Read Online The Seasons Hereafter by Elisabeth Ogilvie - Free Book Online Page A

“There,” said Joanna. “Come on. I could do with that coffee, couldn’t you? Good Lord, if anything ever happened to that child we’d all be sick, but I think Mark and Helmi would die. They waited about twenty years for him.” Her hand under Vanessa’s elbow was not to be escaped. Relentlessly it guided her along the path up through the spruces to the house. Vanessa considered making a break for it when the path branched off down the hill to the store, but the moment was lost when Mark Bennett opened the door and came out.
    The stone mask had been replaced by a smile which took years from him. His black hair was gray at the temples, but his eyes, like his sister’s, were lively and young. “I guess I didn’t act half-civilized down there,” he said. “But he looked dead to me.”
    â€œTo me too,” she said gruffly.
    â€œJust say it,” said his sister. “Don’t keep her standing here she’s—”
    â€œI don’t know how to say thank you.”
    â€œâ€”blue as a whetstone.”
    â€œTake her to my room, Jo,” Helmi called from the kitchen. “I’ve put out some things.”
    Van stepped out of the mud-laden moccasins and Mark took her arm and led her in, saying, “Hadn’t she better have a stiff drink first?” Didn’t they ever keep their hands to themselves? Her flesh was crawling.
    â€œYou let her get out of those clothes,” his wife said. The little boy came out of the kitchen in dry clothes, with the cat hanging limp from his arms, and his father said, “This is the lady who hauled you out, you young hell-bender. . . . He wasn’t supposed to stop off anywhere. Swore to his mother he’d go straight to the house and get his dump truck and come back to the store. Well, he knows the score now. If he hadn’t got his come-uppance by heaving up his guts, I’d have blistered his bottom.”
    â€œOh, stop growling,” said Joanna. She took Van upstairs and left her in a white-walled room that looked out across the island to the eastern horizon on one side, and to the north on another. A thick towel and clothes lay on the bed. Showing off what the upper crust wears, she thought resentfully, as she handled the flannel slacks, a woman’s shirt in soft fine wool tartan, and the hand-knit socks. The underwear was also much better than her own. She wouldn’t have changed except that she was cold, and besides, she didn’t know a quick escape route out of the house. Stiff with self-consciousness, as if the furniture were animate and gazing ruthlessly at her poor belongings, she undressed and rubbed her chilly flesh with the towel.
    Downstairs she stood in the kitchen doorway and said crisply, “Here’s the towel. Thanks for the clothes. I’ll send them back later.”
    â€œNo, you don’t.” Mark Bennett was in her way, broad and solid. “We’ve got you and you won’t get away if we have to lash you to the mainm’st. Any woman that saves my son’s life is stuck with me, by God.” His arm around her propelled her into the kitchen. She detested being touched without permission. Even Barry knew better, but none of these people were sensitive enough to feel her disgust. “How about that drink?” Mark was saying.
    â€œNo, thanks.” She was strangely exhilarated, almost cheerful. She smiled and sat down at the table. Coffee was set before her, sugar and cream thrust at her, a plate of warm coffee bread, butter. She was hungry enough to eat and drink, knowing the gesture would be lost on them if she refused. This kind needed everything spelled out for them, they were so snug and cozy in their arrogance. In a few minutes the impertinent questions would begin, and then by brevity and indifference she might be able to insult them.
    She had finished her first cup of coffee when she realized that they hadn’t asked her