five.”
“I’m five!”
“Are you? I would have sworn you were...six, maybe seven.”
“No. I’m five.”
“Well, the girl in the song is five too. Would you like me to play it for you?”
“Yes,” she said, eager. “But don’t play a piece of it. Play the whole thing. Okay?”
“Of course. And you know, this is the kind of music that doesn’t have words. You have to close your eyes and relax and picture the girl in your head. Think you can do that?”
“Sure, I can. I can do lots of things in my head. Come on, Daddy.”
Daddy didn’t run off right away. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gus, who looked up and was immediately tangled in his web of enchantment and desire. He hadn’t forgotten about their kiss either. She could see it in his eyes—the heat, the passion, the memory of it. His lower lip slid between his teeth as if he could taste her there, feel her.
Her heart was pounding high in her throat, blood swooshed in her ears; she felt a little dizzy and her fingers were numb. She knew she was breathing—hyperventilating really. Her mouth was dry.
“Should I, um, wait? Long enough for you to clean her up?” A soft, nervous laugh. “She’s a mess.”
Silently he shook his head, then he finally said, “Three more hours and it’ll be bath time. An hour after that is bedtime. I’ll be out on my front porch by nine.”
It wasn’t as if she could respond with a “that’s nice” or a “goody for you,” because he wasn’t merely imparting the information, he was inviting her to join him, daring her to meet him there, tempting her to be with him.
He was gone before she could give him a specific answer, one way or the other. But with time to think, she settled on the other. Already she was more involved with Scott Hammond than she wanted to be. He was like a brain fungus. Anything more would be cruel and self-destructive. No, the best thing she could possibly do for both of them would be to avoid him like...like unscooped poop on a sidewalk. She should walk around him, jump over him, cross to the other side of the street if she had to.
Of course, if when eight forty-five rolls around and a person’s left wrist is aching from too much practicing that day and there’s nothing on television and she’s already read the same page of her book three times without comprehension and she’s longing for a breath of fresh, warm summer-evening air—well, what harm could come from stepping out on her own front porch for a moment or two?
She left the light off and was careful not to let the screen door slam. Rather than sit in one of the freshly painted wicker chairs with their bright kerchief pillows, where she might be easily seen, she lowered herself down on the top step and leaned against the wrought-iron railing.
The first time she saw her house, it had been a quiet summer evening much like this one. As often as she thought about it, she’d never been too sure if she’d fallen in love with the neighborhood or the house first. Both were such throwbacks to a time that was, in her mind, innocent and peaceful. A time when it was okay simply to be, without being someone. A time when rolling in the grass was encouraged, when twilight was magic and not a menace, when your neighborhood was as big as the world would ever get.
Had her life ever been that uncomplicated? Or were the memories of her early childhood really just dreams? When had roller skating on the sidewalk in front of the house been outlawed? When had violin practice taken precedence over swinging from the trees?
She loved this neighborhood. She loved that the men mowed the lawns on Saturday morning. She loved watching the children on their bikes and the impromptu ball games in the street. She loved her role as fussy old Ms. Miller, whose job it was to fetch their balls and skateboards from her flower beds and appear put out. She loved listening to the mothers calling suppertime, and the quiet when everyone was safe and sound in
“I’m five!”
“Are you? I would have sworn you were...six, maybe seven.”
“No. I’m five.”
“Well, the girl in the song is five too. Would you like me to play it for you?”
“Yes,” she said, eager. “But don’t play a piece of it. Play the whole thing. Okay?”
“Of course. And you know, this is the kind of music that doesn’t have words. You have to close your eyes and relax and picture the girl in your head. Think you can do that?”
“Sure, I can. I can do lots of things in my head. Come on, Daddy.”
Daddy didn’t run off right away. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gus, who looked up and was immediately tangled in his web of enchantment and desire. He hadn’t forgotten about their kiss either. She could see it in his eyes—the heat, the passion, the memory of it. His lower lip slid between his teeth as if he could taste her there, feel her.
Her heart was pounding high in her throat, blood swooshed in her ears; she felt a little dizzy and her fingers were numb. She knew she was breathing—hyperventilating really. Her mouth was dry.
“Should I, um, wait? Long enough for you to clean her up?” A soft, nervous laugh. “She’s a mess.”
Silently he shook his head, then he finally said, “Three more hours and it’ll be bath time. An hour after that is bedtime. I’ll be out on my front porch by nine.”
It wasn’t as if she could respond with a “that’s nice” or a “goody for you,” because he wasn’t merely imparting the information, he was inviting her to join him, daring her to meet him there, tempting her to be with him.
He was gone before she could give him a specific answer, one way or the other. But with time to think, she settled on the other. Already she was more involved with Scott Hammond than she wanted to be. He was like a brain fungus. Anything more would be cruel and self-destructive. No, the best thing she could possibly do for both of them would be to avoid him like...like unscooped poop on a sidewalk. She should walk around him, jump over him, cross to the other side of the street if she had to.
Of course, if when eight forty-five rolls around and a person’s left wrist is aching from too much practicing that day and there’s nothing on television and she’s already read the same page of her book three times without comprehension and she’s longing for a breath of fresh, warm summer-evening air—well, what harm could come from stepping out on her own front porch for a moment or two?
She left the light off and was careful not to let the screen door slam. Rather than sit in one of the freshly painted wicker chairs with their bright kerchief pillows, where she might be easily seen, she lowered herself down on the top step and leaned against the wrought-iron railing.
The first time she saw her house, it had been a quiet summer evening much like this one. As often as she thought about it, she’d never been too sure if she’d fallen in love with the neighborhood or the house first. Both were such throwbacks to a time that was, in her mind, innocent and peaceful. A time when it was okay simply to be, without being someone. A time when rolling in the grass was encouraged, when twilight was magic and not a menace, when your neighborhood was as big as the world would ever get.
Had her life ever been that uncomplicated? Or were the memories of her early childhood really just dreams? When had roller skating on the sidewalk in front of the house been outlawed? When had violin practice taken precedence over swinging from the trees?
She loved this neighborhood. She loved that the men mowed the lawns on Saturday morning. She loved watching the children on their bikes and the impromptu ball games in the street. She loved her role as fussy old Ms. Miller, whose job it was to fetch their balls and skateboards from her flower beds and appear put out. She loved listening to the mothers calling suppertime, and the quiet when everyone was safe and sound in
Similar Books
