The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

sail, they came face to face beneath its folds.

Barbara lifted her eyes to him. How solemn he looked. She stroked a hand over his cheek. He leaned over and softly touched his lips to hers, then pulled away, his eyes wide, as if he were unsure—or embarrassed.

She curled her hand around the back of his neck, pulled his face to hers, and gave him a long kiss, a kiss full of conviction.

As she pulled back from their embrace, she lifted and touched the kitten’s nose to his—in a kitten kiss. They broke into laughter, and the shyness between them evaporated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HELEN

Hoquiam, June 1929

As they neared land, the sky turned gloomy and quickened with drizzle. Helen gazed over the prow of the Vigilant at the little tug hauling it toward Grays Harbor. Tips of firs and pines materialized in the mist. She buttoned her jacket against the damp chill.

How sad it was—the end of their nine-month idyll. She should’ve enjoyed it more: the warm tropical breezes; the quaint communities that sprung up on ships; the luscious fruit and exotic ways of the islanders—my God, what an adventure. The idea of turning around and making the whole journey over again—in reverse—flitted through her mind. That’d give her time to weave her notes into an engaging and panoramic story.

For it must be a book—a book to prove she was an author in her own right. It’d be a different kind of story, about a mother-daughter expedition full of adventure and discovery. Of course, there’d been trials: her nagging depression; Barbara’s painful breakdown; filthy conditions and swarms of flies and mosquitoes; and the challenges of finding inexpensive housing and managing postal deliveries.

But the book needn’t recount these problems or expose their agonies. Nor reveal her most private and edifying recompense: For the first time in her life, she’d had Barbara to herself. She’d not say why that intimacy was so precious nor explain it was made possible by the sundering of their family. Instead, her book would capture the delight she took in witnessing Barbara’s vivacious ways and partaking of her joy. Let Wilson choke on that—as well as her publishing success!

She and Barbara had spoken sparingly of her father during the trip, and perhaps that was for the best. Why torment themselves? His treachery was a millstone to bear and dwelling on it would’ve only foiled their efforts to escape it. Not that they hadn’t suffered from it: Their anguish always lurked beneath the surface.

But when Barbara floundered, she’d ministered to her and, in the process, submerged her own misery. Yes, they’d had their fights and struggles, but they’d also had periods of calm. Only not at present. The last two weeks, there’d been nothing but antagonism and bickering between them.

The afternoon before they were to put in at port, Barbara had opened a new line of pleading: “Can’t we at least stay the week and explore Washington’s lush forests? Until the Vigilant sets sail again?”

Helen sat on their cabin bed with her legs stretched out, organizing her typewritten notes. “No, we’ve barely enough money for the bus to California.”

Barbara stood looking down on her with clasped hands. “But I have no idea when I’ll see Ethan again.”

“You can write to each other.”

“That’s not the same. And you know it.”

Helen surveyed the stacks of papers. She’d need some long stretches of time and plenty of quiet to turn them into something coherent. “We can’t afford to stay.”

“We can stay at Ethan’s house.”

“I cannot and will not accept hospitality from him.”

“But he wants us to stay.”

“It’s not proper, Barbara.”

“I’m old enough to know what makes me happy. You and Daddy always said I’m ahead of my years.”

“Honestly, Barbara. Ethan’s ten years older than you. And fifteen is too young for a serious relationship.”

“What do ten years matter when two people are in love?”

“If you care deeply for each other, time apart won’t alter that.” But Helen hoped that time apart would spur Barbara to forget this romance. These dalliances of hers were ridiculous, even preposterous—first that vulgar encounter in Tahiti and now this infatuation with a common sailor. The best strategy was to whisk her away as quickly as possible. And find something to distract her, preferably a new writing project. Or maybe college.

Barbara thumped her stiffened arms against the air. “Why do you insist on taking me away from him? He’s trustworthy and honorable. You said so yourself.”

“You need to know a few things, young lady.” She thrust her papers aside. “Your father moved again. It took Gordon three weeks to track him down and get him to pay the house taxes. But that’s as much as we’ve had from him. We’ve been living off the rent and my articles, and we’re down to the dregs.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

God, Barbara could be exasperating. “I have to support us now. All three of us.”

“But we’ve made do on very little money all along. Why shouldn’t we continue?”

“Because we could manage on pennies a day on the islands, but nothing’s cheap in the States. And I have to send money for Sabra.”

Barbara lifted her brow in pleading. “We can figure something out, Mother. I know we can.”

“If you’d been helping with the book all along, we might be in better shape right now. Instead, I have to worry about making good on that advance.”

“But I have copies of some of my letters. I’ll help now, I promise.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Please, Mother, I’m begging you. Ethan means the world to me.”

“I refuse to listen to any more of your incessant badgering. We’re going to Pasadena, and that’s the end of it.”

Barbara turned and stomped out of the cabin.

Fine, let her run to Ethan. Honestly, just fifteen, and she thinks she knows what love is. Barbara’s new philosophy—that she ought to be able to do whatever she wanted—irked to no end. She was as self-indulgent as her father. Damn him and his devil-may-care ways.

Keeping Barbara under control