The Point of Vanishing Maryka Biaggio (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

This, she thought, takes the biscuit. “You’re the one flaunting your affair with a woman half your age.”

“You’re the one who dragged Margaret into the sweep of your gossip-mongering. She has done nothing to you.”

“True, you’ve withdrawn your love and support from this family well enough on your own.”

“Then we might as well move forward with the divorce. We can go to Nevada. They have no residence requirement.”

She tilted her head back and tapped her fingertips on the table. “So, that’s why you cadged money to travel across the whole country.”

“I came here for Barbara. But I’ve made no secret of my wish for a divorce.”

She stiffened her spine and gathered her composure. “I believe it’s in my best interest to wait until you’ve obtained reliable employment.”

“I said I’ll sign the house over to you. Right now, if you wish. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I had a home before you left, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one now. What you consider generosity doesn’t move me.”

Wilson snorted. “I have no intention whatsoever of returning to the marriage. Dragging this out does no one any good.”

Shepherd stepped in. “I believe my client has made her position clear. It appears that we can go no further without some change in Mr. Follett’s employment status.”

That led to another round of private conferences. When they gathered to close the meeting, Wilson’s attorney declared, “My client understands and accepts Mrs. Follett’s position. However, he’s intent on procuring a divorce. Therefore, he will not sign the New Haven house over to Mrs. Follett unless and until she consents to divorce.”

She was speechless. What a cad—threatening to deny Barbara, Sabra, and her their one bastion of security.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BARBARA AT FIFTEEN

Pasadena, December 1929

Barbara greeted her father at the front door of the Russells’ home. “Where’s Margaret?”

“She’s gone to look at an apartment.” Her father hesitated on the doorstep. “How’d you like to take a walk? It’s a lovely day.”

“Okay, I’ll grab my jacket.”

These visits had gone on nearly three weeks, but they still rattled her. Her father, though five-ten, didn’t seem as imposing as she’d remembered. Then again, she’d shot up to five-six, so of course, he’d appear less lofty. But he struck her as different in other ways, too. His hairline had receded by an inch, his face seemed narrower, and his gait more halting—not at all like that of the vigorous, long-striding man she’d trailed behind on mountain hikes. He wasn’t merely older but more used up, like a couch that’d lost some of its stuffing.

A part of her felt sad for him, but mostly she was still angry at him—for those ever-lengthening absences and his abrupt break from the family. And all because of Margaret Whipple, whom her father now expected her to embrace like a long-lost friend. But she cringed every time Margaret fawned over her father. It disgusted her.

Today, for the first time in nearly two years, she had him all to herself. It reminded her of childhood times—like when they built a pen for salamanders at the lake or, on wintry days, nestled side by side on the sofa over a Dickens novel. Every Saturday for years, it’d been just the two of them. But that was ages ago, and so much had happened. Now, this nostalgia unnerved her. The longing it renewed, with all its impossibility and absurdity, stirred up repugnance, like shame piled on top of seasickness.

As they strolled along, she tried to focus on things more immediate and pleasing—the neighborhood’s midday calm, the cawing and darting of a murder of crows, and the stucco-pink houses along the way.

Their conversation lighted on southern California: how enlivening it was, in the middle of winter, to feel the sun warming your back; its modernity, with the latest-model cars whizzing up and down highways; and the quaintness of people planting palm trees and cacti in their yards.

“I won’t mind spending a season or two here,” her father said. “But I’m a Northeasterner to the core. Can’t imagine making more of this place than a temporary retreat.”

“I’m surprised you’re staying at all.”

He crinkled a side of his face and paused before speaking. “It’ll give me a break from the cold and snow. And the weight of other people’s judgments.”

She kicked a stone on the sidewalk. “It’s you who brought on those judgments.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Barbara. I only hope my happiness will make the rightness of my actions evident.”

“Your actions ravaged the family.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no going back. Let’s just look ahead, shall we?”

Humph, she thought, what was the use of belaboring the subject? He’d never admit he’d been selfish and cruel.

The hilly part of Lake Street stretched before them. It was a rough, gravelly area, with low-growing brush and a meandering path. They hiked up to a spot strewn with rocks and sat down on knee-high boulders. The sun’s rays and cumulous clouds vied in the sky, turning the landscape into shifting patches of luminosity and shade.

“Well, Barbara,” her father began, angling his head in that declaiming way of his, “I suppose it’s time for you to think about your future.”

“I don’t have any grand plans right now.”

He shook a Lucky Strike out of its pack and lit it. “I know everything’s up in the air, at least as far as who you’ll live with. Still, you’re past the time when your mother can or should be your sole teacher.”

“I don’t even know where I’ll be living next year.”

“Margaret and I are staying. For at least a year. There’s some certainty in that.”

Barbara studied the orange and brown rooftops spilling at odd angles down the hillside. This neighborhood conformed to no neat grid, and something about its disarray pleased her. As she gazed at the landscape, she said, “I’m not ready to decide anything.”

He nodded, like he was trying to seem agreeable, and sat silent for a moment. “Terrible thing, Bert losing his job like that. How’s Alice taking it?”

“Philosophically,