Summer's Child. Diane ChamberlainЧитать онлайн книгу.
in a few days she should be able to go home. But she has no home, and that’s why I’m here.” Daria’s mother looked uncomfortable for the first time since they’d entered the priest’s office. She looked into her lap and played with the clasp of her purse, and Daria wished she would just get to the point.
“My husband and I would like to adopt her,” she said finally. “That is, if no one claims her. And I was wondering if you could help with that. If you could intercede on our behalf.”
Father Macy looked thoughtful. “Do you realize what a miracle this is?” he asked. “That Daria found this baby in time to save her? That the baby was found by someone who belongs to a family as devout, as holy and blessed as the Cato family?”
For the second time that afternoon, Daria felt close to tears.
“Yes,” her mother said softly. “Yes, we’re very aware that the Lord selected us.”
“I’ll be in touch with the hospital,” Father Macy said, standing up. “And I’ll be in touch with the state adoption agency. I’ll do whatever I can to plead your case. I can think of no better home for that little one.”
One week later, the baby arrived at the Sea Shanty, and became the instant celebrity of the neighborhood. Everyone from the cul-de-sac stopped by to stare at the little blond-haired infant and to shake their heads over her rude beginning in life. Daria’s mother named the infant Michelle, calling her Shelly for short. The irony of that name had seemed lost on everyone except Daria, who had delighted in how fitting a name it was. People often commented, though, on the other irony: that this tiny, blond, brown-eyed child was now part of the dark-haired, Greek Cato clan.
All that summer, Daria’s mother would sit on the porch, rocking the tiny baby in her arms and telling all who approached that Shelly was her gift from the sea.
“Daria?”
Daria started at the sound of Chloe’s voice. She sat up on the bed, freeing herself from the memories.
“Shelly’s back,” Chloe called from downstairs. “Come have some cake.”
“Coming!” Daria called, relieved that Shelly had returned safe and sound. She ran her fingers through her hair and headed downstairs to hug the young woman who was both her joy and her heartache, her blessing and her burden.
2
THE PLANE CAME TO A STANDSTILL AT THE GATE, AND RORY unfastened his seat belt and stood up to reach into the overhead bin. He pulled out the backpack and handed it to his son, who was still buckled into his seat and looked disinclined to leave the plane. Zack stared out the window, tapping out an imagined drumbeat on his knee. He was fifteen years old and annoyed at the prospect of spending the entire summer with his father on the East Coast. It had been a painful flight, at least for Rory, who had vainly tried every ploy he could think of to get his son to talk to him.
“Come on,” Rory said. “Let’s go find our rental car and get on the road.”
With a loud sigh, Zack unbuckled his seat belt and followed Rory down the aisle.
“Welcome to Norfolk, Mr. Taylor,” the flight attendant said as Rory passed her to leave the plane. She’d chatted with him off and on during the flight from Los Angeles, telling him how True Life Stories was her favorite show on TV. He doubted that was true, but as host and producer of the popular show, he was accustomed to the adulation. Women tended to know him from television, men from his days on the football field. Either way, he attracted attention, and even that seemed to irritate Zack. “We can never go anywhere without people staring at us,” he’d said when the third or fourth passenger on the plane had approached Rory for an autograph.
“Welcome to Nor-fuck,” Zack said now, under his breath, and Rory pretended not to hear him.
They checked in at the car-rental counter, and there was a subdued flurry of excitement between the two female clerks as they recognized their customer.
“You reserved a Toyota FJ Cruiser,” one of the clerks said as she checked his reservation.
“You did?” Zack sounded incredulous.
“Sure,” Rory said. He’d specifically requested a Cruiser. It would give them room for their considerable luggage, plus, he knew a Cruiser would please Zack. If Zack was pleased, though, the boy was determined not to show it.
The Cruiser was cobalt blue and looked new. Rory spread his map over the steering wheel and studied the route they would take to the Outer Banks. “It’s an easy drive,” he told his son, who said nothing in reply.
It was only an hour and a half from Norfolk to Kill Devil Hills, and Zack was no easier to talk with in the car than he had been on the plane. Rory gave up after a while, deciding to simply enjoy the scenery on this much-changed road, with its antique stores and vegetable stands. Zack pressed the scan button on the car radio, hunting for a station that was not too “pitiful.”
Rory had his hopes pinned on this summer. He’d been divorced from Glorianne, Zack’s mother, for nearly two years, and he and Glorianne had joint custody of Zack. Technically, at least. Rory was supposed to have Zack for weekends, holidays and summers. But several months ago, Glorianne had married the movie producer with whom she’d been having an affair during her marriage to Rory, and she now had a house in Beverly Hills, along with every other material possession she could desire. Rory found himself unable to compete with the glitzy, seductive new life-style Zack was enjoying in Glorianne’s home. Zack was at that age where possessions and grandeur mattered. He was slipping away from his father, and Rory hoped that this summer would bring him back. Rory knew that behind his son’s offensive, defensive adolescent facade, Zack was still hurting from the divorce and angry with both his parents for letting it happen. Intellectually, Rory understood all that. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
“So,” Zack asked dryly as he poked at the scan button, “are we there yet?”
“Another twenty minutes, I’d guess,” Rory said. “This road we’re on used to be narrow and sleepy, with just a few vegetable stands along it.”
“It still looks narrow and sleepy to me,” Zack said. He was a true Southern California kid. Anything tamer than the San Diego Freeway was going to look sleepy to him.
Rory didn’t bother to argue. He knew Zack hated hearing about the way “things used to be,” and he supposed he hadn’t cared for that sort of conversation, either, when he was Zack’s age.
“I miss L.A. already,” Zack said, gazing out the car window.
“Well, we haven’t reached the Outer Banks yet.”
“I still don’t get why we had to come here,” Zack said.
Rory thought he’d explained his reasons for spending the summer in Kill Devil Hills to his son, but either Zack hadn’t heard them or they hadn’t been persuasive enough for him to remember.
“Well, you know I spent my summers here when I was a kid,” he said.
“Right. And it’s got some kind of nostalgic pull on you or something.”
“That’s true.” Rory tried not to sound defensive. “It was a very special place for me. I still own my family’s old cottage there, and I haven’t seen it since I was seventeen.”
“You mean the cottage has just been standing there, empty all this time? Won’t it be rotted out by now?”
“I sure hope not,” Rory said. “I’ve had a real estate agency looking after it. They’ve rented it to people visiting the beach, and supposedly they’ve taken care of the upkeep, as well. I guess we’ll see about that soon.” That was something he was worried about.
“You could have come back for, like, a week or even just a couple of days to check on the cottage,” Zack said. “Instead we have to stay here the whole stupid summer.”
“I have a good reason for