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

“Are you writing? Does Nick encourage you?”

“I simply don’t have time to write these days.”

Her father raised his thick eyebrows. They were surprisingly dark, especially compared to his head of spare gray hair. “Have you given up on yourself?”

“What a terrible way to put it.” Barbara tucked a corner of her mouth into a scowl. “There’s more to life than writing, you know.”

“Such as?”

“Such as my husband. And dancing and exploring.”

“Margaret managed to publish a novel. I made sure to help her with it.”

“Well, that’s jolly for the two of you.”

Her father said nothing to that, and they worked silently, clipping and tugging until they’d freed the rose vines and dug out the morning glory roots.

They dragged the heap of vines away, and Barbara asked, “What about that raspberry patch?”

They worked side by side on the weedy strip of raspberry canes. Barbara yanked out stalks of ragweed and dug up gnarly burdock roots. Her father raked the weeds into a pile and scooped them up.

As he walked off with his load of weeds, Barbara glared at his back. His comments about her writing rankled. He oughtn’t criticize Nick for not encouraging her, especially since he’d not been there to inspire her when she most needed him. How could she ever forget that terrible desertion? It was as if he’d raised her to believe she could own the sky—and then threw a pall over her whole world. Not that she wished to bring up old wrongs. She’d built a new life with Nick. That was what mattered now.

Her father, too, apparently thought better of dwelling on the matter. He righted himself, kneaded the small of his back, and asked, “Where do you think Amelia Earhart is?”

“Most likely on some South Pacific island. There are thousands of them. I just hope it’s one with plenty of vegetation.”

“I hear they might call off the search.”

“Nick says even if they survived, their radio’s likely dead, but I tell him it doesn’t matter as long as they’ve got some basic supplies.”

“So, you believe she’s alive?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Look at what she’s accomplished. She and that navigator know how to fly. Doesn’t seem likely they’d crash.”

“I hope someone discovers them soon.”

“I hope not. Let them enjoy their paradise in peace.”

Her father chuckled. “You still have your starry-eyed imagination.”

Barbara peered into the raspberry stalks, spying plump berries glistening between the leaves. The memory of one of her childhood stories burst upon her, fresh as today, about a ceiling of vines plated with shimmering colors. “Remember my Verbiny story? The one about the jewels that Verbiny mistakes for fruit?”

He nodded, recognition lighting his eyes. “And,” he winked, “that stern mother and grumpy father.”

“Verbiny didn’t care. She had a fairy friend and slept soundly on her mossy bed in the forest.” Barbara stripped a few raspberries off the prickly stems and popped them in her mouth. She smacked her lips, savoring their sweet juiciness. “Nick would say I’m like Verbiny. He’s always accusing me of indulging in flights of fancy.”

Her father plucked some berries. “I hope you never lose that.”

✭

“You can’t have any idea how wonderful it felt,” Barbara told Nick as she toweled her hair dry. “Spending the whole afternoon weeding and digging and clearing.”

Nick sat in the easy chair in the corner of their second-floor bedroom at the Folletts’ home, an ankle planted on his knee top and a Life magazine open on his lap. “So, you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, tremendously.”

“We couldn’t have visited if we’d gone to South America.”

“I don’t see why not,” she said.

“If I’d taken weeks off for that, I wouldn’t have any time left for this trip.”

Barbara sighed. “I suppose.”

She was still disappointed about giving up the Machu Picchu expedition. She’d argued it would restore his sense of discovery and wonder, but he insisted they couldn’t afford the trip. She could hardly argue with him—not after he made it clear he contributed more to their savings than she did. So she decided not to tell him about the raise she expected in September. Knowing she’d be tucking extra money aside for adventures made her feel less trapped, less of a prisoner to the mundane.

Nick closed the magazine and put it on the floor. “How are you getting on with your father?”

Barbara draped the towel over the bedpost and shook out her hair. “Smashingly. I can tell him just what I think. Even when he annoys me.”

“That’s grand. But I don’t understand your father. Or Margaret.”

“You just have to be friendly,” she said. “My father even asked me about your work.”

“I can’t see how it matters whether Gone With the Wind deserves the Pulitzer. Or why misuse of a comma is an abomination. Or how he can tolerate not knowing when the next paycheck will show up.”

“Well, literature and writing are his whole world.”

Nick let out a humph. “Don’t blame me if I keep quiet at the dinner table.”

“Don’t be silly. I love you just the way you are. You’re so levelheaded and . . . sane.” Barbara fingered the coils of her hair, arranging them into her usual tousled bob. “I don’t believe I could’ve come without you. This visit couldn’t have happened if I didn’t have you.”

Nick uncrossed his leg and looked up at Barbara, his head cocked. “Why’s that?”

Barbara leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Because you’re my harbor and cove.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You literary people never just come right out with it, do you?”

“Don’t be cross,” Barbara said, gazing down on him. “It only means I feel safe with you. You see, my father thoroughly wrecked our family. But now I have my own family, and I don’t need him anymore.”

“That makes sense.” He pulled her to his lap. “Ting sure is a jolly baby, isn’t he?”

Barbara draped her arm around his shoulder. “I suppose every man wants a son.”

“It’s only natural. Doesn’t every girl want a daughter?”

“I have three sisters. That’s enough for me.”

Nick reached his hand into the opening of her robe and spread it