The Path Through the Trees. Peggy Dymond LeaveyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Norah Bingham stood alone on the station platform. The throbbing of the train, now disappearing into the distance, filled her head. She had the sensation that her body still rocked from side to side with its rhythm.

      A single yellow taxi waited in the rain. Where, she wondered, was Great-aunt Caroline?

      The driver got out of the cab and watched as she approached—a thin girl, wearing jeans and a hip-length navy jacket. She was dragging a nylon suitcase on wobbly wheels and skirting the puddles.

      “A girl, the lady told me,” the man acknowledged, giving a hitch to his jeans. “And seeing’s you’re the only one who got off, you must be her.” He reached out for the suitcase.

      Norah hesitated, peeling a damp strand of wind-blown hair from across her mouth. “I understood Miss Caroline Stoppard was to meet me.”

      “Well, you understood wrong,” the man grunted. He seized the suitcase and slung it onto the back seat of the cab. “Miz Stoppard paid me to fetch you, and that’s what I’m doing. So get in, please. No sense standing out here getting wet.”

      Seeing as her luggage was going wherever the yellow taxi was, Norah had no choice but to climb into the cab beside the suitcase. The driver closed her door and slid in again under the wheel. “Don’t know how you figured Miz Stoppard could come and fetch you,” he muttered, adjusting the mirror so that Norah could see his eyes. “She hasn’t had that car of hers out of the garage in years.”

      The cab jolted and splashed its way through the potholes in the parking lot and out onto the street. After passing the untidy sprawl of a lumberyard, it made a right turn onto a side street and a left onto the highway.

      A fried chicken place at the corner was filling the air with the most mouth-watering aroma, reminding Norah that all she’d eaten that day was the hot dog her mother had bought her at Union Station before she’d boarded the one o’clock train.

      And that reminded her of their conversation just before she left. “Haven’t you always dreamed of a Christmas like you see in the movies, Norah honey?” Her mother’s blue eyes were moist. “You know, the little houses and streets all trimmed with snow? That’s the way it could be in Pinegrove.”

      “Mom, that movie snow is mostly fake! I heard they made it out of soap. And the streets are likely in California someplace. Didn’t you wonder how that ditzy family could all stand around outside in their pajamas, watching the dad string the lights? It was totally fake!”

      Now, from the back of the taxi, Norah craned to see what there was of the little town of Pinegrove. “I’m not sure exactly where my aunt lives,” she admitted. “I thought she’d be the one picking me up.”

      “Oh, the lady doesn’t live in the village. Her place is a coupla miles out.” The driver was watching her. “Miz Stoppard a relative of yours?”

      “My father’s aunt,” Norah replied, peering out through the rain. With the exception of the train station and the lumberyard, the town was just one street deep. Small houses straggled along the highway as far as the “Come Back Soon” sign. There, they petered out altogether, and bare fields and trees took over.

      “You here all by yourself?” The cabbie was inquisitive.

      “My mom’s coming in a couple of days,” Norah replied. “And my cousins will be here for Christmas.” She saw the eyebrows in the mirror rise.

      “That so? Miz Stoppard doesn’t get much company, as a rule. She’s a bit of a recluse, you might say.” He pronounced it as if it were two words.

      “My mom thought it would be nice for all of us to be together for Christmas this year.” Norah didn’t bother telling the man that up until a month ago, neither she nor her mother knew that Great-aunt Caroline was even still alive.

      “We invited her to come and spend the holidays with us. But when she said she couldn’t, Mom decided we would bring the festivities to her.”

      “That so. And what did she say to that?”

      Norah traced a drop of condensation as it slid down the window beside her. “She said she had a big house and had never been known to turn anyone away.” Which was not exactly what you could call an invitation. When Norah had pointed that out to her mother, Ginny had only laughed. “It’ll be perfect, Norah. You’ll see. Wonderful fun.” Everything always was, for Ginny. As far as Norah was concerned, nothing was turning out the way it was supposed to.

      Ever since Ginny had learned that she and