Far Harbor Read Online Free Page A
she went out on the front porch and sat down on the swing where she’d spent so many lazy summer afternoons daydreaming. Cradling the earthenware mug in her hands, Savannah breathed in the fragrant steam. As she thought back on those days, she decided that despite her mother’s marital instability and gypsy lifestyle, her own life had certainly seemed a great deal simpler back then.
A few stars still shone on the horizon. After an early sprinkle that was more mist than rain, the day was dawning a gloriously bright one. Despite the popular stereotype of gray clouds, sunny skies weren’t that uncommon during late summer. Since the Puget Sound cities of Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia were being flooded with new residents, content with their remote peninsula town just the way it was, Coldwater Cove’s residents tended to pray for rain whenever tourists were in town.
Ida Lindstrom’s Victorian home was set atop a hill overlooking the town that could have washed off an American primitive painting of New England. The flagpole in the grassy green town square at the end of Harbor Street was surrounded by a blaze of color Savannah guessed was another example of John Martin’s green thumb.
Those same vibrant blooms encircled the clock tower, which was made of a red brick that had weathered to a dusty pink over the century and could be seen for miles. Its four sides had each told a different time for as long as Savannah could remember, which didn’t prove any real hardship, since things—and people—tended to move at their own pace in Coldwater Cove.
As she watched a white ferry chug across the sound, which was as smooth as sapphire glass this morning, her mind flashed back to a long-ago evening when choppy waters had caused her to throw up the hot dog, barbecue potato chips, and Dr. Pepper Lilith had fed her for dinner shortly before they’d all boarded the ferry that would take them from Seattle to Coldwater Cove.
She couldn’t remember what, exactly, her mother had been doing during the short trip, but the memory of Raine dragging her out of the glassed-in observation desk into the fresh air, pushing her onto a wooden bench, and wiping her face with a wet paper towel was as vivid as if it had occurred only yesterday.
Her four-years-older half sister had always been there for her, hovering over her like an anxious mother bird, taking on the role of surrogate mother. Fate may have given them different fathers, but love had made them sisters of the heart.
Savannah couldn’t count the number of times Raine had come to her rescue, banners flying, like bold, brave Joan of Arc riding into battle. Now, despite being grateful for her sister’s unwavering support, she’d begun to suspect that perhaps she’d been overprotected.
Perhaps, she thought as she sipped her cooling coffee, if she’d been forced to fight a few more of her own battles, she wouldn’t have so blithely ignored marital warning signs that only a very blind—or naive—woman could have missed.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said into the still air perfumed with late summer roses. The scarlet blossoms drooping with the weight of diamond-bright dew were as large as a child’s fist and as velvety as the formal gown she’d worn to the Coldwater Cove high school’s winter festival.
She’d made the dress herself, laboring over the rented sewing machine late into the night for two weeks, buried in a pile of velvet and white satin trim that took up the kitchen table and had all of them eating on TV trays for the duration of the project.
Listening to Ida’s grumbling and giving up sleep to baste and hem had proven worth it; when Savannah entered the gym that had been decked out in white and silver crepe paper for the occasion, with the crinolines that showcased her legs rustling seductively and her long hair, which she’d managed to tame with a curling iron, bouncing on her bare shoulders, she’d felt exactly like a fairy-tale princess.
The velvet
A few stars still shone on the horizon. After an early sprinkle that was more mist than rain, the day was dawning a gloriously bright one. Despite the popular stereotype of gray clouds, sunny skies weren’t that uncommon during late summer. Since the Puget Sound cities of Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia were being flooded with new residents, content with their remote peninsula town just the way it was, Coldwater Cove’s residents tended to pray for rain whenever tourists were in town.
Ida Lindstrom’s Victorian home was set atop a hill overlooking the town that could have washed off an American primitive painting of New England. The flagpole in the grassy green town square at the end of Harbor Street was surrounded by a blaze of color Savannah guessed was another example of John Martin’s green thumb.
Those same vibrant blooms encircled the clock tower, which was made of a red brick that had weathered to a dusty pink over the century and could be seen for miles. Its four sides had each told a different time for as long as Savannah could remember, which didn’t prove any real hardship, since things—and people—tended to move at their own pace in Coldwater Cove.
As she watched a white ferry chug across the sound, which was as smooth as sapphire glass this morning, her mind flashed back to a long-ago evening when choppy waters had caused her to throw up the hot dog, barbecue potato chips, and Dr. Pepper Lilith had fed her for dinner shortly before they’d all boarded the ferry that would take them from Seattle to Coldwater Cove.
She couldn’t remember what, exactly, her mother had been doing during the short trip, but the memory of Raine dragging her out of the glassed-in observation desk into the fresh air, pushing her onto a wooden bench, and wiping her face with a wet paper towel was as vivid as if it had occurred only yesterday.
Her four-years-older half sister had always been there for her, hovering over her like an anxious mother bird, taking on the role of surrogate mother. Fate may have given them different fathers, but love had made them sisters of the heart.
Savannah couldn’t count the number of times Raine had come to her rescue, banners flying, like bold, brave Joan of Arc riding into battle. Now, despite being grateful for her sister’s unwavering support, she’d begun to suspect that perhaps she’d been overprotected.
Perhaps, she thought as she sipped her cooling coffee, if she’d been forced to fight a few more of her own battles, she wouldn’t have so blithely ignored marital warning signs that only a very blind—or naive—woman could have missed.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said into the still air perfumed with late summer roses. The scarlet blossoms drooping with the weight of diamond-bright dew were as large as a child’s fist and as velvety as the formal gown she’d worn to the Coldwater Cove high school’s winter festival.
She’d made the dress herself, laboring over the rented sewing machine late into the night for two weeks, buried in a pile of velvet and white satin trim that took up the kitchen table and had all of them eating on TV trays for the duration of the project.
Listening to Ida’s grumbling and giving up sleep to baste and hem had proven worth it; when Savannah entered the gym that had been decked out in white and silver crepe paper for the occasion, with the crinolines that showcased her legs rustling seductively and her long hair, which she’d managed to tame with a curling iron, bouncing on her bare shoulders, she’d felt exactly like a fairy-tale princess.
The velvet