Hummingbird Lane by Brown, Carolyn (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📗

days. No sugar, no carbs, lots of exercise and vitamins,” Emma said. “I won’t be missing anything but more of those therapy sessions when they try to get me to remember something that I have locked away in my brain, and a sleeping pill at night that never works anyway.”

“Why do you need sleeping pills?” Sophie asked.

“So that I don’t have nightmares and wake up in a cold sweat. I didn’t tell Nancy that the pills weren’t working. I’ve never told anyone.”

“Why not?” Sophie shrugged. “Maybe they could prescribe a better pill.”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t want any of that stuff, or any of the therapy sessions, either. I’m not sure I want to remember what it is I’ve got locked away. The only thing I’m sure about is that the only good times I’ve had were when you and Rebel were in my life. I want that feeling back. If Nancy knew I was having bad dreams, she would tell Mother, and I wouldn’t ever get out of there.”

“Where is home now? Do you have a house, an apartment?” Sophie asked.

“I still have my suite upstairs in my folks’ house,” Emma said.

“Pink satin and white lace?” Sophie asked.

Emma almost smiled again. “You remembered.”

Sophie reached across the console again and laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Of course I did. I always thought it was a beautiful room, and to tell the truth, I wanted one just like it.”

“You can have it. I hate it.” Emma’s tone could have put frost on the windshield.

“What kind of room would you want if you could change it?” Sophie asked.

“I’ve wanted a tiny house of my own for years, and I want it decorated in neutral shades with some orange and yellow accents to brighten it up,” Emma answered. “But Mother says that will make my problems even worse. You remember she always said bright colors are bohemian.”

Sophie laughed and gave Emma’s bony shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Stick with me, and you can have a tiny house—and it’ll even have orange countertops.”

“I think I’ll like that just fine.” Emma really smiled that time.

Josh Corlen took the time to turn on the air conditioner for Sophie and then went to his own small one-bedroom trailer house. He stripped out of his work clothing, tossed it all in the washing machine in the hallway, and took a shower. Filly and Arty would have supper on the picnic table out under the live oak tree at seven, and he didn’t want to be late. Filly’s chocolate cake was his favorite dessert, and Arty had made an amazing pot of clam chowder.

He dressed in khaki shorts, an orange T-shirt, and matching Crocs and got to the table just as Arty was setting the pot down. Arty had always reminded Josh of his grandfather—short, balding, bright-blue eyes, and slightly cocky. If Grandpa had been alive, he and Arty would have even been about the same age.

Filly was setting disposable bowls and a loaf of her homemade bread on the table. She wasn’t any taller than Arty, and from the day Josh had bought the trailer park, she’d been his surrogate grandmother, friend, mother, and favorite aunt all rolled into one person. She had braided her hair into two long plaits that hung over her shoulders and wore her usual flowing skirt and T-shirt—from her part-hippie heritage, she said. Her given name was Ophelia, but no one called her that, not even Leo, the buyer from the local gift store who came by once a month and picked up Arty’s metal pieces, Filly’s jewelry, and Josh’s drawings. She was Filly to everyone, and Josh loved her.

The chocolate sheet cake on the other end of the wooden picnic table was still warm enough that a little steam floated above it. Josh took a deep breath, drawing in all the mixed aromas.

“This sure looks good. Thank y’all for cooking for us every evening,” Josh said.

“We all got to eat, and it’s hard to cook for one,” Arty said. “Besides, Filly would starve plumb to death if I didn’t cook.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I might die of a sugar overload, but I wouldn’t starve,” Filly argued. “I love to bake, but cookin’ ain’t for me.”

“Together, y’all make a great team.” Josh smiled.

“We all make a great team.” Arty dished up the chowder. “I made plenty in case Sophie hasn’t eaten when she gets here.”

“So, what did you work on today?” Filly asked after Arty said a simple prayer over their meal.

“I finished up that old oil derrick.” Arty pinched up a thick slice of bread and dunked it into his chowder. “This one is three feet tall. I’m going to make one about a third that size next, and then before our buyer arrives, I’ve got a mind to make a lizard.”

“Big or little?” Josh asked.

“Maybe a foot long. I saw a lady on the television last night that had a chameleon brooch about that size on her sweater. Dang thing looked like it was crawlin’ right up to her shoulder. Hers had all kinds of fancy jewels on it, but it set me to thinkin’ about makin’ one. If women are usin’ them for jewelry, they might buy one to set on their coffee table, too,” Arty answered.

“Hell’s bells, Arthur.” Filly shook her finger at him. “Ain’t you realized yet that folks buy your art to put behind glass doors in them fancy cabinets and treat it like an investment? They pay enough money for those pieces that they aren’t going to put them on a coffee table to get dusty. Most of them brag to their friends that they own a signed Art Crawford metal piece.”

“Ophelia!” he shot back at her. “Don’t call me Arthur.”

“If you call me by my birth name again, you’ll go without dessert for a week. You know I hate that.” She shook her spoon at him.

“Not as bad as I hate Arthur.”

“Shh . . .” Josh put a finger to his lips. “I