Read Online The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) by Laura Drake - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Drake
Ads: Link
depressing movie.
Her mom stood at the stove smoking a cigarette, stirring potatoes frying in a cast-iron skillet. “You’re going to like him, Priss. He’s sweet, employed, and—”
“He’s married, Ma.”
“Well, he’s had a tough go of it. The marriage is not good. He’s going to file for a divorce. Soon.”
“So, in the meantime, he’s going to move in here? Do you realize I go to school with his kids, Ma?”
It was hopeless. All a guy had to do was ask and if Cora Hart wasn’t involved with someone else, she was his. She’d done stupid stuff before, like when she hooked up with that sleaze who had cleaned them out two years earlier. But this was a new low. She’d never messed with a married man before. “Do you know what’s going to happen when this gets around school?”
Her mother tapped the cigarette on the ashtray, put it back in her mouth and turned the greasy potatoes with the spatula. “You’ll like him. We’ll make a great family. You’ll see.”
Priss pulled Mona to the cracked curb in front of the so-called apartments. The tired paint and robust weeds didn’t look any better today. She sat a moment, staring at her memory that had slipped into the present. Something inside her firmed, like clay hardening in the sun.
It’s not going to be like that for Nacho. I’m going to listen to him. He’s going to know he has a say in what happens. It’s going to be him and me first, then everything and everyone else second.
At least for as long as she was here.
She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, checked the side mirror for traffic, then stepped out of her car. She strode to the back alley where she’d spied Dumpsters on the way by. Luckily one was empty. She muscled it across the alley and pushed it under the back window of her mother’s apartment.
Piece of cake. You can do this.
Today she didn’t need the scent of underprivileged that enveloped her when she walked in the door to take her back to those dark days. The ghost of her mother stood in the kitchen, stirring potatoes.
She ignored the vision and stepped into the tiny bedroom where Nacho had slept. Might as well start there. She opened the window, stripped the bed, and tossed the sheets out. She opened a plastic bin that had held his clothes, and filled it with anything that looked personal. There wasn’t much: a few Lego pieces, a G.I. Joe figure he’d probably outgrown and a couple of dime-store jigsaw puzzles.
Next, the closet. Her mother’s few clothes hung from hangers in limp accusation. She didn’t even examine them—straight out the window.
Keeping her head down to avoid ghosts, Priss dragged the trash can from the kitchen into the living room. Everything not belonging to the landlords got dumped in, including ashtrays and the rumpled threadbare sheets on the couch—her mother’s last bed. She pulled off the sheets and rolled them into a ball. But before she let them go, she lowered her nose and took a deep lungful of the desperation, hope and sadness that had been her mother.
A barnacled shell, buried so deep in the silt of her psyche that she’d forgotten it, suddenly burst open, spitting out a misshapen pitted, black pearl of guilt.
A strangled sob slipped out before her throat closed.
I should have at least stayed in touch. The pain of learning about her mother’s death from a stranger rose in her, fetid and slimy. Had her mother lain in a county hospital bed, breathing like a landed fish, wishing she could see her daughter one last time?
It isn’t the child’s job to rescue an adult. It’s supposed to be the other way around.
Shaking her head at her sentimental foolishness, Priss dropped the sheets in the trash, then walked to the kitchen. The sooner she got out of these backwaters, the better.
A half hour later, the apartment was empty. She took one last quick tour to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. She glanced in the bathroom and pulled the door to close it when something
Her mom stood at the stove smoking a cigarette, stirring potatoes frying in a cast-iron skillet. “You’re going to like him, Priss. He’s sweet, employed, and—”
“He’s married, Ma.”
“Well, he’s had a tough go of it. The marriage is not good. He’s going to file for a divorce. Soon.”
“So, in the meantime, he’s going to move in here? Do you realize I go to school with his kids, Ma?”
It was hopeless. All a guy had to do was ask and if Cora Hart wasn’t involved with someone else, she was his. She’d done stupid stuff before, like when she hooked up with that sleaze who had cleaned them out two years earlier. But this was a new low. She’d never messed with a married man before. “Do you know what’s going to happen when this gets around school?”
Her mother tapped the cigarette on the ashtray, put it back in her mouth and turned the greasy potatoes with the spatula. “You’ll like him. We’ll make a great family. You’ll see.”
Priss pulled Mona to the cracked curb in front of the so-called apartments. The tired paint and robust weeds didn’t look any better today. She sat a moment, staring at her memory that had slipped into the present. Something inside her firmed, like clay hardening in the sun.
It’s not going to be like that for Nacho. I’m going to listen to him. He’s going to know he has a say in what happens. It’s going to be him and me first, then everything and everyone else second.
At least for as long as she was here.
She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, checked the side mirror for traffic, then stepped out of her car. She strode to the back alley where she’d spied Dumpsters on the way by. Luckily one was empty. She muscled it across the alley and pushed it under the back window of her mother’s apartment.
Piece of cake. You can do this.
Today she didn’t need the scent of underprivileged that enveloped her when she walked in the door to take her back to those dark days. The ghost of her mother stood in the kitchen, stirring potatoes.
She ignored the vision and stepped into the tiny bedroom where Nacho had slept. Might as well start there. She opened the window, stripped the bed, and tossed the sheets out. She opened a plastic bin that had held his clothes, and filled it with anything that looked personal. There wasn’t much: a few Lego pieces, a G.I. Joe figure he’d probably outgrown and a couple of dime-store jigsaw puzzles.
Next, the closet. Her mother’s few clothes hung from hangers in limp accusation. She didn’t even examine them—straight out the window.
Keeping her head down to avoid ghosts, Priss dragged the trash can from the kitchen into the living room. Everything not belonging to the landlords got dumped in, including ashtrays and the rumpled threadbare sheets on the couch—her mother’s last bed. She pulled off the sheets and rolled them into a ball. But before she let them go, she lowered her nose and took a deep lungful of the desperation, hope and sadness that had been her mother.
A barnacled shell, buried so deep in the silt of her psyche that she’d forgotten it, suddenly burst open, spitting out a misshapen pitted, black pearl of guilt.
A strangled sob slipped out before her throat closed.
I should have at least stayed in touch. The pain of learning about her mother’s death from a stranger rose in her, fetid and slimy. Had her mother lain in a county hospital bed, breathing like a landed fish, wishing she could see her daughter one last time?
It isn’t the child’s job to rescue an adult. It’s supposed to be the other way around.
Shaking her head at her sentimental foolishness, Priss dropped the sheets in the trash, then walked to the kitchen. The sooner she got out of these backwaters, the better.
A half hour later, the apartment was empty. She took one last quick tour to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. She glanced in the bathroom and pulled the door to close it when something
Similar Books
