Barefoot Read Online Free PDF

Eleven Shell Street. The Jeep’s tires crackled over crushed clamshells as he pulled up in front of the house. It was small, cute, typical of ’Sconset; it looked like the house where the Three Bears lived. Josh picked up the briefcase. He was officially nervous. The house had a gate with a funny latch, and while he was fumbling with it, the front door swung open and out came a woman wearing a pair of denim shorts and a green bikini top that shimmered like fish scales. It was . . . well, Josh had to admit it took him a minute to get his eyes to focus on the woman’s face, and when he did, he was confused. It was Scowling Sister, but she was smiling. She was getting closer to him, and closer, and before Josh knew it, she was wrapping her arms around his neck, and he felt the press of her breasts against his grubby airport-issued polo shirt, and he smelled her perfume and then he felt something unsettling happening—he was losing his grip on the briefcase. Or no, wait. She was prying it from his hand. She had it now.
    “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you.”
    “Uh,” Josh said. He took a few steps back. His vision was splotchy and green—green from the plot of grass in the side yard, green from the shiny material cupping Scowling Sister’s breasts. Okay, now, for sure, the hair on his arms was standing up. “You’re welcome.”
    “I’m Dr. Lyndon,” Scowling Sister said, offering her hand. “Brenda.”
    “Josh Flynn.”
    “You’re such a doll to bring this by,” Brenda said. She hugged the briefcase to her chest. “I thought it was gone forever.”
    “No problem,” Josh said, though it was more of a problem than he imagined. He was thrown into a frenzy by the sight of Scowling Sister. Her hair, which had been loose at the airport, was now held in a bun by a pencil, and little pieces fell down around her neck. She was very pretty. And pretty old, he guessed. Maybe thirty. She was barefoot and her toes were dark pink; they looked like berries. Enough! he thought, and he may have actually spoken the word because Brenda tilted her head and looked at him strangely, as if to say, Enough what?
    “Do you want to come in?” she asked.
    Chas Gorda would have encouraged Josh to say yes. One way to avoid being self-referential was to open your world up, meet new people. Listen, observe, absorb. Josh had never seen the inside of one of these little cottages. He checked his watch. Five o’clock. Normally, after work, he went for a swim at Nobadeer Beach, and sometimes he stopped by his old girlfriend Didi’s apartment. He and Didi had dated all through high school, but then she had stayed on the island and Josh had left, and now, three years later, you could really tell the difference. Didi worked at the admitting desk at the hospital and all she talked about was her weight and Survivor. If she had found an old book nestled in Bubble Wrap, she would have snorted and chucked it in the Dumpster.
    “Oh-kay,” he said. “Sure.”
    “I’ll make us some tea,” Brenda said. But she was distracted by a noise, a computerized version of “Für Elise.” Brenda pulled a cell phone out of her back pocket and checked the display.
    “Oh, God,” she said. “I am not going to answer that.” She smiled lamely at Josh, and he watched the enthusiasm drain from her face. They were two steps from the door when Brenda stopped. “Actually, everyone in the house is asleep.”
    “Oh.”
    “The kids. My sister. Her friend. And I’m not sure we even have any tea, so . . .”
    “That’s all right,” Josh said, backing away. He was disappointed, but also relieved.
    “Another time,” Brenda said. “You promise you’ll come back another time? Now you know where we live!”
    Melanie would never complain out loud, not with her best friend so gravely ill, but she felt like mold on the wall at a fleabag motel. Here, then, was a classic case of Be Careful What You Wish For. Her breasts felt like lead balloons. They