Read Online The Strangers on Montagu Street by Karen White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen White
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heading over to Caroline Lane’s. Her sister passed last fall and left some unfinished business that Mrs. Lane would like to settle so her sister can rest in peace. You’re welcome to come along.”
“Mother, please. You know how I feel about performing like a circus seal. And what would my clients think if it got out? I’d never be taken seriously again.”
A shriek sounded from upstairs, rapidly followed by stomping footsteps and a door being thrown open. Again. “Stop moving my damned guitar! Where’d you put it?”
Hating to shout in my own house, I moved to the base of the stairs again. “I’ll give it to you after you help me change the fuse.”
The door slammed in response.
“Somebody needs to talk with her about that language.”
“I know, Mother. I just can’t do it yet—she’s still too raw from the trauma of the last month. We’ll figure it out.”
I walked with my mother to the front door, and she paused on the threshold. “I’ve got a few errands to run, and I know you’ve probably got something to organize, so why don’t we plan on your picking me up at my house at one?”
I frowned. “What for?”
“To take you shopping for a nice pair of jeans. Bring Nola, too. Amelia told me she’d purchased some things for her at Palm Avenue, and it doesn’t take any psychic powers to guess that Nola wouldn’t wear most of it. We can return what doesn’t work and hopefully find something else we can all agree on. Amelia will understand.”
Knowing it was futile to argue, I said, “Whatever.” I cringed at how much I was starting to sound like Nola after only three days. I wondered whether, after three months of living with her, I’d be cursing and admiring Sophie’s fashion sense. I shuddered at the thought.
“Great. I’ll see you both at one.” She kissed me on both cheeks, then walked down the piazza, her heels clicking across the black-and-white marble tiles.
I was in the process of walking with a pot of real baked beans toward one of the tables set up in the garden when a low wolf whistle came from behind me. I turned to see Jack lounging in a chair with a nonalcoholic beer resting beside him on the wrought-iron table. Turning my back on him, I set the pot down and began to arrange the flowers my father had provided for the occasion. “What? You’ve never seen baked beans before?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not escorted by such a fine pair of blue jeans, that’s for sure.”
His expression sobered quickly as the kitchen door opened behind me and Rebecca Edgerton appeared, a vision in pink shorts, a matching pink sweater set, and a pink headband resting on her blond head, a mutinous-looking Nola following close behind.
Jack stood and smiled warily at his daughter and Rebecca, no doubt wondering whether he should gird his loins. I stared at Nola for a moment, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I knew of the girl. She wore her Converse sneakers with green neon laces, and matching socks that went to almost midcalf on her long, gangly legs. Her skirt was denim, one I recognized from our shopping trip that afternoon, but with a shredded hem that I was sure hadn’t been on it when it was purchased. Her new, crisp white Lilly Pulitzer blouse looked like it had been mistaken for a subway wall by a graffiti artist with a penchant for peace signs, and although her eyeliner had been applied with a lighter touch, the red lipstick had not been. But the most notable part of it all was the pink headband, remarkably like Rebecca’s, that pushed back her dark hair, showing off her beautiful bone structure and features, and highlighting the scowl on her face.
Sophie turned from where she’d been working on displaying her eggless, sugarless, and tasteless lemon bars on a tray. “That’s just wrong,” she said under her breath.
Nola stopped in front of her father, crossed her arms over her chest, and glowered in his direction. Rebecca put an arm around Jack’s
“Mother, please. You know how I feel about performing like a circus seal. And what would my clients think if it got out? I’d never be taken seriously again.”
A shriek sounded from upstairs, rapidly followed by stomping footsteps and a door being thrown open. Again. “Stop moving my damned guitar! Where’d you put it?”
Hating to shout in my own house, I moved to the base of the stairs again. “I’ll give it to you after you help me change the fuse.”
The door slammed in response.
“Somebody needs to talk with her about that language.”
“I know, Mother. I just can’t do it yet—she’s still too raw from the trauma of the last month. We’ll figure it out.”
I walked with my mother to the front door, and she paused on the threshold. “I’ve got a few errands to run, and I know you’ve probably got something to organize, so why don’t we plan on your picking me up at my house at one?”
I frowned. “What for?”
“To take you shopping for a nice pair of jeans. Bring Nola, too. Amelia told me she’d purchased some things for her at Palm Avenue, and it doesn’t take any psychic powers to guess that Nola wouldn’t wear most of it. We can return what doesn’t work and hopefully find something else we can all agree on. Amelia will understand.”
Knowing it was futile to argue, I said, “Whatever.” I cringed at how much I was starting to sound like Nola after only three days. I wondered whether, after three months of living with her, I’d be cursing and admiring Sophie’s fashion sense. I shuddered at the thought.
“Great. I’ll see you both at one.” She kissed me on both cheeks, then walked down the piazza, her heels clicking across the black-and-white marble tiles.
I was in the process of walking with a pot of real baked beans toward one of the tables set up in the garden when a low wolf whistle came from behind me. I turned to see Jack lounging in a chair with a nonalcoholic beer resting beside him on the wrought-iron table. Turning my back on him, I set the pot down and began to arrange the flowers my father had provided for the occasion. “What? You’ve never seen baked beans before?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not escorted by such a fine pair of blue jeans, that’s for sure.”
His expression sobered quickly as the kitchen door opened behind me and Rebecca Edgerton appeared, a vision in pink shorts, a matching pink sweater set, and a pink headband resting on her blond head, a mutinous-looking Nola following close behind.
Jack stood and smiled warily at his daughter and Rebecca, no doubt wondering whether he should gird his loins. I stared at Nola for a moment, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I knew of the girl. She wore her Converse sneakers with green neon laces, and matching socks that went to almost midcalf on her long, gangly legs. Her skirt was denim, one I recognized from our shopping trip that afternoon, but with a shredded hem that I was sure hadn’t been on it when it was purchased. Her new, crisp white Lilly Pulitzer blouse looked like it had been mistaken for a subway wall by a graffiti artist with a penchant for peace signs, and although her eyeliner had been applied with a lighter touch, the red lipstick had not been. But the most notable part of it all was the pink headband, remarkably like Rebecca’s, that pushed back her dark hair, showing off her beautiful bone structure and features, and highlighting the scowl on her face.
Sophie turned from where she’d been working on displaying her eggless, sugarless, and tasteless lemon bars on a tray. “That’s just wrong,” she said under her breath.
Nola stopped in front of her father, crossed her arms over her chest, and glowered in his direction. Rebecca put an arm around Jack’s
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