The Yellow Braid Read Online Free PDF Page B

it:
fixing her hair or applying makeup. Even in public bathrooms where
rows of glass striped the walls above the sinks, Caro shrunk from
her reflection.
    She wasn’t ugly, just not pretty. An artist
friend once told her she was a study in lightness. Oatmeal and bone
and sand came to mind when she contemplated her features. The
irises of her eyes were small and of the palest river-stone grey.
Habitual scowling had driven a rut between her eyes, which she
obsessively tried to rub smooth with her forefinger. Everything
about her was millimeters out of balance. Even her right eyebrow
arched higher than the left, a defect made obvious when she wore
her glasses and one brow dipped below the frame.
    Caro let out a small sigh. In the Hamptons
all the women seemed bred from a common pool of superior genes. Not
knowing any of them personally made them easier to ignore as they
passed her on the sidewalk. In contrast, Nina’s close proximity and
friendly personality were going to make it impossible for Caro to
forget her own physical failings.
    Snickering at herself, she flicked off the
bathroom light and went into the bedroom where she’d left her pen
and journal on the dresser. The pen, unlike the mirror, seemed
forgiving. If there was any reflection to be had from the pen, it
was of her soul.
    As always when the mirror disappointed, she
felt all the more inspired to create. Images transformed into words
that swam in and out of her awareness. She wanted to hook the words
in her handwriting, to feel the physical sense of each curve and
curl stringing the letters together in a cursive mosaic. The
transference of inspiration to the pen and then onto the page was a
choreography of sorts; the only guesswork was in the mechanics of
style.
    Caro opened a spiral notebook—its pages
clean and tight—and positioned a new pen, only to have the words,
that moments before had been poised for expression, drift away. An
unstoppable stream of snapshots of Livia filtered into her
consciousness. Caro studied every image, holding each one up to a
mental frame as if someone was passing her tangible photographs.
And once again, she felt an unnamable attraction to the girl.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
    Writing, I think, is not apart
from living. Writ ing is a kind of double living.
     
    The write r experiences everything
twice.
     
    Once in reality and once in
that mirror which waits always before or behind. ~ Catherine Drinker Bowen
     
     
     
    Caro negotiated her way through half-naked,
oil-slick bodies in order to get closer to the water. Now
mid-afternoon, the temperature hovered at seventy-eight, and a
northeasterly breeze kicked up the surf.
    The day before, she’d bought a portable
beach canopy and already acknowledged the value of her purchase as
she sat in the shelter of its nylon walls, immune to wind, sun, and
prying eyes. She’d eaten lunch in clean comfort and now, with her
skin a pale pink from an hour of sunning, she was enjoying a brief
respite when she heard someone talking.
    “Aunt Nina says you’re a poet.”
    As the words registered, Caro’s heart sped
up and her eyes came open with a start. As each inch of Livia came
into Caro’s view, she expelled her breath in a soft rush, unaware
she’d been holding a lungful of air in her chest. She’d been wrong.
Her earlier imaginings about what Livia looked like close up did
not compare with the beauty that stood before her.
    Yet, it wasn’t only the sea-foam eyes or the
straight nose or the rose lips set in a firm chin that made Caro
pale from the sheer amazement of Livia’s prettiness. Nor was it her
freshly tanned skin. It was Livia’s expression; she owned a poise
in spite of the way she chewed at her lower lip. Caro couldn’t bear
to dwell on her any longer. Poem or picture—Livia could raise
either to life!
    “Yes, I am,” Caro said. She adjusted herself
and gestured for Livia to join her under the cover of the canopy.
“Do you like poetry?”
    Livia nodded, and then sat