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

I can write to him about books and the sea and anything else that interests me. He understands me.”

Her father swiveled around and concentrated his gaze on her. “What do you imagine will come of this? Are you going to sail the seven seas with him? Turn into a sailor yourself?”

“You don’t need to be sarcastic. We care about each other. And he’s honest and forthright, and I can trust him.”

“Trust him for what? To send you a letter every now and then? What good is that?”

“It’s more than I could expect from you.”

“I’m no damn good as a model. My life went off the tracks, but I’ve found my footing again. And I’ve more experience than you with these things.”

“I don’t care what you want me to be. And I don’t like you insulting Ethan.”

“I hate to think of you running off and ruining your future.”

“I shouldn’t run off? Isn’t that what you did?”

“You are thinking of running away?”

Barbara stared straight ahead. Who was he to challenge her? “When I went to San Francisco, it was to find work.”

“I don’t want to rehash all that. It’s your future I’m concerned about.”

“I’m nearly the age of independence.” Barbara quickened her pace. How dare he criticize Ethan. He was her mainstay, the one person she could truly rely on. Her father wasn’t half the man Ethan was.

Her father caught up to her and draped his hand over her shoulder. “Barbara, I know you—better than you know yourself. You’re too damn romantic for this capricious world. Discipline is what you need to keep learning. And writing.”

His hand felt hot and leaden. “I said I want to write. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

They were near the Russells’ house now. Her father tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I don’t want to upset you. You can be a great writer. The fact is Ethan doesn’t deserve you.”

She stiffened under his hold. “You don’t understand one bit what Ethan means to me.”

“I can see you’re having an affair of the heart. I’m not ignorant, you know. I’d hate to see you sidetracked by this sailor.”

“Sidetracked? I’ve finally found someone who loves me.” Barbara stopped at the top of the walk to the house, pulled out of his clasp, and faced him. They usually spent the whole afternoon together. But this tirade of his turned her livid. “I’ve decided I don’t want to live with you and Margaret. And I don’t want to see you anymore either.”

Her father pleated his brow and released a gasp of resignation. “Barbara, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for all the difficulties I’ve caused us.”

“At least you admit that much.”

“I don’t think I can ever make you understand my agonies over it.”

“I don’t care about your agonies. You brought them on yourself.”

“I’ll respect your decision, but I want you to know: You’re my darling daughter, and I’ll never again turn away from you.”

“But you did. When I most needed you.” She studied him—his lined brow, sallow complexion, and the downward tug of his mouth. He was no longer her darling daddy. She didn’t adore him anymore. Nor could she count on his advice.

“I’m so sorry, Barbara. I deeply regret that.”

“I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever get over the hurt of it.” She’d cry if she didn’t get away from him. She turned and strode away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TEN YEARS EARLIER—BARBARA AT FIVE

Cheshire, July 1919

It was the first summer in their Cheshire country home. The flowers burst with blossom, and the plants leafed sundry greens. Two elm trees shaped like giant mushrooms towered over the front yard. There was a tangled-up flower garden and wild vegetable patch in the back and beyond that, a wilder wood. Her mother and Grandma Ding had set upon a weedy section of the garden, pulling out burdock and ground ivy, but Barbara fancied the jungle-like parts.

Barbara loved Daddy better than anybody else in the world, and Saturday afternoon was their special time together. Today they decided to explore the garden.

Her father glanced up at the house. “Damn place needs a coat of paint.”

“Daddy, don’t swear,” said Barbara.

“All right. Decrepit old weather-beaten house desperately requires gilding.”

Purple martins darted overhead, and the sweet and sour of rose and yarrow and evergreens and herbs mingled all around. As Barbara walked along, she batted a stand of goatsbeard, and its seeds erupted and floated away like fairy parachutes.

She took her father’s hand. “Let’s pick some flowers for Mommy.”

They meandered along the winding path. The round rocks lining its edges barely held back the creeping vines and crawling vegetation—the squash plants on one side and, on the other, black-eyed Susans, purple thistle, and milkweed.

“First, we must tramp through a dark forest,” she said. “It’s full of brambles, and we have to be careful they don’t grab us.”

“I’ll forge ahead and scout,” her father said, crouching and sneaking up on the climbing rose at the bend. He peeked around the corner. “Not a dragon in sight.”

Barbara rushed up and grabbed his arm. “You scared them off, Daddy.”

“Watch out now. The vines are trying to trap us.” He stepped around the bend by the rose bush and reached out, pushing back a stand of red hollyhocks and shuffling a foot against an eddy of leaves. He motioned Barbara ahead. “All safe.”

From the undercover he riled, out darted a snake.

“Look,” Barbara said.

“Stand back.” Her father lunged forward, flung out his arm to hold her back, and smashed down his heel.

The snake’s head snapped up like a jack-in-the-box. Its tail writhed.

“Daddy, don’t. You’re hurting him.”

He ground his heel harder. “Keep away.”

The snake’s tongue flicked in and out, as fast as a hummingbird’s, and his eyes bulged. He opened his jaws wide and screamed, but no sound came out.

Barbara grabbed her father’s leg and yanked with all her might. “Let him go, Daddy.”

But he kept grinding his foot, and, as suddenly as the snake had sprung to twitching, its writhing ceased. Her father lifted his foot off the snake. The snake lay in