The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy Read Online Free PDF Page B

Thor and Clethra settled in I’d stropped Grandfather’s straight-edge razor and shaved. I dressed in an old, soft Italian wool shirt, thorn-proof moleskin trousers, ankle boots of kid leather and the eight-ply oyster gray cashmere cardigan I got at the Burlington Arcade in London. At dawn I’d grabbed my old hickory walking stick and went hiking off through the woods with Lulu to Reynolds’ general store for the Times, the maple leaves turning a million different glorious shades of orange and red, the geese flying over in formation, heading south. It was a bright, clear morning, the air crisp and cold. Lulu had on her hand-knitted Fair Isle vest to ward off the chill. She picks up sinus infections easily, and she snores when she has them. I know this because she likes to sleep on my head. After her most recent bout, her vet had raised the idea of having her deviated septum repaired. I’d never heard of a basset hound getting a nose job. The vet assured me it was quite common and would not alter her appearance in the least. Right away this cooled me on the whole idea.
    She came scrambling up the stairs with me when I took Merilee’s tray up, nails clacketing on the wood floor, desperate to jump up on her mommy’s bed for a snuggle. But this was a no-no. Not with Tracy there. She was on her belly next to Merilee in her Babar the Elephant footed rompers, arms waving, legs kicking. Looked like she was break-dancing, actually. Merilee cooing at her with delight. Lulu had to settle for the rocker in front of the fireplace, grunting peevishly while I threw open the curtains and let in the morning sun.
    One entire wall of the master bedroom was a row of tall mahogany casement windows that afforded a not terrible view of the cove. The bedroom was not large. We kept it rather sparely furnished. The rocker, washstand and lamp tables were Shaker. The bed, of gently battered brass, was not. Shaker beds, as you may know, tend to be, well, really narrow.
    “They’re still here, aren’t they?” Merilee demanded when I presented her with her tray.
    I stood there gazing at her. She looked weary. She always did now. But she also looked extremely delectable. It was hard to believe she was past forty. Even harder to believe she was mine. Not that Merilee Nash is a conventional beauty. Her nose and chin are too patrician, her forehead too high. Plus she is no delicate flower. She is just a hair under six feet tall, with broad sloping shoulders and huge hands and feet. What used to be called a big-boned gal, and is now called a Merilee Nash type.
    “Can’t I do something nice without you immediately being suspicious?” I said lightly.
    “Hmphht.” She reached for the paper and glanced at the headlines. Or I should say squinted. She won’t read with her glasses on in front of the baby for fear Tracy will grow up wanting to wear glasses whether she needs them or not. This particular belief she cooked up all on her own. She took a sip of her hot milk. The milk was from a dairy in nearby Salem and came in glass bottles with the cream floating on top. She took another sip. She said it again. “They’re still here, aren’t they?”
    “As a matter of fact, they’re asleep in the chapel.”
    Without warning, Tracy tried sitting up. I gave her an 8.5 on form and a 9 on degree of difficulty—before she abruptly plopped over onto her side with a quizzical yelp.
    Delighted, Merilee reached over and tickled her foot, producing a gale of giggles. I watched the two of them, wondering just how much longer Merilee would be content here on the farm with her, especially now that the summer gardening season was ending and the fall theater season beginning. How much longer before she’d need to hear that applause again?
    She furrowed her brow at me. “Darling?”
    “Yes, Merilee?”
    “There’s no bed in the chapel.”
    “He prefers the floor. Some back injury from his rodeo days.”
    “And she?”
    “Not to worry. She’s generously