If Wishes Were Horses Read Online Free Page A

herself.
    “Regrets and guilt are natural to grievin’,” Latrice said.
    Etta, still fingering the pearls, gazed again into the mirror. “Remember what Mama used to say? If wishes were horses, we’d all ride. Remember her sayin’ that? I’d say, ‘Mama, I wish I could have red cowgirl boots,’ or ‘I wish we could have an indoor toilet,’ or ‘I wish Santa Claus would bring me my own pinto pony,’ and she’d say, ‘Honey, if wishes were horses, we’d all ride.’”
    She recalled her mother’s faraway eyes and flat, hopeless tone of voice that cut through Etta’s heart and made her feel guilty for every want she’d ever had.
    “Miz Ria had some clear thoughts sometimes,” Latrice said quietly, and then added, “It was just that they didn’t much tend to run together.”
    Etta sighed, feeling the tense pain ebb. “No, they didn’t.” She gazed into the mirror, thought bleakly of her mother, and of how all of life seemed made up of wishes strung together.
    Latrice was bringing the black hat with the sweeping brim when the doorbell rang. “That’ll be Maveen, I expect,” she said with a heavy sigh. The mention of Miz Ria, whom Latrice had both loved and hated, had brought her down, and she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Maveen coming to attend the house during the funeral, either. Maveen was a young second cousin who in the past had jumped at the chance to come to the Rivers home to help with heavy cleaning in order to get a look at the house and its fine contents. She was exceedingly clumsy and broke something every time she came.
    “Well, I’d best go get Maveen busy . . . try to keep her from breakin’ anything.” She laid the hat on the edge of the bed and glanced at her watch. “Mr. Alvin will be here with the limo in about twenty minutes. Don’t forget the hat,” she added firmly before she left.
    Listening to her heels strike the hallway, Etta thought that Latrice would be bossing her when both of them were rocking on the front porch of the old-folks home. It was a comforting thought. She knew quite starkly in that moment that she could go on living without Roy, but she did not think she could live without Latrice. Roy had known this, and it had hurt him.
    Lifting the lid on the crystal face powder container, she dusted her face and then dotted on a bit of rouge and carefully applied lipstick. Studying the results, she thought she looked like a peaked woman with red dots on her cheeks. Perhaps she should not expect anything better, being a recently widowed pregnant woman who kept vomiting.
    Rising, she slipped into the coat Latrice had laid on the bed. It was a black wool tent style that was popular at the moment. Heloise Gardner had sent it over from the Style Shop. Since marrying Roy and coming up in the world, Etta had gone to buying her clothes there. She settled the black hat with its sweeping brim and volumes of veiling over her head. It was also from Heloise’s shop. She adjusted the veiling down over her face, and then stared at her image in the mirror.
    The image was shadowy through the layers of tulle. She was a stranger, elegant, mysterious. Etta gave several poses to the mirror, experimenting, and thinking that Roy would be tickled.
    Latrice yelled from the foot of the stairs, “Time’s marchin’ on!”
    “I’m comin’.”
    Taking a deep breath, she picked up the small black patent leather purse Latrice had left for her on the bed and started down the hallway.
    Feeling compelled, she stopped at the open doorway of her and Roy’s room. Heart beating fast, she put her hand to the door frame and looked inside. The scent of Roy— of his expensive cologne and Camel cigarettes and lemon drop candies he loved—came to her.
    Then she saw him, over by the window, blond hair rumpled, wearing his brown sport coat, with his hands tucked easily into his trouser pockets.
    He whistled low. “Darlin’, you look like one of those women out of that Vogue magazine.” Roy had