The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) Read Online Free PDF
Book: The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Julie Smith
of a lithe young Buddha. He hated the New Age phrase “old soul,” but he felt that he knew one. There was nothing of the child about her except her age.
He remembered the first time he saw her, how surprised he had been at her beauty—those huge eyes and thick, dark eyebrows, her serious jaw, her thinness. She had taken Joy from Boo and held her and fed her as if she had already raised seven children of her own, and he had known instantly that his child was in good hands with her.
They’d gone to a fund-raiser that night, he and Boo, and gotten home early, at Boo’s insistence. Boo had been worried about the new babysitter. Even then—it seemed ironic now—he’d told her not to worry, said Torian looked like a kid who could handle it if the house burned down, and Boo had started to worry that she’d left her curling iron on.
They’d developed a system: Boo would go in and shoo Torian out while Noel waited in the car to drive her home, two blocks away. He could have walked her, but that had seemed awkward, and it was pouring rain that first time.
Her face was wet and shining when she got in the car. “My God, it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!”
“What?” he had said. “It’s just a Honda.”
“The night. The French Quarter! Look how beautiful.”
And she had almost literally pressed her nose against the window, luminous in her appreciation.
He had fallen in love with her at that moment; he could see that, looking back.
“Should we drive around a minute?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. Let’s go down Dauphine. There’s a building there I love.”
It was the one at the corner of Toulouse, sand and rose with age, cracked and watermarked, elegant in its decrepitude. It was a favorite of his as well.
After that, he collected jokes for her, even making up riddles. She did it too and was good at it.
When he saw her with a volume of poetry—an anthology for school, he thought—he felt a funny leap in his chest, and couldn’t rest till he brought out all his old books.
And he thought: What became of me? How did I get from there to here? He had once thought he would have an academic career.
One night she couldn’t babysit, and a friend of hers had come instead—Sheila, he thought her name was, though he hadn’t the least recollection of her. A strange moroseness had come over him when he came downstairs, expecting to see her, a new joke on his lips, and she wasn’t there.
He had been strangely out of sorts that night, and he and Boo had fought.
Not until one bizarre moment a month ago had he put any of this together, had he had the least understanding of it. Boo had gone early to an afternoon party, having arranged for Noel to meet her there after a business lunch. He’d come home to change into shorts and get the car, and Torian was there, of course. For some reason, he was surprised. He’d never seen her there in the daytime, hadn’t somehow, expected her. Yet there she was, reading in the living room, (which hadn’t yet been torn apart), bare feet on the coffee table.
She was all in white—T-shirt, shorts, and sweatband catching her dark hair. She looked up and smiled. “Oh. Hi, Noel. Joy’s asleep.”
She turned the book over: Sanctuary .
Noel said, “Not his best.”
“I love it. I’ve read it three times.”
“‘Temple Drake,” he said, understanding in some uncanny way.
“C’est moi.”
“Are you Brett Ashley as well?”
She nodded. “And Nicole in Tender Is the Night .”
“Emma Bovary?”
She made a face. “Never. Not in a million years. Emma’s a dingbat.”
She has to be more than fifteen, he thought, and went to change.
He remembered perfectly well what he had sung in the shower: “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” He wasn’t thinking of her at all, or of anything in particular.
He had picked up his keys, his hair wet, walked into the living room, sat down on the sofa beside her, put his keys on the coffee table, and said, “Anna
He remembered the first time he saw her, how surprised he had been at her beauty—those huge eyes and thick, dark eyebrows, her serious jaw, her thinness. She had taken Joy from Boo and held her and fed her as if she had already raised seven children of her own, and he had known instantly that his child was in good hands with her.
They’d gone to a fund-raiser that night, he and Boo, and gotten home early, at Boo’s insistence. Boo had been worried about the new babysitter. Even then—it seemed ironic now—he’d told her not to worry, said Torian looked like a kid who could handle it if the house burned down, and Boo had started to worry that she’d left her curling iron on.
They’d developed a system: Boo would go in and shoo Torian out while Noel waited in the car to drive her home, two blocks away. He could have walked her, but that had seemed awkward, and it was pouring rain that first time.
Her face was wet and shining when she got in the car. “My God, it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!”
“What?” he had said. “It’s just a Honda.”
“The night. The French Quarter! Look how beautiful.”
And she had almost literally pressed her nose against the window, luminous in her appreciation.
He had fallen in love with her at that moment; he could see that, looking back.
“Should we drive around a minute?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. Let’s go down Dauphine. There’s a building there I love.”
It was the one at the corner of Toulouse, sand and rose with age, cracked and watermarked, elegant in its decrepitude. It was a favorite of his as well.
After that, he collected jokes for her, even making up riddles. She did it too and was good at it.
When he saw her with a volume of poetry—an anthology for school, he thought—he felt a funny leap in his chest, and couldn’t rest till he brought out all his old books.
And he thought: What became of me? How did I get from there to here? He had once thought he would have an academic career.
One night she couldn’t babysit, and a friend of hers had come instead—Sheila, he thought her name was, though he hadn’t the least recollection of her. A strange moroseness had come over him when he came downstairs, expecting to see her, a new joke on his lips, and she wasn’t there.
He had been strangely out of sorts that night, and he and Boo had fought.
Not until one bizarre moment a month ago had he put any of this together, had he had the least understanding of it. Boo had gone early to an afternoon party, having arranged for Noel to meet her there after a business lunch. He’d come home to change into shorts and get the car, and Torian was there, of course. For some reason, he was surprised. He’d never seen her there in the daytime, hadn’t somehow, expected her. Yet there she was, reading in the living room, (which hadn’t yet been torn apart), bare feet on the coffee table.
She was all in white—T-shirt, shorts, and sweatband catching her dark hair. She looked up and smiled. “Oh. Hi, Noel. Joy’s asleep.”
She turned the book over: Sanctuary .
Noel said, “Not his best.”
“I love it. I’ve read it three times.”
“‘Temple Drake,” he said, understanding in some uncanny way.
“C’est moi.”
“Are you Brett Ashley as well?”
She nodded. “And Nicole in Tender Is the Night .”
“Emma Bovary?”
She made a face. “Never. Not in a million years. Emma’s a dingbat.”
She has to be more than fifteen, he thought, and went to change.
He remembered perfectly well what he had sung in the shower: “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” He wasn’t thinking of her at all, or of anything in particular.
He had picked up his keys, his hair wet, walked into the living room, sat down on the sofa beside her, put his keys on the coffee table, and said, “Anna