Dreams of the Red Phoenix Read Online Free Page B

was no breeze. She let out a gasp, but it was only Charles. He slipped out from his favorite childhood hiding place and scurried after her as she moved unsteadily into the parlor.
    â€œBravo!” he whispered. “You were wonderful, Mother. But is it true? You aren’t really a spy, are you?”
    â€œPlease, darling, I need a moment to collect myself. How long were you there at the window? You really shouldn’t eavesdrop like that. I’ve told you before.”
    Her hands were shaking as she gave her maid, Lian, the broom. The older, dignified woman offered to bring tea, and Shir ley thanked her, then tossed herself down onto the wicker sofa. It creaked and complained as she settled into the silk pillows.
    â€œMother must rest now,” Lian said. “Ladies’ Choir very big effort. Leave her be, Charles-Boy.”
    For the first time in many weeks, Shirley said, “It’s all right, Lian; he isn’t bothering me.”
    Charles ignored his amah, anyway, and knelt down before the sofa. Shirley tousled his thick red hair, so like his father’s, she thought with a sigh. Then she leaned back again and shut her eyes.
    â€œBrilliant tactic, sweeping that old goat off the porch. I almost let out a cheer when he left.”
    â€œThat wasn’t a tactic, son. That was complete idiocy on my part. I’m far too impulsive, and you are, too. You get it from me. Tell me you didn’t actually spit on a Japanese soldier.”
    Charles sat higher on his haunches. “In one of his sermons, Reverend Wells said we should do all that we can. So I did.”
    Shirley swung her legs around, placed her oxfords on the car pet, and patted the spot beside her. Charles hopped up to join her. His long legs stretched out past hers, reaching the coral-colored cherry blossoms in a sea of blue on the Chinese rug. She noticed for the first time that not only his socks showed above his too- short trouser legs but his bare and surprisingly hairy calves as well. She turned to get a better look at him. What used to be pale peach fuzz above his upper lip had sprouted into actual coarse dark-red hairs. They had appeared below his bottom lip as well. Her son seemed to be growing a rudimentary goatee. His bony wrists protruded from his rumpled linen jacket, and his shirttails were out. Shirley thought that the young man seated beside her wasn’t unattractive. He just appeared un-cared-for, like someone who had no parents and must survive by his wits alone.
    â€œThis is serious, my boy. You could have been arrested. Or worse, gotten Han arrested.”
    He patted her knee. “I know, Mother, but I think Father would have been proud of us.”
    Shirley slumped back against the pillows.
    â€œFather was no coward,” Charles continued. “Remember how he used to put on that fake British accent and say, ‘Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes’? He was kidding, of course, but he wanted me to be brave and stand up for what I believed in. It’s a manly thing, but you did swell just now, too.”
    â€œCharles, you’re as wrong-headed as you could possibly be. Your father did not believe in fighting. He wanted everyone to cooperate and trust one another and work as one. And he abso lutely understood that women can be as brave as men and, in fact, must be. Such foolishness, my darling.”
    Shirley smoothed his wild hair again and realized that with his irrepressible grin, her son was trying to buck her up, not the other way around. Charles had always had a buoyant personality. A chuckling baby, a toddler who raced forward on stocky legs, then an angular little boy covered in freckles and grins from ear to ear. But a sensitive soul, too, whose sunny disposition could quickly cloud over when criticized or corrected. So she simply hadn’t. It was too painful to see him crumple into self-doubt. He had run wild and carefree throughout the compound, without