at half power.
Riding the subway north, with the afternoon stretching before them, Leslie decided to play what she considered her ace in the hole—a trip to an upscale mall where the District of Columbia met Maryland.
“Okay,” was all April said to the suggestion.
Leslie figured it was a pose. From what she heard from parents and advertisers, every girl that age lived for mall delights.
Not April Gareaux.
By the time they returned to her apartment, twenty-four hours of single-word answers, uninterested looks and disdainful shrugs had Leslie so worn out she didn’t even have the energy to suggest they go out for dinner.
“How about if I order in pizza and we see what the TV has to offer?”
“Okay.”
That was one of the two answers she’d gotten all day, the other being “Yech.” At least her dinner plans elicited the more positive choice, even if it followed a martyred sigh. She chewed on a piece of chocolate licorice as she dialed the pizza number and watched April flop on the sofa with remote control in one hand and the TV listings in the other, showing probably more enthusiasm than for any other activity.
The chocolate licorice provided a surefire barometer to Leslie’s low spirits. Her father had introduced her to the treat when she was nine. Chocolate licorice had been her father’s cure for the tragedy of a broken arm that had restricted her the last two precious weeks of that summer, and she still followed it.
She straightened her shoulders and finished off a second stick of licorice.
Maybe April Gareaux thought she’d worn down her older relative, scored some sort of victory. Leslie was made of sterner stuff.
She poured them each a soft drink, slipped off her shoes and sat next to April.
“Yes, it’ll be good to take it easy tonight, because tomorrow we’re getting up bright and early for church, then we’ll change and take the train up to Baltimore for a baseball game. I have tickets and—”
April groaned, Leslie persevered.
“—great seats and the weather’s supposed to be perfect. We can cheer and yell and stuff ourselves on hot dogs. You’ll love it.”
“I’ll hate it. I don’t know why I had to come here again, anyhow,” April grumbled. The most words she’d said at one time since her arrival.
Leslie had always loved kids. Whenever the numerous Craig relatives and connections had gathered—as they often did at Grandma Beatrice’s sprawling estate outside Charlottesville, Virginia—she’d entertained and cared for those younger than herself.
Since leaving Charlottesville for Washington ten years ago, she’d bypassed most family gatherings. But that didn’t stop Grandma Beatrice from involving her in family business. Including what she saw as the sad state of her great-granddaughter April’s upbringing.
“Your Cousin Melly is making a botch of raising that girl, Leslie,” Grandma Beatrice had said.
“I’m sure it’s not easy for Melly, with Jeff dying like that—”
Grandma Beatrice’s disapproving sound—much too genteel to be called a snort—had stopped Leslie’s excuses cold.
“He wouldn’t have died like that if the two of them hadn’t been trying to climb some fool cliff,” her grandmother retorted. “If you’re a reasonable human being and you want to go somewhere, you take a road, and if there’s no road there’s a darn good reason. Bunch of nonsense. And Melly’s gotten worse, not better. Only thinks of herself and her latest adventure, never the child, and now the child’s growing up a brat.”
Beatrice Waverly Craig would have torn her own tongue out by its Southern roots before saying such a thing to anyone outside the family, but with Leslie she had always been bluntly honest. Sometimes painfully so.
“You’ve always loved children, Leslie, and you have nowhere to direct that love. Well, this is a child who takes some effort to love. See what you can do.”
“But in a weekend how can I—”
“A weekend might be the
Riding the subway north, with the afternoon stretching before them, Leslie decided to play what she considered her ace in the hole—a trip to an upscale mall where the District of Columbia met Maryland.
“Okay,” was all April said to the suggestion.
Leslie figured it was a pose. From what she heard from parents and advertisers, every girl that age lived for mall delights.
Not April Gareaux.
By the time they returned to her apartment, twenty-four hours of single-word answers, uninterested looks and disdainful shrugs had Leslie so worn out she didn’t even have the energy to suggest they go out for dinner.
“How about if I order in pizza and we see what the TV has to offer?”
“Okay.”
That was one of the two answers she’d gotten all day, the other being “Yech.” At least her dinner plans elicited the more positive choice, even if it followed a martyred sigh. She chewed on a piece of chocolate licorice as she dialed the pizza number and watched April flop on the sofa with remote control in one hand and the TV listings in the other, showing probably more enthusiasm than for any other activity.
The chocolate licorice provided a surefire barometer to Leslie’s low spirits. Her father had introduced her to the treat when she was nine. Chocolate licorice had been her father’s cure for the tragedy of a broken arm that had restricted her the last two precious weeks of that summer, and she still followed it.
She straightened her shoulders and finished off a second stick of licorice.
Maybe April Gareaux thought she’d worn down her older relative, scored some sort of victory. Leslie was made of sterner stuff.
She poured them each a soft drink, slipped off her shoes and sat next to April.
“Yes, it’ll be good to take it easy tonight, because tomorrow we’re getting up bright and early for church, then we’ll change and take the train up to Baltimore for a baseball game. I have tickets and—”
April groaned, Leslie persevered.
“—great seats and the weather’s supposed to be perfect. We can cheer and yell and stuff ourselves on hot dogs. You’ll love it.”
“I’ll hate it. I don’t know why I had to come here again, anyhow,” April grumbled. The most words she’d said at one time since her arrival.
Leslie had always loved kids. Whenever the numerous Craig relatives and connections had gathered—as they often did at Grandma Beatrice’s sprawling estate outside Charlottesville, Virginia—she’d entertained and cared for those younger than herself.
Since leaving Charlottesville for Washington ten years ago, she’d bypassed most family gatherings. But that didn’t stop Grandma Beatrice from involving her in family business. Including what she saw as the sad state of her great-granddaughter April’s upbringing.
“Your Cousin Melly is making a botch of raising that girl, Leslie,” Grandma Beatrice had said.
“I’m sure it’s not easy for Melly, with Jeff dying like that—”
Grandma Beatrice’s disapproving sound—much too genteel to be called a snort—had stopped Leslie’s excuses cold.
“He wouldn’t have died like that if the two of them hadn’t been trying to climb some fool cliff,” her grandmother retorted. “If you’re a reasonable human being and you want to go somewhere, you take a road, and if there’s no road there’s a darn good reason. Bunch of nonsense. And Melly’s gotten worse, not better. Only thinks of herself and her latest adventure, never the child, and now the child’s growing up a brat.”
Beatrice Waverly Craig would have torn her own tongue out by its Southern roots before saying such a thing to anyone outside the family, but with Leslie she had always been bluntly honest. Sometimes painfully so.
“You’ve always loved children, Leslie, and you have nowhere to direct that love. Well, this is a child who takes some effort to love. See what you can do.”
“But in a weekend how can I—”
“A weekend might be the
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