Read Online Whole Latte Life by Joanne DeMaio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joanne DeMaio
Tags: Contemporary
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That it might break open Sara Beth’s heart with the weight of its love never crossed her mind.
The box was square and slim, and she guessed while untying the ribbon that it might be jewelry, a special keepsake. But she was wrong. Nestled deep in tissue was a lone brass skeleton key. It was polished to a dull shine, seeming nearly liquid. Sara Beth lifted it, turned it, then opened the card.
Dear Sara Beth,
Happy birthday, hon! It’s the first day of your whole new life and I wanted to be a part of that moment, that celebration. This key is like the tiniest stacking doll nestled deep inside, and will open a wonderful door for you in more ways than one…Please try the key, which is my gift, before the day is over. 1438 Old Willow Road. It unlocks the carriage house around back. Have fun!
Love you,
Mom
Old Willow Road was down by the river, nowhere near her mother’s old house. Sara Beth showered and changed into a pair of jeans and long sleeved tee before pulling her cropped vest on over it to ward off the morning damp. She couldn’t imagine what her mother had arranged, or how. After dropping Owen at playgroup, for the ten minute ride to the carriage house she wanted nothing more than to call her to break the suspense, if only she could.
The driveway snaked around the side of the farmhouse. There were lots of trees in the yard and a silver ribbon of river curved off in the distance. Sara Beth sat in her car and considered the white planked carriage house, the dark green beams crisscrossing the doors. A gold balloon bobbed from the door, curled streamers on the string blowing in the breeze.
“Oh Mom,” she said to herself as she got out of the car. “What have you done?” The note hadn’t said anything about going to the main house, just to go to the carriage house. And there was that balloon, so this was all somehow planned. But how? Leaves and twigs crunched beneath her feet. She slipped the key into the old lock on the right hand side door. It turned easily, so she lifted the cross beam and pulled it opened.
First there were only colors. Browns that never shimmered as beautiful as they did through tears. Beneath the mahogany, oak, cherry and pine antiques spread a sea of gold and burgundy in an oriental carpet. A vase of fresh dahlias graced an heirloom hand-stitched lace runner atop a long dark table.
There wasn’t as much furniture as it seemed at first, what with the surprise of it all. Just enough antiques to start organizing a shop. But that her mother accomplished this much alone was amazing. And that she believed eternally in Sara’s dream, even more so. Brass candlesticks were artfully arranged on a Queen Anne mahogany drop-leaf table. What caught her eye though was the gold swirled velvet and the oak arms of the child’s Morris chair from her mother’s house. The kids loved that little chair, sitting in it in front of her television set when they were little. It was a valuable antique.
“Why?” Sara Beth asked, brushing tears from her face. “How can this be?”
“Is something wrong, miss?” an older fellow asks, touching her elbow.
“No. Thank you, I’m fine,” she tells him, turning around at the antique shop on East 60 th . But she doesn’t move, instead picking up an intricately painted navy and gold Matrioshka doll from the table, opening the nesting dolls until she gets to the tiniest inside. It’s like the place where a mother keeps her love, her mother told her once. It’s the tiniest Matrioshka doll, nestled deep within. Just like the brass key nestled in that tissue. And she decides to buy this doll for her mother. She’ll give it to her for a special occasion, this New York souvenir. And what Sara Beth knows, holding this rare collectible, is this: Sometimes her life feels like an intricate constellation, a collection of feelings and people and dreams and events spinning through her universe. And though the stars may be light-years apart, they are still all
The box was square and slim, and she guessed while untying the ribbon that it might be jewelry, a special keepsake. But she was wrong. Nestled deep in tissue was a lone brass skeleton key. It was polished to a dull shine, seeming nearly liquid. Sara Beth lifted it, turned it, then opened the card.
Dear Sara Beth,
Happy birthday, hon! It’s the first day of your whole new life and I wanted to be a part of that moment, that celebration. This key is like the tiniest stacking doll nestled deep inside, and will open a wonderful door for you in more ways than one…Please try the key, which is my gift, before the day is over. 1438 Old Willow Road. It unlocks the carriage house around back. Have fun!
Love you,
Mom
Old Willow Road was down by the river, nowhere near her mother’s old house. Sara Beth showered and changed into a pair of jeans and long sleeved tee before pulling her cropped vest on over it to ward off the morning damp. She couldn’t imagine what her mother had arranged, or how. After dropping Owen at playgroup, for the ten minute ride to the carriage house she wanted nothing more than to call her to break the suspense, if only she could.
The driveway snaked around the side of the farmhouse. There were lots of trees in the yard and a silver ribbon of river curved off in the distance. Sara Beth sat in her car and considered the white planked carriage house, the dark green beams crisscrossing the doors. A gold balloon bobbed from the door, curled streamers on the string blowing in the breeze.
“Oh Mom,” she said to herself as she got out of the car. “What have you done?” The note hadn’t said anything about going to the main house, just to go to the carriage house. And there was that balloon, so this was all somehow planned. But how? Leaves and twigs crunched beneath her feet. She slipped the key into the old lock on the right hand side door. It turned easily, so she lifted the cross beam and pulled it opened.
First there were only colors. Browns that never shimmered as beautiful as they did through tears. Beneath the mahogany, oak, cherry and pine antiques spread a sea of gold and burgundy in an oriental carpet. A vase of fresh dahlias graced an heirloom hand-stitched lace runner atop a long dark table.
There wasn’t as much furniture as it seemed at first, what with the surprise of it all. Just enough antiques to start organizing a shop. But that her mother accomplished this much alone was amazing. And that she believed eternally in Sara’s dream, even more so. Brass candlesticks were artfully arranged on a Queen Anne mahogany drop-leaf table. What caught her eye though was the gold swirled velvet and the oak arms of the child’s Morris chair from her mother’s house. The kids loved that little chair, sitting in it in front of her television set when they were little. It was a valuable antique.
“Why?” Sara Beth asked, brushing tears from her face. “How can this be?”
“Is something wrong, miss?” an older fellow asks, touching her elbow.
“No. Thank you, I’m fine,” she tells him, turning around at the antique shop on East 60 th . But she doesn’t move, instead picking up an intricately painted navy and gold Matrioshka doll from the table, opening the nesting dolls until she gets to the tiniest inside. It’s like the place where a mother keeps her love, her mother told her once. It’s the tiniest Matrioshka doll, nestled deep within. Just like the brass key nestled in that tissue. And she decides to buy this doll for her mother. She’ll give it to her for a special occasion, this New York souvenir. And what Sara Beth knows, holding this rare collectible, is this: Sometimes her life feels like an intricate constellation, a collection of feelings and people and dreams and events spinning through her universe. And though the stars may be light-years apart, they are still all
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