Read Online The Secret Hum of a Daisy by Tracy Holczer - Free Book Online Page B

snarls in my hair. I opened the door and stood with my hand on my hip and my chin held high like it was perfectly normal to be hiding in Grandpa’s office at three o’clock in the morning. “Are you spying on me?”
    She looked down at the mud, which led right to the door. “You left a map.”
    â€œI forgot to take off my boots.”
    â€œIt happens. I’ll leave the mop and bucket out for you to clean up tomorrow.”
    Drat.
    â€œCan’t sleep?” Grandma said as she walked into the kitchen.
    I leaned against the doorway as the teakettle started to wail. She poured the steaming water into a mug. A box of Earl Grey sat beside a plastic bear of honey. She looked comfortable in a fluffy blue robe and plaid flannel pajama bottoms, her long gray-blond hair in a braid.
    â€œMama drank Earl Grey,” I said without meaning to.
    Grandma nodded and looked toward the mudroom. My muddy tracks were all over the place. “What were you doing out there?”
    â€œUm. I was missing a sock. I checked in the dryer.”
    â€œIn the middle of the night?”
    â€œI was bored.”
    She nodded like that was perfectly understandable. “I’ve been thinking about the toolbox,” Grandma said. “Specifically, the bird you found in there.”
    I stood up straight, worried. “You can’t have it back.”
    â€œOf course not. No. I was thinking you could work on it. Finish it for her.”
    â€œAre you crazy? It’s Mama’s.”
    â€œI thought we’d both like to have it. Something she made.”
    â€œThere’s no way I could make it look the way she would have. I’d rather keep it the way it is.”
    There was a long silence as Grandma put the box of tea bags and honey away in the pantry. “Neither one of us was counting on this, Grace. But don’t you think we owe it to your mama, to each other, to try?”
    â€œYou owe Mama things you can’t give me.”
    â€œI know I do,” she said quietly.
    Which took me by surprise.
    She leaned against the counter and brought the mug to her lips, blowing at the steam, just the way Mama had. Sometimes, when the light was dim and Grandma turned her head just the right way, I’d get a glimpse of Mama and the sting was something awful.
    â€œMrs. Greene told me you’re a writer,” Grandma said. “I’d like to read your work sometime. If it’s not too private.”
    â€œWell, it is,” I said.
    â€œOkay.” She looked at me evenly.
    I squirmed under her gaze. “I don’t understand why you won’t let me live with Mrs. Greene. It’s not like you want me here.”
    â€œIf I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.”
    â€œYou’re my only next of kin. That’s what Mrs. Greene said. So you don’t have a choice.”
    â€œEveryone has a choice.”
    I was so mixed up. The person I’d made up Grandma to be, someone hard and cruel, just didn’t match this woman who stood across from me. She had summer-blue eyes, like mine and Mama’s, and the wrinkles at the outside of those eyes squinched up, like she’d done a lot of laughing in her life. She was graceful in the way she moved between the plants in her yard, caring for each one and giving them what they needed to be healthy and strong. She liked books and I’d seen some of the titles on her shelves:
To Kill a Mockingbird
,
The Secret Life of Bees
,
The Bean Trees
. They didn’t look like the kinds of books a mean person might read. I’d even snuck in her room when I’d first gotten here, the only place she kept color, and found a knitted afghan done in purples at the bottom of her bed, a quilt made from floral fabrics, and more books on her nightstand. There was an overstuffed, comfy chair made from bright green fabric, the color of grass, and watercolor paintings on her walls. Trees in winter. An old barn that looked