Read Online The Sound of Glass by Karen White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen White
Ads: Link
surprise, then widened her perfect mouth into a genuine smile. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to make sweet tea so that we have some tomorrow. I hope I didn’t wake you. I was trying to be real quiet.”
I didn’t return her smile, as I was too focused on what she was doing. “Do you need a measuring cup? Because I can’t believe you just poured that much sugar in the pot.”
She waved a hand at me like I’d just made a joke and began dragging the wooden spoon through the pot. Grinning even more broadly, she said, “There’s no such thing as too much sugar in your sweet tea. My mama said that when I was a girl she’d take my little finger and dip it in her glass to make it just a little bit sweeter.” Her smile softened. “I told that to your daddy, and he did the same thing with Owen. I have it on a DVD if you ever want to see it.”
I looked away, and not just because I was uncomfortable with her mention of the man who connected us, but because of the absurdity of this woman standing in my kitchen. Loralee looked like she was dressed to appear in a television commercial, complete with shiny, thick hair tumbling down the leopard-print silk, and what looked like full makeup. Even the way she was posed by the counter, with a slender knee peeking out from the opening of her robe, seemed staged.
I thought of my mother in her flannel pajamas and fluffy robe, with brown hair that frizzed in the summer and flattened against herhead while she slept. She had died when I was twelve, but when I thought of her now I knew the word
sexy
had never been used to describe her. She was the kind of mother who baked cookies and volunteered for the PTA, packed your lunch and made sure you had a sweater if she thought it was too cool outside. She would never make a drink that had more than the month’s allotment of sugar, or wear something low-cut that would make her stand out from your friends’ mothers. She didn’t wear makeup, and her hair was always worn short, because it was easier to take care of. She was the kind of mother I was proud of—the kind of mother who saved her child even when it meant there was no time to save herself.
I began opening cabinets, looking for a pan to heat my milk, eager to keep myself occupied so Loralee wouldn’t see my anger. “Do you sleep in makeup?” I asked, unable to resist.
She laughed. “No—but it looks like I do, doesn’t it? I had my eyebrows and eyeliner tattooed so that when I woke up in the morning, Robert would still think I was beautiful.”
I gritted my teeth at the mention of my father’s name, but she didn’t seem to notice, because she continued. “He always said I didn’t need any makeup, but that’s because he never saw me without it. My mama always said that everybody could use a little help.”
I didn’t look up, but I felt her looking at me, and my irritation grew. Finding a warped pan with scald marks on the bottom, I slammed the cabinet door a little too loudly. I faced her, ready to tell her bluntly that I didn’t need any help from her about makeup or anything else, but stopped with the words still in my throat.
She was gripping the edge of the counter, and her face was screwed up as if she had eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Her porcelain skin seemed even a shade lighter.
“Are you all right?” I asked, keeping my distance, unsure what I should do.
She remained where she was for a few more moments before opening her eyes and meeting mine. Her smile was shaky. “I thinkI just had a sugar rush—been tasting this tea too much.” With her back to me, she turned off the stove and placed a lid over it so the contents could cool. With a washcloth, she began wiping up the counter, her movements slow and deliberate, while the bell-shaped sleeves of her robe billowed out like the arms of a conductor conducting a symphony.
Trying to avoid her as much as I could in the small kitchen, I placed the pan on the stove before reaching into
I didn’t return her smile, as I was too focused on what she was doing. “Do you need a measuring cup? Because I can’t believe you just poured that much sugar in the pot.”
She waved a hand at me like I’d just made a joke and began dragging the wooden spoon through the pot. Grinning even more broadly, she said, “There’s no such thing as too much sugar in your sweet tea. My mama said that when I was a girl she’d take my little finger and dip it in her glass to make it just a little bit sweeter.” Her smile softened. “I told that to your daddy, and he did the same thing with Owen. I have it on a DVD if you ever want to see it.”
I looked away, and not just because I was uncomfortable with her mention of the man who connected us, but because of the absurdity of this woman standing in my kitchen. Loralee looked like she was dressed to appear in a television commercial, complete with shiny, thick hair tumbling down the leopard-print silk, and what looked like full makeup. Even the way she was posed by the counter, with a slender knee peeking out from the opening of her robe, seemed staged.
I thought of my mother in her flannel pajamas and fluffy robe, with brown hair that frizzed in the summer and flattened against herhead while she slept. She had died when I was twelve, but when I thought of her now I knew the word
sexy
had never been used to describe her. She was the kind of mother who baked cookies and volunteered for the PTA, packed your lunch and made sure you had a sweater if she thought it was too cool outside. She would never make a drink that had more than the month’s allotment of sugar, or wear something low-cut that would make her stand out from your friends’ mothers. She didn’t wear makeup, and her hair was always worn short, because it was easier to take care of. She was the kind of mother I was proud of—the kind of mother who saved her child even when it meant there was no time to save herself.
I began opening cabinets, looking for a pan to heat my milk, eager to keep myself occupied so Loralee wouldn’t see my anger. “Do you sleep in makeup?” I asked, unable to resist.
She laughed. “No—but it looks like I do, doesn’t it? I had my eyebrows and eyeliner tattooed so that when I woke up in the morning, Robert would still think I was beautiful.”
I gritted my teeth at the mention of my father’s name, but she didn’t seem to notice, because she continued. “He always said I didn’t need any makeup, but that’s because he never saw me without it. My mama always said that everybody could use a little help.”
I didn’t look up, but I felt her looking at me, and my irritation grew. Finding a warped pan with scald marks on the bottom, I slammed the cabinet door a little too loudly. I faced her, ready to tell her bluntly that I didn’t need any help from her about makeup or anything else, but stopped with the words still in my throat.
She was gripping the edge of the counter, and her face was screwed up as if she had eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Her porcelain skin seemed even a shade lighter.
“Are you all right?” I asked, keeping my distance, unsure what I should do.
She remained where she was for a few more moments before opening her eyes and meeting mine. Her smile was shaky. “I thinkI just had a sugar rush—been tasting this tea too much.” With her back to me, she turned off the stove and placed a lid over it so the contents could cool. With a washcloth, she began wiping up the counter, her movements slow and deliberate, while the bell-shaped sleeves of her robe billowed out like the arms of a conductor conducting a symphony.
Trying to avoid her as much as I could in the small kitchen, I placed the pan on the stove before reaching into
Similar Books
