Vicky Banning Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Allen McGill
animated group. She grinned, feeling almost physically the number of eyes that were concentrated on her back.
She selected a copy of Sports Illustrated showing the Olympic ice skater, Eric Heiden ( thunder thighs, she called him), on the cover, and the current week’s issue of the Jamesville Journal, to see what was happening in the area, if anything.
Since the group was congregated around Sarah at the far end of the room, Vicky had a choice of places to sit. She chose a sofa near the fireplace, a twin of the one in the dining room, beneath a Tiffany-style floor lamp. Vicky ran her fingers over the glass shade, as she’d done so long ago as a child in the grand old house in Newport . She could almost feel the iridescence of the blues and purples, the lushness of the greens and reds. The style and grace, considered for so long to be passé, was once again in vogue.
She settled herself on the sofa, the warmth and smell from the fire making her feel cozily at home, albeit a bit sleepy. She decided to save the sports magazine for later, to read after she’d written her nightly letter, and leafed through the newspaper. Nothing of any world-shaking importance was reported, she found, but a Spring Festival on the fairgrounds, wherever they were, sounded as if it might be fun. And a listing for a contest attracted her attention:
Fowler County Spring Photo Contest
Vicky read all the regulations, the list of prizes, and the deadline. She had a tiny Minox camera that Keith had sent her for her birthday years ago and had never used. It might be fun to finally try it out.
“Mrs. Banning?” a male voice inquired. The sound startled her; she’d been so engrossed with the contest regulations that she’d forgotten to expect a delegate from the “media” that was sure to come. It had taken a tad longer than she’d expected.
A tall, slim, good-looking gentleman stood before her. He was nattily dressed, with a vested suit, gold-rimmed glasses, and a short goatee. She cast him mentally in the role of Don Quixote. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, with the deep warmth of a consoling priest. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Vicky affected her most charming smile, not entirely a put-on. How had she missed seeing him before? “Certainly,” she said, then patted the blue velvet cushion beside her. “It’s Mi z , Banning incidentally,” she said. “But you can call me Vicky.”
The man hitched the knees of his trousers and half-sat, sideways on the sofa, facing her. He seemed embarrassed, yet concerned, the brow beneath his white widow’s peak was slightly furrowed. “I feel rather awkward,” he said. “My name is Burton Williams. “
“How do you do?” Vicky responded. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve met only Sarah Carstairs , so far. It’s very nice of you to introduce yourself…makes a person feel so welcome.” If I get any sweeter, I’ll gag , she thought. “May I call you Burton ?”
“Yes, of course,” Burton said, trying to smile, but looking more and more uncomfortable. “Please do.”
Vicky watched him study her face, his gray eyes narrowing behind the bifocals as his head tipped to one side. “Ms., er …Vicky,” he began, “please believe that I’m not the sort of man who listens to wom …to idle gossip, but I’ve just heard something that concerns quite a few of us here.”
“Oh?” Vicky said, smiling still. “And what might that be?”
Burton lowered his eyes to his hands, watching his thumbnails flick at each other.
“We heard about your son,” he said softly.
“Keith?” Vicky said, looking pleasantly surprised. “What about him?”
Burton looked up at her, slowly, his face tinted with a most becoming blush. “We’ve been told about him being at Three Mile Island .” His tone apologized for breaching so delicate a subject. “Since a number of us have families in that area we’re, naturally, concerned about anything that might affect them.”
“Well,
She selected a copy of Sports Illustrated showing the Olympic ice skater, Eric Heiden ( thunder thighs, she called him), on the cover, and the current week’s issue of the Jamesville Journal, to see what was happening in the area, if anything.
Since the group was congregated around Sarah at the far end of the room, Vicky had a choice of places to sit. She chose a sofa near the fireplace, a twin of the one in the dining room, beneath a Tiffany-style floor lamp. Vicky ran her fingers over the glass shade, as she’d done so long ago as a child in the grand old house in Newport . She could almost feel the iridescence of the blues and purples, the lushness of the greens and reds. The style and grace, considered for so long to be passé, was once again in vogue.
She settled herself on the sofa, the warmth and smell from the fire making her feel cozily at home, albeit a bit sleepy. She decided to save the sports magazine for later, to read after she’d written her nightly letter, and leafed through the newspaper. Nothing of any world-shaking importance was reported, she found, but a Spring Festival on the fairgrounds, wherever they were, sounded as if it might be fun. And a listing for a contest attracted her attention:
Fowler County Spring Photo Contest
Vicky read all the regulations, the list of prizes, and the deadline. She had a tiny Minox camera that Keith had sent her for her birthday years ago and had never used. It might be fun to finally try it out.
“Mrs. Banning?” a male voice inquired. The sound startled her; she’d been so engrossed with the contest regulations that she’d forgotten to expect a delegate from the “media” that was sure to come. It had taken a tad longer than she’d expected.
A tall, slim, good-looking gentleman stood before her. He was nattily dressed, with a vested suit, gold-rimmed glasses, and a short goatee. She cast him mentally in the role of Don Quixote. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, with the deep warmth of a consoling priest. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Vicky affected her most charming smile, not entirely a put-on. How had she missed seeing him before? “Certainly,” she said, then patted the blue velvet cushion beside her. “It’s Mi z , Banning incidentally,” she said. “But you can call me Vicky.”
The man hitched the knees of his trousers and half-sat, sideways on the sofa, facing her. He seemed embarrassed, yet concerned, the brow beneath his white widow’s peak was slightly furrowed. “I feel rather awkward,” he said. “My name is Burton Williams. “
“How do you do?” Vicky responded. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve met only Sarah Carstairs , so far. It’s very nice of you to introduce yourself…makes a person feel so welcome.” If I get any sweeter, I’ll gag , she thought. “May I call you Burton ?”
“Yes, of course,” Burton said, trying to smile, but looking more and more uncomfortable. “Please do.”
Vicky watched him study her face, his gray eyes narrowing behind the bifocals as his head tipped to one side. “Ms., er …Vicky,” he began, “please believe that I’m not the sort of man who listens to wom …to idle gossip, but I’ve just heard something that concerns quite a few of us here.”
“Oh?” Vicky said, smiling still. “And what might that be?”
Burton lowered his eyes to his hands, watching his thumbnails flick at each other.
“We heard about your son,” he said softly.
“Keith?” Vicky said, looking pleasantly surprised. “What about him?”
Burton looked up at her, slowly, his face tinted with a most becoming blush. “We’ve been told about him being at Three Mile Island .” His tone apologized for breaching so delicate a subject. “Since a number of us have families in that area we’re, naturally, concerned about anything that might affect them.”
“Well,