuds.” He waves the mallet toward a small pile of potatoes. “Wash ’em first.”
“You can leave the skins on, Uncle Frank. They’re—”
“Peel ’em,” he says, giving me a brief glare, the mallet raised. “Charlotte, will you make us a salad? Lester’s in town. Got the night off.”
“Sure,” she says and calls Carla on her cell phone. She explains she’s staying here
“Oh it’s beautiful!” Charlotte cries out. “I had no idea it was so lovely.” She releases my arm and runs toward it.
“Don’t get too close!” I yell, suddenly afraid for her. Stopping beneath the fig-laden branches, she turns and laughs at me as I run up to her.
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Cass.” She gazes up into the tree. “There are so many of them! All different shapes and sizes. And the colors!”
“I know.” Though my run to her has been a short one, my breath is coming in gasps.
“Frank could go into the fig business. This thing is a prolific wonder. And look at all these fallen ones, ripe as can be.”
I’m clutching the basket to my chest, trying to calm down. “Don’t you notice that smell?”
“Well, sure. The fruit just needs to be gathered more often, that’s all. My God, you don’t even have to harvest them, they just fall off the tree right at your feet!” She laughs again, prying the basket from my hands and stooping to gather some up.
I watch her—a lovely young woman happily picking up fruit—and know I would rather eat shit than one of those fucking figs.
“A problem?” she asks, looking up at me.
“No, it’s nothing.” I force a smile. I start to kneel to help her, but she rises and touches my swollen head with her hand.
“How did this happen?” she asks, her voice soft.
I’m silent, my mind clouded by her nearness. I want to pull her close. As if reading my mind, she reaches behind my neck—her hand so cool there—and draws my face to hers. She kisses my temple, then my lips. I close my eyes, gratefully shutting out The Tree, and give myself to her kiss. Her lips part as I run my hands down her back to the swell of her hips.
A soft plopping sound. And then another. A chill brushes my neck and then my mind. I crack open an eye and see figs dropping to the ground. All around us. I suck in a breath and push Charlotte away. Her face is flushed, her mouth open in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” I say and grab her hand. I pull her along with me, out from under The Tree. The figs stop falling. “It’s not you,” I say. I put an arm around her and pull her close, my mouth at her ear. “It’s this fucking tree.”
She tries to laugh. “What, the figs scare you?”
What can I say, that I have a problem with fruit trees? That falling figs once wounded my mother?
“What’s wrong, Cass?”
“I … don’t know.” I kiss her forehead gently. “Let’s get back to the house.” I nudge her back toward The Tree. “Get that basket of figs for us, will you?”
We return to the house and find Frank and Louie in the kitchen preparing to fry up some steak and potatoes. While the old man can’t be called a gourmet chef, he is very good with the basics.
“Figs.” Charlotte plops the basket of fruit she’s gathered on the kitchen table and goes to Frank. She gives him a loud kiss on his whiskery cheek. “That’s some prolific tree you’ve got, Frank.”
He nods as he pounds the hell out of a slab of beef on the wooden counter top with a lethal looking mallet.
“Called Carla.” Head down, Frank is speaking to the meat. “No answer.” A shot glass of sour mash whiskey near him on the counter jumps when he whacks the beef. His eyes are red, his face rosy. “Cassidy, you peel them spuds.” He waves the mallet toward a small pile of potatoes. “Wash ’em first.”
“You can leave the skins on, Uncle Frank. They’re—”
“Peel ’em,” he says, giving me a brief glare, the mallet raised. “Charlotte, will you make us a salad? Lester’s in town. Got the night off.”
“Sure,” she says and calls Carla on her cell phone. She explains she’s staying here
Similar Books
