Read Online The Sense of Reckoning by Matty Dalrymple - Free Book Online Page A

joined Uncle Edward at the big worktable in the center of the kitchen to sort through the produce. Uncle Edward said something—Chip didn’t catch what it was—and his mother laughed. Chip loved to watch his mother when she was happy. She had been happier now that there were more guests and they had been able to hire some help.
    Her dark hair was pulled back and caught in a small clip at her neck. Her dark eyes danced with a smile as she chatted with Uncle Edward. Her arms were rounded where they extended from the sleeves of her flowered dress, but her waist was small. Best of all was her skin—pinkish and smooth, like the inside of a rose petal.
    She turned from the worktable to the sink, a small smile still flickering on her lips, while Uncle Edward continued to sort through the produce. She washed her hands then dried them, her smile gradually fading. She turned the towel in her hands much longer than Chip thought was needed to get them dry, her movements rote, her expression distracted. She gazed out the window where the afternoon sun brightened the trees and set off a sparkle on the water beyond.
    She absently folded the hand towel and laid it on the counter next to the sink. She patted her hair and, discovering a strand that had come loose from the clip, unfastened the clip and began smoothing her hair back to reattach it.
    Just at that moment, Uncle Edward glanced up from the pile of vegetables and noticed Chip. “Hey, sport, whatcha up to?”
    His mother turned, framed in the window. Wisps of hair caught the backlight. There was a moment before her eyes focused on him. Where a minute before she had been lively and laughing, she now looked weary and distracted.
    Then her eyes found him. She swept her hair back and caught it in the clip, then crossed the kitchen to where he sat and tousled his hair.
    “What are you doing inside on such a pretty day, my little man?” Her voice had a hint of a French lilt, inherited from parents who had never bothered to learn English after they moved to Mount Desert from Quebec after the Great War.
    “I brought you a flower!” He produced the flower from behind his back.
    His mother smiled at him. “That’s nice of you to think of bringing me a flower, but perhaps you shouldn’t pick your gifts from the flowerpots on the veranda.”
    Chip flushed.
    “But it’s very pretty, Chip. Thank you.” She kissed him on top of the head. She took one of the small bud vases that, with a rosebud from the garden, had decorated the tables at breakfast, added Chip’s flower to it, and set it on the window ledge over the sink.
    Uncle Edward disappeared into the pantry just as Chip heard the clack of heels coming down the hallway that led from the lobby to the kitchen. Amy appeared at the door.
    “Mrs. VanValin would like tea on the veranda.”
    “Milk or sugar?”
    “Just sugar.”
    “Alright. Thank you, Amy, it will be out in a minute.”
    Amy nodded and disappeared back through the door.
    His mother put the kettle on and prepared a tray with a china cup and saucer, teaspoon, tea strainer, sugar bowl, and sugar tongs. She folded a cloth napkin on the corner of the tray and, glancing around the kitchen, added one of the other bud vases to the tray (not, Chip was happy to see, the one with his flower in it). When the kettle whistled, she used the boiling water to warm a small teapot, then added the tea leaves and filled the pot. She went to the door to the hall, pushed it open, and glanced out. Through the open door, Chip could hear Amy’s voice in conversation with a guest. His mother started to remove her apron and then glanced at Chip. He sat up straighter. She examined him appraisingly and then a small smile tugged at her mouth.
    “Do you want to bring Mrs. VanValin her tea?”
    Chip could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He scrambled down from his stool and crossed to the counter where the tray was. His mother hefted it experimentally, then removed the flower vase.
    “It’s