Tomorrow's Sun Read Online Free
a paid-for house with a pool and a view, huh?” Condescension tainted his smile.
“No.” The word popped out. She should have stopped it, should have let him think she was all about luxury or appearances, or whatever conclusion he’d come to.
His head dipped slightly forward, eyebrows lifted a fraction. He was waiting for more, but there was nothing more she could tell him. If she succeeded, if the house sold and she could repeat the process at least once—somewhere even farther from Traverse City—she’d reach the West Coast penniless and without a plan. But at peace. “I just—” Jake’s phone buzzed in her palm. A name flashed on the screen.
Lexi
. She held it out to him.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.” He turned his back to her and walked toward a window. “Lex? Can it wait?” A rumbling sound, part sigh, part growl, came from the man as he listened. “I’ll pick you up.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed over his face. “It’s not a problem. And it’s not your fault.” His shoulders lowered. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said quietly, with more than a hint of resignation. “Bye.”
He crossed the floor in four long strides. With his hand on the door handle, he seemed to suddenly remember he wasn’t alone in the room. He turned and looked at her with tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m your man, Miss Foster.”
C HAPTER 2
I don’t think you are either, Mr. Braden
.
Emily closed the door behind him and walked over to her duffel bag. Her stomach burned. She hadn’t put much in it today. Rummaging through clothes and books, she found a bag of rice cakes. Nibbling on one while massaging her lower back with the other hand, she walked through the kitchen to the cellar door. She had half an hour to explore until the next contractor arrived. If the cellar was dry, she could store her few belongings there, protected from drywall dust and out of the way of whomever she ended up hiring.
The top of the door was level with the top of her head. She turned the porcelain knob, but it just kept turning. With a yank, she pulled the door open. Half-moon chips along the opened edge displayed at least five different colors of paint. Sage green, salmon, pale yellow. Did each color represent someone’s fresh start?
Cool, musty air wafted up. She pushed a mother-of-pearl button on an old-fashioned switch. A dusty bulb hanging from a wire above her head came to life. Two-by-four railings flanked the open-sided wood staircase that was little more than a wide ladder. Emily hung her cane on the doorknob. Rough planks gave slightly beneath her feet, sounding as though they were pulling free of the rusty nails that held them in place.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from two bare bulbs and a small, algae-covered window. Canning shelves that once bowed under Grace Ostermann’s trophies stood barren. The whole unit listed slightly to the right. With a little reinforcing, they would hold her bins. The other three walls were made of field stone with wide mortared spaces between the rocks. A deep ledge ran the length of the wall beneath a small window just above her eye level. Shapes cluttered one end of the ledge, but she couldn’t make out the objects. She walked closer, wishing she’d brought a flashlight.
A cricket and two spiders scurried into the shadows when she lifted a heavy, stained and tattered Havoline Motor Oil box. Emily shivered and blew off a coating of dust before she opened it. The box was filled with pint jars. Full pint jars. She lifted one to the light. Apple slices.
She could almost taste Nana Grace’s apple cobbler swimming in warm, brown sugar syrup. But these jars, blue-green with mottled zinc lids, looked like they’d been filled long before that magical summer. It may have been sitting in this very place when she and Cara had come down here with armloads of canned peas or carrots or beets. She
“No.” The word popped out. She should have stopped it, should have let him think she was all about luxury or appearances, or whatever conclusion he’d come to.
His head dipped slightly forward, eyebrows lifted a fraction. He was waiting for more, but there was nothing more she could tell him. If she succeeded, if the house sold and she could repeat the process at least once—somewhere even farther from Traverse City—she’d reach the West Coast penniless and without a plan. But at peace. “I just—” Jake’s phone buzzed in her palm. A name flashed on the screen.
Lexi
. She held it out to him.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.” He turned his back to her and walked toward a window. “Lex? Can it wait?” A rumbling sound, part sigh, part growl, came from the man as he listened. “I’ll pick you up.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed over his face. “It’s not a problem. And it’s not your fault.” His shoulders lowered. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said quietly, with more than a hint of resignation. “Bye.”
He crossed the floor in four long strides. With his hand on the door handle, he seemed to suddenly remember he wasn’t alone in the room. He turned and looked at her with tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m your man, Miss Foster.”
C HAPTER 2
I don’t think you are either, Mr. Braden
.
Emily closed the door behind him and walked over to her duffel bag. Her stomach burned. She hadn’t put much in it today. Rummaging through clothes and books, she found a bag of rice cakes. Nibbling on one while massaging her lower back with the other hand, she walked through the kitchen to the cellar door. She had half an hour to explore until the next contractor arrived. If the cellar was dry, she could store her few belongings there, protected from drywall dust and out of the way of whomever she ended up hiring.
The top of the door was level with the top of her head. She turned the porcelain knob, but it just kept turning. With a yank, she pulled the door open. Half-moon chips along the opened edge displayed at least five different colors of paint. Sage green, salmon, pale yellow. Did each color represent someone’s fresh start?
Cool, musty air wafted up. She pushed a mother-of-pearl button on an old-fashioned switch. A dusty bulb hanging from a wire above her head came to life. Two-by-four railings flanked the open-sided wood staircase that was little more than a wide ladder. Emily hung her cane on the doorknob. Rough planks gave slightly beneath her feet, sounding as though they were pulling free of the rusty nails that held them in place.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from two bare bulbs and a small, algae-covered window. Canning shelves that once bowed under Grace Ostermann’s trophies stood barren. The whole unit listed slightly to the right. With a little reinforcing, they would hold her bins. The other three walls were made of field stone with wide mortared spaces between the rocks. A deep ledge ran the length of the wall beneath a small window just above her eye level. Shapes cluttered one end of the ledge, but she couldn’t make out the objects. She walked closer, wishing she’d brought a flashlight.
A cricket and two spiders scurried into the shadows when she lifted a heavy, stained and tattered Havoline Motor Oil box. Emily shivered and blew off a coating of dust before she opened it. The box was filled with pint jars. Full pint jars. She lifted one to the light. Apple slices.
She could almost taste Nana Grace’s apple cobbler swimming in warm, brown sugar syrup. But these jars, blue-green with mottled zinc lids, looked like they’d been filled long before that magical summer. It may have been sitting in this very place when she and Cara had come down here with armloads of canned peas or carrots or beets. She
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