Read Online The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one by Leonard Foglia, David Richards - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leonard Foglia, David Richards
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the station.
Hannah kept her eyes peeled for the red-brick Catholic Church. (“You can’t miss it,” Jolene had assured her. “It’s modern. All the others have white steeples and are 200-years old.”) When she saw it, she slowed down and prepared to turn right onto Alcott Street. (“A third of a mile on Alcott, number 214, left-hand side. Look for a red mailbox.”) Alcott Street, in keeping with the promise of Main Street, was clearly a prestige address. The homes, when they were visible, were large multi-storied structures, built around the turn of the century. Some had wrap-around porches and fanciful turrets, and there were even a few porch swings in evidence, although their function was now more decorative than utilitarian.
The red mailbox stood out sharply against a ten-foot privet hedge. Hannah eased the Nova onto a winding gravel driveway, lined with clumps of rhododendrons newly in bloom. What she saw first was a barn every bit as red as the mailbox. One of the two doors was open, and a beige mini-van was parked inside. An arbor, covered with wisteria vines, ran from the side of the barn around to the back of the house.
At the sight of the house itself, Hannah sucked in her breath. It might have belonged to a farmer 100 years ago, but in the ensuing decades, it had expanded outward and upward, so that it now easily passed easily for a banker’s residence. Built out of gray fieldstone, it had been positioned to catch the afternoon sun, which even now glinted off the large-paned windows on the first two floors. A series of smaller dormer windows peaked out from under the eaves. Two massive chimneys, one emitting a lazy tendril of smoke, completed the impression of solidity.
The driveway looped around a brass sundial. Even though she’d slowed to a crawl, Hannah could hear the Nova churning up the loose gravel. All of a sudden the front door swung open, and there was Jolene Whitfield, waving enthusiastically, a bright blue dish towel in her hand, as if she were helping a small aircraft to land right there on the front lawn.
“You made it,” she called out. “Your timing’s perfect. Soup’s on.”
Soup was Jolene’s homemade cream of mushroom, and they ate lunch in a sunroom, filled with potted plants, hanging ferns, and wrought-iron garden furniture.
“I thought it would be more cheerful here,” Jolene explained.
The view from the back of the house encompassed a large lawn leading to a stand of thick pines. At the halfway point stood a stone birdbath. Someone had been hard at work on the flowerbeds, repairing the winter damage and readying them for their spring colors. Hannah imagined how cheerful it would be once everything was in flower.
“Eat up your soup, dear,” Jolene counseled between mouthfuls. “It’s Marshall’s favorite. Low in sodium. No chemicals to worry about. We’re lucky to have an organic food store in town, so you can rest assured on that count.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Your diet. You can rest assured there’s nothing harmful for the baby. You are watching your diet, aren’t you?”
“I’ve started taking pre-natal vitamins. I’m afraid I still have a cup of coffee every morning.”
“As long as it’s just one. Oh, listen to me! Nagging already,” Jolene laughed. “I’m sure you have talked this all over with Dr. Johanson, so pay no attention to my fussing. I’m just that way. ‘Fiona Fuss-budget,’ Marshall calls me.”
Lunch was tasty and Hannah ate with appetite.
“What do you say to dessert? I prepared a carrot cake with vanilla icing, specially for today. Not to worry. All natural ingredients. The frosting’s made of soy.”
After Hannah had dutifully sampled the cake and pronounced it “er… very interesting,” Jolene proposed a tour of the house. The Whitfields had moved in less than a year ago, but the rooms bore evidence of their world travels and, even more, of Jolene’s outgoing personality. Like her clothes, her taste in interior
Hannah kept her eyes peeled for the red-brick Catholic Church. (“You can’t miss it,” Jolene had assured her. “It’s modern. All the others have white steeples and are 200-years old.”) When she saw it, she slowed down and prepared to turn right onto Alcott Street. (“A third of a mile on Alcott, number 214, left-hand side. Look for a red mailbox.”) Alcott Street, in keeping with the promise of Main Street, was clearly a prestige address. The homes, when they were visible, were large multi-storied structures, built around the turn of the century. Some had wrap-around porches and fanciful turrets, and there were even a few porch swings in evidence, although their function was now more decorative than utilitarian.
The red mailbox stood out sharply against a ten-foot privet hedge. Hannah eased the Nova onto a winding gravel driveway, lined with clumps of rhododendrons newly in bloom. What she saw first was a barn every bit as red as the mailbox. One of the two doors was open, and a beige mini-van was parked inside. An arbor, covered with wisteria vines, ran from the side of the barn around to the back of the house.
At the sight of the house itself, Hannah sucked in her breath. It might have belonged to a farmer 100 years ago, but in the ensuing decades, it had expanded outward and upward, so that it now easily passed easily for a banker’s residence. Built out of gray fieldstone, it had been positioned to catch the afternoon sun, which even now glinted off the large-paned windows on the first two floors. A series of smaller dormer windows peaked out from under the eaves. Two massive chimneys, one emitting a lazy tendril of smoke, completed the impression of solidity.
The driveway looped around a brass sundial. Even though she’d slowed to a crawl, Hannah could hear the Nova churning up the loose gravel. All of a sudden the front door swung open, and there was Jolene Whitfield, waving enthusiastically, a bright blue dish towel in her hand, as if she were helping a small aircraft to land right there on the front lawn.
“You made it,” she called out. “Your timing’s perfect. Soup’s on.”
Soup was Jolene’s homemade cream of mushroom, and they ate lunch in a sunroom, filled with potted plants, hanging ferns, and wrought-iron garden furniture.
“I thought it would be more cheerful here,” Jolene explained.
The view from the back of the house encompassed a large lawn leading to a stand of thick pines. At the halfway point stood a stone birdbath. Someone had been hard at work on the flowerbeds, repairing the winter damage and readying them for their spring colors. Hannah imagined how cheerful it would be once everything was in flower.
“Eat up your soup, dear,” Jolene counseled between mouthfuls. “It’s Marshall’s favorite. Low in sodium. No chemicals to worry about. We’re lucky to have an organic food store in town, so you can rest assured on that count.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Your diet. You can rest assured there’s nothing harmful for the baby. You are watching your diet, aren’t you?”
“I’ve started taking pre-natal vitamins. I’m afraid I still have a cup of coffee every morning.”
“As long as it’s just one. Oh, listen to me! Nagging already,” Jolene laughed. “I’m sure you have talked this all over with Dr. Johanson, so pay no attention to my fussing. I’m just that way. ‘Fiona Fuss-budget,’ Marshall calls me.”
Lunch was tasty and Hannah ate with appetite.
“What do you say to dessert? I prepared a carrot cake with vanilla icing, specially for today. Not to worry. All natural ingredients. The frosting’s made of soy.”
After Hannah had dutifully sampled the cake and pronounced it “er… very interesting,” Jolene proposed a tour of the house. The Whitfields had moved in less than a year ago, but the rooms bore evidence of their world travels and, even more, of Jolene’s outgoing personality. Like her clothes, her taste in interior
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