Read Online The Yellow Braid by Karen Coccioli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Coccioli
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Nina asked. “Maybe coming from you, she’ll listen.”
“Sure, when she comes around to visit next
time,” Caro said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The lessons of impermanence,
the occasional despair and the muse, so tenuously moored, all visit
their needs upon me and I dig deeply for the spiritual utilities
that restore me… ~ Sally
Mann
The next day, Caro’s eyebrows rose and a soft
expletive escaped her lips as she climbed over the dune to find
Livia looking straight at her not more than five feet away from the
end of the catwalk. She was lying on a beach towel on her stomach.
Her elbows made knobby imprints in the sand and her face rested on
her knuckles. Her feet stuck up straight and were crossed at the
ankles.
Small-boned and slim, she wore a Speedo,
which flattered her body. Caro noticed Livia’s toenails had been
polished and supposed it had been at Nina’s insistence.
“How about helping me with the cabana?” Caro
asked.
Livia scrambled to her feet. “I got it.” She
popped it open against the bank of a particularly mounded dune that
was overhung with tall, reedy grasses, and locked the legs in
place. Then she ran ahead of Caro, scooped up the cooler, and set
it under the cover of the canvas.
It was the perfect time of morning. The sun
was at an eastern slant and the only prints on the beach were those
left by sandpipers and gulls. Livia picked a piece of grass and
chewed its end; the rest of the stem fell away from her mouth in a
graceful arc.
“This is a nice surprise,” Caro said.
“Aunt Nina’s on a shoot.”
“Of what?”
“ Home in the Hamptons asked her to do a piece on the
history of how the mill came about in Watermill. I was looking up
stuff on the Internet for her and we read it’s been there since
1644. Just imagine being one of the original settlers.”
“I’m not so sure I want to. I’m more of an
1800’s woman myself.”
“Maybe then, too,” Livia conceded as she
drew designs in the sand with her fingers.
The silence between them was calming, a mood
Caro was wise enough to fully appreciate. These moments were rare
in life, and she made this one special by handing Livia a book,
soft-covered and slim. On the front was a woman sitting in a
languid pose facing away from the camera, revealing just a hint of
a profile. Her hair pinned at the nape of her neck and the collar
and bodice of her gown were Victorian in style.
Livia studied the cover front and back,
and read the title aloud, “ A Room of One’s Own. ”
“Most girls your age wouldn’t want anything
to do with this. I think you might feel differently. It’s not easy
though.”
Livia flipped through the pages, pausing
every now and then to examine some bit of writing. “Thanks.”
“I feel like walking. What do you say?” Caro
suggested.
Livia got up, the book still in her hand.
Before putting it down she said, “Did my aunt tell you it’s my
birthday tomorrow? Is that why you gave me this?”
Caro’s heart filled her chest. Her birthday,
how fortuitous! “No, she didn’t.”
“We’re having a celebration supper on
Friday. Can you come?”
“Your aunt might be planning something
special.”
Livia shook her head with such enthusiasm
that her braid swung from side to side and coiled itself around her
slender neck. “She said she was going to ask you. Besides, I get to
choose. It is my day.”
“ If your aunt asks, then yes, I’d like to
come.”
They walked along a good stretch of beach.
The tide was receding. A mellow surf coughed up background music
rather than the insistent roar of high tide when the waves broke
hard at the shoreline. Gulls made mad dives, searching for
overturned horseshoe crabs.
Under her straw hat and behind sunglasses,
Caro felt oblivious to everything but Livia walking beside her.
Once, in an eruption of maternal solicitude, Caro put her arm
around Livia’s shoulder.
Livia reciprocated by sliding her arm around
Caro’s waist.
Caro took pride in
“Sure, when she comes around to visit next
time,” Caro said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The lessons of impermanence,
the occasional despair and the muse, so tenuously moored, all visit
their needs upon me and I dig deeply for the spiritual utilities
that restore me… ~ Sally
Mann
The next day, Caro’s eyebrows rose and a soft
expletive escaped her lips as she climbed over the dune to find
Livia looking straight at her not more than five feet away from the
end of the catwalk. She was lying on a beach towel on her stomach.
Her elbows made knobby imprints in the sand and her face rested on
her knuckles. Her feet stuck up straight and were crossed at the
ankles.
Small-boned and slim, she wore a Speedo,
which flattered her body. Caro noticed Livia’s toenails had been
polished and supposed it had been at Nina’s insistence.
“How about helping me with the cabana?” Caro
asked.
Livia scrambled to her feet. “I got it.” She
popped it open against the bank of a particularly mounded dune that
was overhung with tall, reedy grasses, and locked the legs in
place. Then she ran ahead of Caro, scooped up the cooler, and set
it under the cover of the canvas.
It was the perfect time of morning. The sun
was at an eastern slant and the only prints on the beach were those
left by sandpipers and gulls. Livia picked a piece of grass and
chewed its end; the rest of the stem fell away from her mouth in a
graceful arc.
“This is a nice surprise,” Caro said.
“Aunt Nina’s on a shoot.”
“Of what?”
“ Home in the Hamptons asked her to do a piece on the
history of how the mill came about in Watermill. I was looking up
stuff on the Internet for her and we read it’s been there since
1644. Just imagine being one of the original settlers.”
“I’m not so sure I want to. I’m more of an
1800’s woman myself.”
“Maybe then, too,” Livia conceded as she
drew designs in the sand with her fingers.
The silence between them was calming, a mood
Caro was wise enough to fully appreciate. These moments were rare
in life, and she made this one special by handing Livia a book,
soft-covered and slim. On the front was a woman sitting in a
languid pose facing away from the camera, revealing just a hint of
a profile. Her hair pinned at the nape of her neck and the collar
and bodice of her gown were Victorian in style.
Livia studied the cover front and back,
and read the title aloud, “ A Room of One’s Own. ”
“Most girls your age wouldn’t want anything
to do with this. I think you might feel differently. It’s not easy
though.”
Livia flipped through the pages, pausing
every now and then to examine some bit of writing. “Thanks.”
“I feel like walking. What do you say?” Caro
suggested.
Livia got up, the book still in her hand.
Before putting it down she said, “Did my aunt tell you it’s my
birthday tomorrow? Is that why you gave me this?”
Caro’s heart filled her chest. Her birthday,
how fortuitous! “No, she didn’t.”
“We’re having a celebration supper on
Friday. Can you come?”
“Your aunt might be planning something
special.”
Livia shook her head with such enthusiasm
that her braid swung from side to side and coiled itself around her
slender neck. “She said she was going to ask you. Besides, I get to
choose. It is my day.”
“ If your aunt asks, then yes, I’d like to
come.”
They walked along a good stretch of beach.
The tide was receding. A mellow surf coughed up background music
rather than the insistent roar of high tide when the waves broke
hard at the shoreline. Gulls made mad dives, searching for
overturned horseshoe crabs.
Under her straw hat and behind sunglasses,
Caro felt oblivious to everything but Livia walking beside her.
Once, in an eruption of maternal solicitude, Caro put her arm
around Livia’s shoulder.
Livia reciprocated by sliding her arm around
Caro’s waist.
Caro took pride in
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