Read Online What You Remember I Did by Janet Berliner, Janet & Tem Berliner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Berliner, Janet & Tem Berliner
Ads: Link
as possible as the bleachers filled up again with the end of the break. She had time to say, "Yes, I do, I feel it, too. But that's not enough." Then Peter was back, carrying bottled water and orange wedges. With only a slight look of acknowledgment he took the space between them.
Playing with confidence, Ida took the last set 6-3. She grinned as she accepted her trophy, blew a kiss to Peter, and headed for the locker-room. The three of them took their time leaving the courts and strolling to their cars, knowing that she would take a quick shower before joining them.
When she did, there was a round of hugs followed by the decision to go to the Peppermill for coffee. They took a booth in the bar-coffee shop where Nan, Matt, and Peter vied playfully for the honor of buying the tennis champ a latté. Giddy with accomplishment, she kept hugging everyone.
Nan watched the two men, noting Peter's familiarity with the young, lithe body in his arms, and Matt's kindness toward the two young people. She saw not a hint of lechery in his enthusiastic embraces, only affection. Kindness.
Was it conceivable that such a gentle man had sexually molested his infant son?
Matt kept trying to catch her gaze, and every once in a while, when she didn't force herself to look away quickly enough, they smiled into each other's eyes. Peter and Ida were dancing among the tables to the strains of "Lara's Song," the love theme from Dr. Zhivago . They were singing, obviously to each other. Nan wanted nothing more than to stay in the happy group.
Except, perhaps, to get away. To extract herself from this confusing and tempting and dangerous relationship right now, before it got worse. To go home, where all she had to think about was her demented mother.
"I have to go," she announced, knowing how abrupt it sounded.
"Oh, why? We thought we could all eat and go to a movie or something." Peering over Peter's shoulder, Ida seemed genuinely disappointed.
"My mother's home alone. I can't leave her for very long."
"I'll go with you." It was less an offer than a declaration of intent by Matt.
Her vulnerability turned into anger. "No, you won't!" She strode out.
CHAPTER TEN
Â
"Memory isn't always what it's cracked up to be, you know," Catherine remarked at dinner. She wasn't sure why she'd said that, but she liked how it sounded. Was it true? What did it mean? She didn't know and didn't much care.
The other person at the table, a lovely woman whom she didn't know, looked at her and smiled.
That was nice. Encouraged, she patted her neck, attacking the wrinkles with fervor. "Rooster neck," she said. "Never wanted that."
"Which of those was a random comment, Mom?"
Mom. So this must be her child. Her daughter. Ah, yes, her daughter Nan.
Someone had asked her something, but she didn't remember what. If it were important, they'd ask again. She looked at herself in the back of a silver spoon, didn't like what she saw, and asked brightly, "So, what will you do?" Suddenly she knew exactly what she was asking of her daughter Nan.
"About?"
"About your poet, of course."
Nan gave one of her favorite answers. "The only thing I can do. Build a bridge and get over it."
Catherine morphed into the tragic leading lady and spoke in a throaty drawl. "Build a bridge to where exactly, my dear? And get over what? What is it your poet has done to distress you so deeply?"
Nan told her. Catherine listened as attentively as she could, pleased that her daughter was talking to her about something personal and important. She had the feeling that it was precisely because she sometimes forgot things that Nan was willing to talk to her about something personal and important. Whatever frosts your cookie, sweetheart.
When Nan had finished a brief account of Eliot's shattering email message (what in the world was "email" anyway?) and Matt's unsatisfactory explanation, she was in tears. Catherine posed in front of the bay window, hands clasped at her bosom. "You must never
Playing with confidence, Ida took the last set 6-3. She grinned as she accepted her trophy, blew a kiss to Peter, and headed for the locker-room. The three of them took their time leaving the courts and strolling to their cars, knowing that she would take a quick shower before joining them.
When she did, there was a round of hugs followed by the decision to go to the Peppermill for coffee. They took a booth in the bar-coffee shop where Nan, Matt, and Peter vied playfully for the honor of buying the tennis champ a latté. Giddy with accomplishment, she kept hugging everyone.
Nan watched the two men, noting Peter's familiarity with the young, lithe body in his arms, and Matt's kindness toward the two young people. She saw not a hint of lechery in his enthusiastic embraces, only affection. Kindness.
Was it conceivable that such a gentle man had sexually molested his infant son?
Matt kept trying to catch her gaze, and every once in a while, when she didn't force herself to look away quickly enough, they smiled into each other's eyes. Peter and Ida were dancing among the tables to the strains of "Lara's Song," the love theme from Dr. Zhivago . They were singing, obviously to each other. Nan wanted nothing more than to stay in the happy group.
Except, perhaps, to get away. To extract herself from this confusing and tempting and dangerous relationship right now, before it got worse. To go home, where all she had to think about was her demented mother.
"I have to go," she announced, knowing how abrupt it sounded.
"Oh, why? We thought we could all eat and go to a movie or something." Peering over Peter's shoulder, Ida seemed genuinely disappointed.
"My mother's home alone. I can't leave her for very long."
"I'll go with you." It was less an offer than a declaration of intent by Matt.
Her vulnerability turned into anger. "No, you won't!" She strode out.
CHAPTER TEN
Â
"Memory isn't always what it's cracked up to be, you know," Catherine remarked at dinner. She wasn't sure why she'd said that, but she liked how it sounded. Was it true? What did it mean? She didn't know and didn't much care.
The other person at the table, a lovely woman whom she didn't know, looked at her and smiled.
That was nice. Encouraged, she patted her neck, attacking the wrinkles with fervor. "Rooster neck," she said. "Never wanted that."
"Which of those was a random comment, Mom?"
Mom. So this must be her child. Her daughter. Ah, yes, her daughter Nan.
Someone had asked her something, but she didn't remember what. If it were important, they'd ask again. She looked at herself in the back of a silver spoon, didn't like what she saw, and asked brightly, "So, what will you do?" Suddenly she knew exactly what she was asking of her daughter Nan.
"About?"
"About your poet, of course."
Nan gave one of her favorite answers. "The only thing I can do. Build a bridge and get over it."
Catherine morphed into the tragic leading lady and spoke in a throaty drawl. "Build a bridge to where exactly, my dear? And get over what? What is it your poet has done to distress you so deeply?"
Nan told her. Catherine listened as attentively as she could, pleased that her daughter was talking to her about something personal and important. She had the feeling that it was precisely because she sometimes forgot things that Nan was willing to talk to her about something personal and important. Whatever frosts your cookie, sweetheart.
When Nan had finished a brief account of Eliot's shattering email message (what in the world was "email" anyway?) and Matt's unsatisfactory explanation, she was in tears. Catherine posed in front of the bay window, hands clasped at her bosom. "You must never
Similar Books
