Forbidden Son Read Online Free Page B

joy.
    He
went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk and helped himself to a
man-sized scoop of peach cobbler. He could hear the television going and the
sound of a familiar newscaster’s voice as he reported on the unrest in
Southeastern Asia. Specifically a place called Vietnam.
    He
ambled toward the den and sank deep into the plush leather sofa made of
hand-tooled Moroccan leather. “Think there’ll be a war?”
    Tripp’s
father cast his son a casual glance. “The way politics are running now, there’s
no doubt about it. My guess is it’ll be a money war.”
    “What
about my draft status, Dad?”
    “Nothing
to worry about, son. You still have your college eminence. That and my
political influence will keep you on the home front. Can’t have your mother all
upset and worried about her only child going off to war, now can we?”
    Tripp
didn’t think of himself as a coward. He just didn’t see much sense in getting
killed for a senseless cause. “No, sir. The last thing I’d want is to cause
mother unnecessary upset.”
    “She’s
a true southern belle, as delicate as those hothouse flowers she’s so fond of.”
    “Joe
Brimley quit college to join the Marines.”
    The
elder Hartwell swiveled around to face his son. “The devil, you say.”
    Until
she spoke, neither son nor father was aware of the delicate-boned woman who
stood in the doorway with her hands clutched at her throat. “ La, Nancy
Carol is surely beside herself with grief.” She sat on the arm of the sofa and
placed her hand on Tripp’s arm. “I couldn’t bear it if you went off to war. We
have a long and esteemed heritage of brave family members who served our
country. Some didn’t survive. Promise me, son, promise you won’t...” A sob tore
from her throat.
    Tripp’s
father pushed from the overstuffed chair, made of the same leather as the sofa,
and went to the liquor cabinet, where he removed a bottle of amaretto. He
filled a snifter and handed it to his wife. “There...there, Mary Alice. No need
to fret yourself. Our boy will attend Harvard just as planned.”
    As
he handed his wife the glass, he glanced over her head to his son. “Tripp, why
don’t you escort your mother upstairs? Tell her about the girl you took to
dinner tonight.”
    Tripp
nodded. He lifted his mother’s free hand into his. “I met a girl with the most
unique name.”
    “ La ,
is that so? What is it?”
    “Miss
Honey Belle Garrett.”
    “Garrett.
I once knew some Garretts from Tennessee. I believe they were sharecroppers.”
She wrinkled her nose as if the word sharecropper had soured in her
mouth.
    “She’s
a true-blood South Carolinian, mother.”
    “Honey
Belle is a sweet name. I’d love to meet her, Tripp. Shall I arrange a small
soirée?”
    “Not
yet, mother. We only met yesterday.”
    “Where
did you meet this young woman?”
    “I
stopped in for a hamburger. We, ah, bumped into each other.” He didn’t dare
tell his mother that Honey Belle worked at a burger joint. Southern aristocracy
frowned upon common laborers. Come to think of it, why would a girl who lived
in a beautiful antebellum home on Barrington Street have to flip hamburgers?
She did say her father was sick. She did drive a beat-up old truck. With the
world getting ready to turn upside down over unrest in Southeastern Asia, and
with the drop in the economy, times were hard. Maybe she was earning college
tuition. He shoved the thought aside.
    At
the top of the stairs, Tripp guided his mother to her bedroom suite. He kissed
the top of her head. “Goodnight, Mother. Rest well.”
    When
he turned to leave, she said, “I’m not as addle-patted as your father thinks.
It’s just, sometimes, I seem to have a fog that covers my brain and I forget
things.”
    The
doctor had said Tripp’s mother suffered from early on-set dementia. Tripp had
been a change-of-life baby, born on his mother’s forty-first birthday. Now at
the age of sixty-three, she was a diminishing shadow of