The Number 7 Read Online Free PDF Page A

chimney that stretched to the ceiling. A stout wood-burning stove jutted out from the hearth and heated the room. A cast-iron steamer sat atop the smooth, black surface and I watched a thin line of white steam escape into the air.
    It had been a long time since my family shared a meal like this one. I glanced at Greta, who looked like she was thinking the same thing. We hadn’t had a meal like this one since Mom was alive.
    I couldn’t figure out Rosemary’s angle. What did she want in having us over for dinner? There had to be more to her than the friendly neighborhood welcoming committee. I didn’t trust her.
    â€œSo, Rosemary, what is it you do?” Dad asked, handing me a bowl of garlic mashed potatoes.
    â€œI’m a dental hygienist,” she smiled.
    I should have known. Those teeth.
    â€œAnd I do a bit of astrology on the side.”
    â€œWhat, like horoscopes and stuff?” Greta asked skeptically.
    Rosemary pursed her lips and shrugged. “More like charting planets and interpreting their movements.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œOh, you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. It’s nothing, really. Just a hobby.” Rosemary wasn’t offering too many details.
    â€œSo can you, like, tell my fortune?” Greta’s question sounded like a challenge. She locked eyes with Rosemary, and I admired her tenacity to hold the wide-eyed woman’s gaze. I still had difficulty looking straight at her.
    â€œWell, I’m not really a fortune teller, per se,” Rosemary corrected.
    â€œI was born November first.”
    â€œOkay,” Rosemary said, resigned, and I wondered if she was about to make up a terrific lie. “You’re a Scorpio with a very strong will. You’re independent. You set goals for yourself and then you strive to achieve them. You can be moody, sensitive, and compassionate. Should I keep going?”
    â€œYou left out dramatic,” Dad chimed in.
    â€œHappy belated birthday, by the way.” Rosemary winked at Greta and began buttering her bread before changing the subject. “You know, I moved in here eight years ago. I got to know your parents pretty well. They were truly lovely people. I was so sad to hear about Eloise’s passing.”
    â€œThank you. It was nice to hear she had neighbors like you looking after her toward the end.” Dad gave an appreciative glance across the table. They were the only two people at the table who ever knew my grandparents.
    â€œThese pork chops are delish,” I said while forking another bite into my mouth. “Thanks again for having us over.” I didn’t mean to sound cynical, but I did.
    I studied the artwork on Rosemary’s walls. No photographs, I noted. It was as if her family had never existed, as if she’d sprouted from the earth as routinely as a daffodil or spring tulip. There must have been fifteen or so framed paintings of various sizes and subjects hanging in organized chaos. Mostly still lifes in oils and acrylics. But there was one painting that I took a particular interest in. It was unassuming and hung in a dark corner, far from the dining table. I only saw it as we got up to leave, and I walked closer to get a better look. An oil portrait of the back of a girl’s head. Her hair was dark gold, the color of straw at harvest, and she was surrounded by darkness. On top of her head sat a crown of wildflowers—daisies, mostly, and some blue cornflowers. An odd portrait , I thought, why gaze at the back of someone ?
    â€œDo you like it?” Rosemary asked, gliding over next to me.
    â€œIt’s strange.” But I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
    â€œYour grandmother gave it to me. Apparently, your grandfather painted it and wanted me to have it,” Rosemary informed me.
    â€œMom gave it to you?” Dad came closer to inspect the painting himself.
    Greta stayed by the door, a silent plea for us to