Color the Sidewalk for Me Read Online Free

bottom step, Melissa frozen on the grass. Daddy’s arms were steadying Mama; the yellow blanket was silent. I lifted my eyes to Mama’s face and the afternoon stood still.
    Her expression was one of utter dismay. It reminded me of the time I spilled a bottle of vegetable oil on her newly cleaned kitchen floor, or when a neighbor’s dog left a steaming pile among her rosebushes. She stared at the sidewalk, then at Melissa and me. Daddy remained anxiously at her side, his face shuttered, awaiting her pronouncement. Time spun itself out and I held my breath.
    â€œWell, William,” Mama uttered finally, “I guess we won’t spank her, since she was tryin’ to give me a present.”
    Relief spilled from Daddy. “I think you did a right fine job, girls,” he ventured, smiling at me with reassurance.
    â€œThey worked a long time on it, Estelle.” Granddad’s voice behind me held more than a tinge of disapproval. Mama shot him a look.
    Mama and I had volleyed our share of heated words in the past. But for once I had no retort. Mouth gaping, throat tight, I let my eyes fall to the sidewalk, sweeping them over its glory-filled length, searching its decorations for a clue to her reproach. Not to save my own right hand, not for the life of me, could I understand how she could view this heartfelt gift as a mess. How could she even think of spanking me; how could she not grasp that I had lovingly prepared this for her, that I’d worked hard on it, that I was so proud?
    The magic of the afternoon melted away, and I shivered as a chilling realization washed over me, coating me with desolation. It was a knowledge that I’d somehow sensed from my earliest memories but had not quite grasped hold of, like a deep, festering splinter that finally works its way to the surface.
    For all her Christian charity, my mama could not love me.

chapter 5
    A fter my lunch with Carrie, the rest of the day saw a whirlwind of meetings. Our campaign for Cellway Phone Systems was gearing up, and three assistants were reporting to me as they drafted and redrafted the script for a local TV commercial and copy for supporting newspaper ads. The Southern Bank account had just landed unexpectedly in our laps after four years of pursuit by Quentin Sammons. Southern Bank was redefining its stodgy image into one with which high-tech, younger entrepreneurs would identify. This involved devising a campaign from the ground up—new colors, new logo and slogan—to be incorporated into everything from brochures, radio spots, a series of television commercials, and full-page newspaper ads to the large signs on the sides of metro buses. Quentin Sammons would personally oversee the account but looked to me to lead the creative process and organize logistics.
    On the other end of our new client spectrum was a young company that managed the personal finances of entrepreneurs who were bootstrapping their high-potential, high-risk business ventures while still needing to make mortgage payments. The principal of Partners Corporation, Gary Stelt, was driving my poor coworker Matt crazy, rejecting one creative idea after another. At 3:00 p.m. a rumpled-looking Matt stuck his head in my office and pleaded for help. He was meeting with Stelt—again—and getting nowhere. He was afraid he’d lose the account.
    â€œSure. Okay.” I pushed aside my scribbling for Southern Bank and followed him into the conference room, wishing I could as easily cast aside my tumultuous emotions over Mama’s phone call. In light of my father’s needs, I was amazed at my own selfishness and fear. How ironic that I, who had helped many a stroke victim while volunteering at the nursing home, would think twice about caring for my own daddy. Lunch with Carrie hadn’t helped one bit. I was still smarting over her response.
    â€œLook, we want something catchy,” Gary Stelt declared after brief introductions. He was