Butterfly Summer. Arlene JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
sacrificed to private baths and larger closets, changes her great-grandfather probably could not have even envisioned when he’d bought and renovated the elegant old redbrick Greek Revival–style house on the very outer edge of north Davis Landing.
There were larger, grander houses in the area, frankly, but not a single Hamilton would have traded this grand old place, with its expansive grounds, for any one of them.
Rather than exit via the front door with its heavy leaded glass inset, Heather turned and quickly made her way down the central hall and out the back to the terraced patio, where her mother habitually took her morning tea, weather permitting. Nora sat there now in one of the heavy, wrought-iron chairs, the morning paper spread out over a glass-topped table and fluttering unheeded in the breeze that sang softly in the tops of the trees. Clad in silk pajamas and a matching robe, she stared unseeingly across the property.
Heather dropped a hand upon her mother’s shoulder, feeling the frail bones keenly. Nora turned up a distracted smile, then twisted around in her chair as she got a good look at her middle daughter.
“Just look at you! How I wish your father could see you this morning.”
Heather bent forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I’ll go by the hospital later, give him a preview of this month’s Makeover Maven feature.”
“It would do his heart good, I’m sure,” Nora told her. “It has mine. Goodness, you look so young all of a sudden.”
“Not so dowdy, you mean,” Heather retorted, wrinkling her nose.
“Funny what a haircut and a new wardrobe can do,” Nora mused, “or maybe I’m just feeling old this morning.” She sighed and made an effort to smile.
Heather put down her bags and wrapped her arms around her mother’s slender shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, Mom. I just know it.”
Nora nodded. “I’ve been thinking about the hundred-and-third Psalm.” It was one of Nora’s favorites, and Heather knew it by heart.
“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul,’” she quoted softly. “‘And all that is within me, bless His holy name.’”
“‘Who pardons all your iniquities, Who heals all your diseases,’” Nora whispered, patting Heather’s arm. She looked up suddenly. “I don’t suppose your sister came in during the night, did she?”
Heather shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“You don’t think Melissa’s in some kind of trouble this time, do you?”
“I think she just can’t bear to see Dad in that hospital bed.”
Nora’s gaze drifted away again. “I don’t blame her for that.”
“Neither do I,” Heather agreed gently.
“Get on with you, darling. I’ll see you later at the hospital.”
Sensing that Nora needed solitude at the moment, Heather left her to her contemplation and hurried to her car, parked beneath the sheltered passage that ran between the main house and the old carriage house.
The morning had a golden cast to it that Heather could attribute only to God’s goodness.
Chapter Four
Heather smiled at the Gordons, who gave her a thumbs-up and silent applause as she strode toward the elevator. Dropping a silly curtsy as the elevator door rolled closed, she felt ridiculously pleased and oddly happy.
How strange that it should be so now, when her father was so desperately ill.
Yet wasn’t that the Lord’s way, to bring joy in the midst of woe? Even a small joy was doubly welcome when cares were so heavy.
Suddenly Heather remembered the verse between the ones she and her mother had quoted earlier that morning.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits.
She felt a decided zing pervade her steps as she strolled toward her office. It was early yet, so the receptionist was not at her desk. Heather could hear a few voices in muted conversation but saw no one as she made her way through the warren of cubicles.
To her surprise, Ethan Danes sat perched on one corner of Brenda’s desk. Clad in khakis and a dark brown T-shirt, he was studying a print, the top one of a stack that he held in his hands.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, aware of a shiver of excitement. Or was it trepidation?
Ethan looked up, a smile at the ready. That smile stilled, then gradually grew as he took in this latest version of the “new” Heather.
“Well,” he said, placing the photos on the desk, “I thought I’d picked my final shot.”
“Oh?” She craned her neck, trying to look past him to get a peek at the photo he hoped would close the piece.
He folded his arms. “The butterfly has not only broken out of her cocoon, she’s spread her wings, I see.”
Heather inclined her head, laughing. She couldn’t help it. Who wouldn’t be pleased with such a statement from the best-looking man around?
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He winked at her. “And so you should.” Dropping his hands to the edge of the desk, he shifted around, crossing his ankles. “I think I’m finally seeing the real Heather, and that’s the ‘after’ photo I’d most like to see on the printed page.”
Heather tried not to let that please her too much.
“And what does Ellen have to say about it?”
“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard from her. Haven’t been able to reach her. That’s why I brought these straight to you.”
Heather frowned at that. “I wonder what’s going on with her? Oh, well. I get the final say anyway.”
Nodding, Ethan got to his feet and swept up the stack of photos, which he held out to Heather.
“I’ve marked my picks, for what that’s worth. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do. And thanks for going the extra mile with this yesterday. If not for you, we’d have had no feature this month.”
“That’s what you pay me for. Besides, you’re the one who saved the day.”
Setting aside her bags, she took the photos into her hands, then found that she didn’t have quite enough courage to go through them with him standing there.
As if he knew it, he gave his head a little jerk, humming a bit as he moved away. “Mmm-mmm. The guys are going to beat a path to your door now. You know that, don’t you?”
Stunned, Heather just stood there stupidly and watched him walk away, the photos clutched in her hands. After he’d disappeared from sight, she absently looked down, staring at the woman in the photo. Chic and feminine with shining amber eyes and a secretive smile, this was not the image of an old maid.
Old maid. When had she decided that she was an old maid?
Heather blinked, trying to see in this woman’s face the acceptance that she would never marry. It was not there.
How had she come to believe that God didn’t intend for her to marry and know the love of a mate? Was that assumption another product of her own laziness and hesitance?
Shocked at herself, Heather stopped to carefully consider her future. She wasn’t even thirty. She had lots of time left to find the love of her life.
Something warm and bright and sharp unfurled inside her, something she hadn’t let herself feel in years, something very like longing. Or was it hope? Had the longing always been there, but she’d only now started to hope again?
It had been