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

one. No, she was likely in for a seismic chastening.

At the Port of Los Angeles, there’d been warm welcome-home greetings and hugs all around. During the drive to the Russells’ home, her mother told them—her, Alice, and Alice’s husband—about her “too short stay” in Honolulu. She’d rented a bungalow near Bishop Museum, an airy place with a lovely view of the island’s moss-green mountains. And she’d researched Pacific island cultures at the museum, the most essential thing she could do there. But, sadly, she’d not had time to compose a single sentence of the book.

The affability continued over a dinner of fried chicken and coleslaw. But Barbara sensed from her mother’s stern, fleeting glances that the forced comity would soon crumble. After dinner, her mother insisted Barbara accompany her on a “walk around the neighborhood on this temperate evening.” She apparently didn’t trust herself to hold their discussion inside the walls of the Russells’ home.

Her mother kept mum until they’d put a half-block between them and the house. “I hardly know where to start, Barbara.”

“I had no intention of interrupting your trip. I honestly didn’t.” Twilight had tipped to chilly darkness, and Barbara shivered from the cold. She could only hope her mother would keep the chiding short.

“What in the world were you thinking—taking to the rails like a hard-luck hobo? Worrying the Russells to distraction?”

“I only intended to find work and live on my own. You know I’m perfectly capable.”

“My God, the Schultzes must’ve thought I’d foisted an errant delinquent on them.”

“Dr. Schultz started all the fuss. I told him I could take care of myself, and I did get a message to you.”

Her mother huffed. “A dishonest one—saying you were going to Oregon.”

“I can manage quite well on my own, despite how everyone’s treating me. I was on the verge of taking a job at Dodge Publishing.”

Her mother hurried along, stridently swinging her arms. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How dare you create the impression I deserted you like a cast-off child?”

Barbara wanted to shoot back: I’m not a child of any sort, and I wish you’d quit treating me like one.

But Ethan had told her she must keep her head and honor her mother’s wishes. She glanced to the side, through the window of a house with its sitting-room lights blazing, at a man crimping a newspaper into place. In the not-far-off future, she’d share a private, happy life with Ethan. He’d promised to wait patiently for her and urged her to do the same.

Her mother gripped her arm, stopped, and twisted her around. “You’ll answer me when I speak to you.”

Her mother’s face loomed inches from hers. Barbara said the only thing that would satisfy. “Yes, Mother.”

“If you so much as think about running off again, you’ll be put on a leash so short you’ll regret ever crossing me.”

Barbara nodded.

“I expect your full cooperation from here on out. And no more of this nonsense.” She sunk her fingers into Barbara’s arm. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Her mother released her grip and motioned her to turn back with her. “When I think of the times I’ve saved you from yourself: finding a chaperone for your Norman D trip; preventing you from setting off in an outrigger and keeping you from harm at that scandalous party in Tahiti.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve made it altogether clear that I’m not my own person.” Still, she followed that statement with a solitary qualification—at least not yet.

“Must you always be tempted by adventure?”

Barbara knew she must pretend she’d be compliant. “If I am, I promise to discuss it with you first.”

“Honestly, next, you’ll be asking to join Byrd’s South Pole expedition.”

Once I turn 18, she thought, I’ll join any damn expedition I please.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

HELEN

Los Angeles, November 1929

By the time Helen returned from Hawaii, Wilson and Margaret had set up house in Los Angeles. Wilson wasted no time insisting Helen meet him to resolve “the legal side of things.” She hated doing battle with him. He had no compunction about twisting the truth, and when riled, he always went on the offensive and attacked with abandon.

She steeled herself for his salvos as Alice’s husband, Bert, drove her to her attorney’s office. The afternoon’s piercing sun warmed the car’s interior. She dug her handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her brow. The ride took them through the heart of the banking district. Along the way, she spied three banks with “Temporarily Closed” signs—as if she needed to be reminded of the run on banks and her sorry finances.

Her attorney escorted her to a fourth-floor meeting room that looked out on the city’s jagged horizon of buildings. They waited there for Wilson and his attorney. Wilson had tracked down one of his old Harvard chums, Willard Clark, who’d practiced law in Los Angeles since 1914. Those Harvard men certainly stuck together. And this one was geographically removed enough to be completely ignorant of Wilson’s reprehensible conduct, which, of course, Wilson was not likely to disclose.

Bert, a lawyer himself, had secured a good divorce attorney for her. James Shepherd was a no-nonsense fellow whose advanced age and deliberate manner reminded Helen of her father’s kind forbearance. She couldn’t imagine facing Wilson without him.

The four of them gathered around the room’s sleek teakwood table, and Shepherd started the meeting. “After conferring with our clients, Mr. Clark and I agree there are two issues we should discuss today: how to decide Barbara’s custody arrangements and the state of divorce negotiations. Shall we begin with Barbara?”

Wilson braced his hands on the chair arms. “Yes, well, as you know, I’ve invited Barbara to live with Margaret and me.”

Shepherd turned to Helen. “Is this something you’d consent to?”

“No. I refused to expose her to their affair when we were in New Haven, and I don’t see any reason to allow it here.”

Wilson leaned in to speak, but his attorney waved him off. “Barbara is fifteen years old. It’s reasonable that she have some say in the matter.”

Helen