Read Online The Sense of Reckoning by Matty Dalrymple - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matty Dalrymple
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going to be heavy,” she said.
“I can do it,” said Chip, reaching out his arms.
“Alright then.” She lifted the tray by its handles and bent down to hand it to him. “Now don’t try to hold it out from your body, rest the back of the tray on your belly.” She got the tray positioned. “Now hold onto the handles.” He gripped the handles. “Have you got it?” He nodded vigorously. “I’m going to let go now, you let me know if it’s too heavy.” He nodded again, his eyes glued to the tray. Gradually his mother released the weight onto his hands then, letting go, stepped back. “Okay?” He nodded again, too nervous to speak. “Let me get the door for you. Walk very slowly, and watch the sill.” Chip inched toward the door. “That’s it. Still okay?” Chip was too focused on keeping the tray level to nod. His mother opened the door. “You go ahead, I’ll get the doors for you.”
Chip inched gingerly across the kitchen and stepped over the sill, the cup rattling ominously on its saucer. The hallway to the lobby, which he normally skipped through in an instant, suddenly looked as long as a bowling alley. He switched from a walk to a shuffle, which seemed to keep the china quieter. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, but he didn’t dare turn around to look at her.
“Very good, Chip,” she said when he got to the end of the hall. A group of young women was chatting near the fireplace. One of them saw him and nudged her neighbor and gestured with her chin and her friend turned to watch Chip carry the tray through the lobby. Behind the registration desk, Amy glanced up.
“Oh, Mrs. Lynam, I can get that,” she said, starting around the desk.
“No need, Amy, Chip’s got it.”
His mother passed him to open the screen door to the veranda. “Mind the step down,” she murmured.
Chip’s arms were starting to shake, the cup and saucer rattling.
“Where’s Mrs. VanValin sitting?” she asked Amy.
“Right around the corner,” Amy said, sounding anxious.
His mother came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Right around the corner, Chip,” she said.
Chip felt as if his arms were going to crack off, like a too-small tree branch he had once tried to swing from. He shuffled down the veranda and around the corner of the building and almost ran the tray into Mrs. VanValin’s wooden rocker. Mrs. VanValin was turned in her chair, having been alerted to Chip’s approach by the rattling, which was reaching machine-gun proportions.
“Well, if it isn’t young Master Lynam,” she said. She pulled out a wicker table from next to her chair and reached for the tray. “May I take that from you?”
“I can do it,” squeaked Chip tautly. With his last bit of strength, he hoisted the tray up and crashed it down onto the table.
Mrs. VanValin jumped. “Heavens!” she said, putting her hand to her wattled throat.
Chip stepped back and looked in consternation toward his mother. She stepped forward to survey the tray. “All in order,” she said. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. VanValin?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Lynam. Thank you, Chip.” She pulled a coin purse out of a bag of knitting next to her chair, removed a quarter, and held it out to Chip. Chip looked at his mother again.
“Oh, no need, Mrs. VanValin, Chip’s just practicing for when he’ll be running the hotel.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, then said, “Come along, Chip.”
He followed her back inside, his fingers cramped, his aching arms hanging at his sides, his legs trembly.
Maybe things had turned around. Maybe he would always be this happy.
Chapter 11
Ann and Scott ate a breakfast at the inn featuring blueberries in many forms. They were the only guests and the innkeeper, Nan, who had returned from her errand of the previous night to resume her duties, hovered about with offers of additional pancakes or coffee top-offs. She seemed especially intent on fattening
“I can do it,” said Chip, reaching out his arms.
“Alright then.” She lifted the tray by its handles and bent down to hand it to him. “Now don’t try to hold it out from your body, rest the back of the tray on your belly.” She got the tray positioned. “Now hold onto the handles.” He gripped the handles. “Have you got it?” He nodded vigorously. “I’m going to let go now, you let me know if it’s too heavy.” He nodded again, his eyes glued to the tray. Gradually his mother released the weight onto his hands then, letting go, stepped back. “Okay?” He nodded again, too nervous to speak. “Let me get the door for you. Walk very slowly, and watch the sill.” Chip inched toward the door. “That’s it. Still okay?” Chip was too focused on keeping the tray level to nod. His mother opened the door. “You go ahead, I’ll get the doors for you.”
Chip inched gingerly across the kitchen and stepped over the sill, the cup rattling ominously on its saucer. The hallway to the lobby, which he normally skipped through in an instant, suddenly looked as long as a bowling alley. He switched from a walk to a shuffle, which seemed to keep the china quieter. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, but he didn’t dare turn around to look at her.
“Very good, Chip,” she said when he got to the end of the hall. A group of young women was chatting near the fireplace. One of them saw him and nudged her neighbor and gestured with her chin and her friend turned to watch Chip carry the tray through the lobby. Behind the registration desk, Amy glanced up.
“Oh, Mrs. Lynam, I can get that,” she said, starting around the desk.
“No need, Amy, Chip’s got it.”
His mother passed him to open the screen door to the veranda. “Mind the step down,” she murmured.
Chip’s arms were starting to shake, the cup and saucer rattling.
“Where’s Mrs. VanValin sitting?” she asked Amy.
“Right around the corner,” Amy said, sounding anxious.
His mother came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Right around the corner, Chip,” she said.
Chip felt as if his arms were going to crack off, like a too-small tree branch he had once tried to swing from. He shuffled down the veranda and around the corner of the building and almost ran the tray into Mrs. VanValin’s wooden rocker. Mrs. VanValin was turned in her chair, having been alerted to Chip’s approach by the rattling, which was reaching machine-gun proportions.
“Well, if it isn’t young Master Lynam,” she said. She pulled out a wicker table from next to her chair and reached for the tray. “May I take that from you?”
“I can do it,” squeaked Chip tautly. With his last bit of strength, he hoisted the tray up and crashed it down onto the table.
Mrs. VanValin jumped. “Heavens!” she said, putting her hand to her wattled throat.
Chip stepped back and looked in consternation toward his mother. She stepped forward to survey the tray. “All in order,” she said. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. VanValin?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Lynam. Thank you, Chip.” She pulled a coin purse out of a bag of knitting next to her chair, removed a quarter, and held it out to Chip. Chip looked at his mother again.
“Oh, no need, Mrs. VanValin, Chip’s just practicing for when he’ll be running the hotel.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, then said, “Come along, Chip.”
He followed her back inside, his fingers cramped, his aching arms hanging at his sides, his legs trembly.
Maybe things had turned around. Maybe he would always be this happy.
Chapter 11
Ann and Scott ate a breakfast at the inn featuring blueberries in many forms. They were the only guests and the innkeeper, Nan, who had returned from her errand of the previous night to resume her duties, hovered about with offers of additional pancakes or coffee top-offs. She seemed especially intent on fattening
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