Nancy and Nick Read Online Free

somebody when all you’ve done is look at him and the only words he’s uttered are out of a history text privately printed by a local historian. I thought, he’s perfect. I wonder what his name is.
    “The wing chair by the fireplace,” he said, “is a most interesting example of—”
    I didn’t think it was particularly interesting. Surely there were ten hundred more interesting things for someone like that to consider than wing chairs by the fireplace. Me, for example.
    I wondered why he was leading tours of the Nearing River House. Perhaps his mother was president of the Historical Society and blackmailed him into it. Perhaps he was paid immensely well and was saving up to go to college. Or, conceivably, he might like giving tours of ancient bedrooms and showing the afternoon bridge club ladies how little Mary Elise Nearing in 1841 left the “Q” out of her sampler. I wanted to ask him, “What’s a nice boy like you doing leading historic home tours?”
    On the way downstairs again to tour the interesting buildings on the grounds my mother muttered, “I’ve been studying his hair, Nan. It’s real.”
    “Did you think it was a wig?”
    “For a tour like this it could have been. Sort of to match the breeches.”
    “I like his hair.”
    “The hair is fine. I would just prefer hair that long to be on a girl.” Clearly Mother felt if she were in charge such things would not go on.
    His hair was much longer than mine. It would be odd to date a boy with hair longer than your own. A terrible fear began rising in me and I grabbed Mother’s arm. “Mother,” I hissed, “don’t you dare say anything to him about not liking his hair.”
    “Nancy, if people don’t tell him their viewpoints, how will he know?”
    “I’m sure he’s not interested in your viewpoint.”
    “Nancy, he’s been giving me his viewpoint for the last half hour and I intend to give him mine.”
    “Oh, God,” I said prayerfully. But it is my experience that even God does not like to interfere with Mother when she decides to offer her viewpoint. I thought I couldn’t stand it if she said anything to him. Our tour group consisted of the bridge ladies, who were giggling and gossiping with each other, and Mother and me. There was no way I could pretend not to be with Mother. And I could not stand it if she spoke to this boy. “Mother,” I said firmly, “if you say anything about his long hair I will not drive you home.”
    Mother gaped at me. I felt quite proud of having spoken up.
    The boy said, “That’s okay. Somebody tells me at least once a day that I ought to get my hair cut.” He was grinning at me.
    I nearly died. The blush was back worse than before. After all that, I was the one to make the comment about his hair! I’d been so intense about reprimanding Mother I had raised my voice instead of whispering. All the bridge group was frowning at me with pursy little lips of disapproval. But they were obviously interested.
    One of them said, “You really should cut your hair, you know. That phase has passed. Nobody wears it long like that now.”
    The boy grinned. Easily. Not a trace of a blush. “I do,” he said, with complete courtesy. “Now if you would like something to drink, there’s a vending machine in the barn, and bathrooms, and a pay phone. The Historical Society does not charge for the tour and would be glad to accept all donations which you may place in the wooden chest beside the barn door. Thank you for coming and I hope you enjoyed the tour.”
    He wound down his speech, sounding like an airline hostess demonstrating rescue equipment. Bored. Practiced.
    Another bridge lady said to him, “If I make a donation, would you use it at the barbershop?”
    Now if it had been me getting that kind of ribbing—smiles along with it, yet basically rude and barbed—I’d have died long since. The boy merely grinned again and said, “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t. It would go to the restoration of the chestnut fences