Read Online Waiting for Summer's Return by Kim Vogel Sawyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
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cut saplings, rope, and straw.
Should she break her agreement with Mr. Ollenburger and return to the hotel, then arrange to take a train to Boston? The answer came immediately: no.
Her children’s graves required tending, and so did Thomas. He wasn’t her boy, and she had no desire to make him her boy, yet he was a child on whom she could bestow affection and care. Her heart needed someone to care for.
Summer frowned, remembering the constant watchful gaze of the old grandmother today. As Mr. Ollenburger had indicated, the woman had not spoken to her at all throughout the afternoon. She had only watched Summer with an expression of worry in her faded wrinkled eyes. Summer had no idea what worry the woman held, but she hoped it would be set aside. It was unnerving to always be watched.
Her eyelids drooped, sleepiness taking hold. Although the shariah carried a perpetually musty odor, the fresh smell of straw beneath her head pleased her nostrils. She rolled to her side to bring her nose closer to the source of the smell, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
Thomas formed the letters to spell the word beast . Summer felt the grandmother’s eyes on her from the rocking chair in the corner, but Summer kept her focus on the boy. He held the slate toward her, his eyebrows raised in query. She nodded, and he swept away the word with a rag and took up his slate pencil, ready for the next word.
“Instinctive.” She watched the boy’s brow furrow in concentration as he bent once more over the slate.
It had surprised Summer to discover the variety of books the Ollenburgers owned. After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, Thomas had proudly shown her his shelf containing reading and spelling primers, the most recent volume of Barnes’s United States History, Reed and Kellogg’s Higher Grammar, and Robinson’s Practical Arithmetic . In addition to the instructional books, he had several volumes of Twain’s work and Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. When Summer had voiced her astonishment at the Stowe book, the boy confided that he didn’t like it much.
“Not because it isn’t good. It is a good story. But it makes me sad.” He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh when I read than cry. Sometimes Twain makes me cry, too.”
Thomas was so different from Vincent, although both boys enjoyed reading. Vincent would choose the saddest story, then read it aloud with great drama, bringing his audience to tears. Summer pushed aside thoughts of Vincent to ask, “Where did you get so many books?”
The boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Pa buys them for my birthdays and Christmas.”
Summer would never have guessed the man would choose reading material as gifts for his son. Tools, yes. Perhaps even a rifle. But books? Summer asked, “Does your father read to you, then?”
Thomas frowned. “I read to Pa.”
Summer turned the spelling primer to the page Thomas had indicated and began reviewing. But his statement repeated itself in her head: “I read to Pa.” Although Thomas hadn’t said it directly, Summer surmised Mr. Ollenburger couldn’t read.
“Did I get it right?” Thomas held up the slate, bringing her back to the present.
Summer pointed. “All but one letter. Instinctive needs an e at the end.”
The boy made a face. “You can’t hear it. Why does it have to be there?”
“Well …” She blinked. “I don’t know. But the word requires it, so put it on and then write it correctly five times. That way you’ll remember it.”
Thomas’s scowl deepened, and she wondered if he would argue. Then, with a sigh, he followed her direction. She stifled her own sigh of relief at his acquiescence. She didn’t care to grow stern with him while the grandmother observed her every move.
She rose and poured another cup of coffee while she waited for him to finish. Through the window, she observed Mr. Ollenburger at the chopping block, where he was turning logs into kindling. The thud of his
Should she break her agreement with Mr. Ollenburger and return to the hotel, then arrange to take a train to Boston? The answer came immediately: no.
Her children’s graves required tending, and so did Thomas. He wasn’t her boy, and she had no desire to make him her boy, yet he was a child on whom she could bestow affection and care. Her heart needed someone to care for.
Summer frowned, remembering the constant watchful gaze of the old grandmother today. As Mr. Ollenburger had indicated, the woman had not spoken to her at all throughout the afternoon. She had only watched Summer with an expression of worry in her faded wrinkled eyes. Summer had no idea what worry the woman held, but she hoped it would be set aside. It was unnerving to always be watched.
Her eyelids drooped, sleepiness taking hold. Although the shariah carried a perpetually musty odor, the fresh smell of straw beneath her head pleased her nostrils. She rolled to her side to bring her nose closer to the source of the smell, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
Thomas formed the letters to spell the word beast . Summer felt the grandmother’s eyes on her from the rocking chair in the corner, but Summer kept her focus on the boy. He held the slate toward her, his eyebrows raised in query. She nodded, and he swept away the word with a rag and took up his slate pencil, ready for the next word.
“Instinctive.” She watched the boy’s brow furrow in concentration as he bent once more over the slate.
It had surprised Summer to discover the variety of books the Ollenburgers owned. After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, Thomas had proudly shown her his shelf containing reading and spelling primers, the most recent volume of Barnes’s United States History, Reed and Kellogg’s Higher Grammar, and Robinson’s Practical Arithmetic . In addition to the instructional books, he had several volumes of Twain’s work and Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. When Summer had voiced her astonishment at the Stowe book, the boy confided that he didn’t like it much.
“Not because it isn’t good. It is a good story. But it makes me sad.” He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh when I read than cry. Sometimes Twain makes me cry, too.”
Thomas was so different from Vincent, although both boys enjoyed reading. Vincent would choose the saddest story, then read it aloud with great drama, bringing his audience to tears. Summer pushed aside thoughts of Vincent to ask, “Where did you get so many books?”
The boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Pa buys them for my birthdays and Christmas.”
Summer would never have guessed the man would choose reading material as gifts for his son. Tools, yes. Perhaps even a rifle. But books? Summer asked, “Does your father read to you, then?”
Thomas frowned. “I read to Pa.”
Summer turned the spelling primer to the page Thomas had indicated and began reviewing. But his statement repeated itself in her head: “I read to Pa.” Although Thomas hadn’t said it directly, Summer surmised Mr. Ollenburger couldn’t read.
“Did I get it right?” Thomas held up the slate, bringing her back to the present.
Summer pointed. “All but one letter. Instinctive needs an e at the end.”
The boy made a face. “You can’t hear it. Why does it have to be there?”
“Well …” She blinked. “I don’t know. But the word requires it, so put it on and then write it correctly five times. That way you’ll remember it.”
Thomas’s scowl deepened, and she wondered if he would argue. Then, with a sigh, he followed her direction. She stifled her own sigh of relief at his acquiescence. She didn’t care to grow stern with him while the grandmother observed her every move.
She rose and poured another cup of coffee while she waited for him to finish. Through the window, she observed Mr. Ollenburger at the chopping block, where he was turning logs into kindling. The thud of his
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