Suncatchers Read Free Page A

thinking about that proposal! Writers get their ideas rejected all the time! Get on to something else!” Or “Who cares what my mother said about Troy? Get over it!” And the remarkable thing was that she was nearly always right. She always knew exactly what he was thinking. Only once could he recall her being wrong. He had been watching her dust the bookshelves in the den, stretching up to reach the top ones. He was noticing how slim her waist still was, how nicely curved her calves were, when she turned around suddenly. He glanced away immediately but didn’t have time to readjust his expression. Passing him on her way to the living room, she had said, “Thinking up a new heroine for your next book, huh? Hope she’s as beautiful as the last one—Asdrilla, wasn’t that her name?” He hadn’t answered. What could he have said? “No, I was just admiring your figure”? One didn’t say things like that to his wife. At least he didn’t.
    Well, anyway, the driveways in this neighborhood weren’t very long. The woman next door was going to be done with the sweeping soon, so he’d better get on with it if he was going to do it. What could be simpler than meeting a new neighbor? He hoped he could look her in the eye.
    He opened the front door and stepped out into the yard. She was down near the curb now but stopped and looked back when she heard the door open. It was then that he realized he was still carrying the snow globe. Well, too late now with her standing there looking at him.
    He began talking as he walked across the patchy grass in the front yard. Might as well get it over with. “Hi. You must be—Jewel, isn’t it? I’m Perry Warren, and I’ll be living here for . . . but I guess you already know that . . . or do you?” He should have thought this out better. He wasn’t really looking right at her, more at the telephone pole across the street behind her. He could tell she was smiling at him, though.
    â€œSo you’re Beth’s brother. She told us you’d be moving in sometime this month.”
    She put the broom behind her, holding it with both hands like a tap dancer’s cane. He was glad she didn’t offer to shake hands. There was something too personal about that—an expectancy of trust.
    He saw her looking at the music box. “I’ve been unpacking,” he said.
    â€œThat’s always a chore,” she said.
    She lifted her head a little, and he looked at her eyes. A pale but startling blue, the color of those clear, ice blue candies wrapped in cellophane that looked so cool and fresh but turned out to make your mouth burn. Aquamarine, that was the color. It was the birthstone for some month, he thought, but he couldn’t remember now which one. He focused again on the telephone pole.
    â€œBeth told us you’re a writer,” she said.
    â€œI guess so. But not for a day or two right now. I haven’t found my computer yet in all the boxes . . . it’s a mess in there.” He motioned back toward the house.
    She laughed. He couldn’t remember seeing a woman her age with such pronounced dimples. Didn’t dimples untuck as a person’s skin aged?
    He didn’t look right into her eyes but rather in the corner where the skin bunched up into a little fan of pleats. Forty-five had sounded older than it looked. Or maybe he had gotten the age wrong.
    â€œWe saw your car and the U-Haul late last night when we got home,” she said. “Sorry we weren’t here. Joe Leonard would’ve helped you carry things in.”
    â€œThat’s okay. It didn’t take all that long really. There wasn’t anything too big. Beth left most of her stuff here for the year . . . and all.” He shifted the snow globe to the other hand and looked down at her feet. Navy blue Keds with white socks.
    â€œI was going to see if you could come