A Table By the Window Read Free Page A

long enough to rake the stack of papers. “Could you really live with knowing that Erin Baine missed out on Harvard because of one childish lapse in judgment?”
    It seemed as if Carley’s lungs could not pull in enough air. “And so you propose we look the other way while she cheats her way in? So she can become a doctor or lawyer? Or how about a senator?”
    Redness slashed Dr. Kincaid cheeks. “Of course not. I propose…I insist, we give them another chance. This once.”
    Clarity struck Carley like a swift, silent bolt of lightning. “This isn’t about Erin, is it?”
    â€œIt’s about all four of them.”
    â€œYou’re afraid of losing your job if General Ogden stops his support.”
    She flinched when the pen slammed against the desk.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Dr. Kincaid said right away, but in the next breath added, “Take the day off, Carley.”

Chapter 2
    A foghorn sounded from the west, where white mists shrouded the Golden Gate Bridge’s lofty piers. Other sounds met Carley’s ears: seagulls’ incessant ky-eows . Laughter from uniformed elementary students at the antics of the barking sea lions. The chatter of Japanese tourists snapping photographs of each other with Alcatraz over their left shoulders. The rustle of waxed paper as she dug out the remaining chocolate morsels from a bag of Blue Chip cookies.
    No San Franciscan in her right mind would seek consolation from a damp bench at the end of Pier 39, but it was one of the few places from childhood Carley could recall being happy. At least for part of one summer day.
    Her mother’s boyfriend-of-the-month, a construction worker named Maxwell, had driven them from Sacramento. Even at nine, Carley had doubts about most of Maxwell’s claims—that no cousin of his had ever scaled the TransAmerica Pyramid in special suction shoes, nor was another cousin Clint Eastwood’s bodyguard—but his generosity more than made up for the lies. He trailed behind Carley’s mother through one shop after another, paid for Carley to ride the carousel four times in a row, and then treated them to dinner at Neptune’s Palace restaurant.
    â€œSee Angel Island?” he had said, pointing a Dungeness crab claw toward the Bay on the other side of the glass. “My Uncle Jim dug up a chest full of gold coins when he was stationed there.”
    â€œWhat did he do with them?” Carley had asked for politeness’ sake.
    He had looked over his shoulder, in a furtive manner that made Carley halfway believe him, and then leaned closer. “He hid them in his basement and sells a handful now and then to a coin dealer. Always a different dealer, mind you.”
    Then Maxwell sat back in his chair and winked. “He’s got over a million dollars in the bank now.”
    Linda Walker was still pretty at the time, though chain-smoking and drinking were turning her voice as husky as a man’s. She rolled her green eyes and asked why Maxwell drove a ten-year-old Tempo with a broken radio and stuck passenger door, if he had a millionaire uncle. Carley knew that was the beginning of the end, even before Maxwell’s face clouded.
    By Christmas Linda was married to Huey Collins, an accountant at the California State Capitol. It was a promising move up—from a duplex on H Street to a three-bedroom brick rambler in Citrus Heights. In a rare show of maternal caring, Linda pressured Huey into adopting Carley, reasoning that she did not want her daughter playing second fiddle to his own two girls. Later, Carley overheard Linda confide to a girlfriend over the telephone that the adoption was so Huey would have to pay child support, should there be a divorce.
    Nonetheless, Carley reveled in the relative normalcy of the situation. She was enrolled in a school that did not post guards on the playground and hallways. Collection agencies ceased telephoning. The family attended church.