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

See these oil stains? They’re from the Vigilant’s binnacle housing. And the whitewash reminds me of when Ethan and I scrubbed down the rails.”

“One of these days, they’re going to rot off you.”

Barbara lifted her sandwich off the plate and scrunched her nose. “What’s this?”

“Tuna, with odds and ends from the refrigerator. Just eat it.”

“Can we unpack the books next?” Barbara asked. She’d not seen their books since they’d stowed them away in the attic of the New Haven house, and Barbara could hardly wait to dig into the long packed-away treasures.

“Let’s leave the books for last.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t even finished the kitchen or touched the boxes in my bedroom.”

“Do we have to?”

“We won’t be able to enjoy them amid all this clutter.”

Well, Barbara thought, maybe you can’t enjoy them. She chomped into her sandwich and looked around. “Are the Magic Portholes illustrations handy?”

“I think they’re in that box over there.” Her mother pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner of the living area. “What do you want with them?”

“I think we should frame them for the walls.” The illustrations Macmillan had commissioned for Magic Portholes were quite lovely—woodcut-style drawings by an old gentleman who’d visited the West Indies.

“Well, first things first.”

“How long will it take us to unpack?”

Her mother surveyed the scene. “Once I set up the kitchen, I’d like to scrub down the bedrooms.”

“I can do that while you finish the kitchen.” Barbara brushed her bangs away with the back of her hand. “Do you think we’ll finish by Saturday?”

“If we keep at it. I can’t stand living in such disarray.”

“I’d like to meet up with my hiking friends Saturday.” A friend of Barbara’s from her old job at Fox, Denise, had introduced her to two young men, friends of her family. The four of them got on quite well, and when the topic of camping came up, Barbara suggested they plan a serious hike together—the Appalachian Trail.

“Bar, must you persist in this? The timing is terrible.”

“I’m going, and that’s that. I’m eighteen now.”

“That doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. You have a job.”

“The work’s as dull as doorknobs.”

“If you go, you can consider yourself moved out.”

“Fine, I’ll go live with a friend.”

“God, you’re exasperating.” Her mother gulped some water. “I refuse to pay for you to hike all summer.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Just how do you intend to pay for it? And for your room and board when you come home? Because you won’t get your old job back, not with dozens waiting in line for it.”

“From my savings. And once I finish Lost Island, I’m going to show it to Mr. Ashworth.”

“It’s not what Harper had in mind when they signed you on. And that was four years ago.”

“If Harper doesn’t want it, I’ll submit it elsewhere.”

“You’re being unrealistic, Bar. Look how long it took me to find a publisher for Magic Portholes.”

“I’ll sell some articles meantime. Like about hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

“You shouldn’t spend your savings on a trip. What about college?”

“I can’t think about college right now. My spirit wants revitalizing.”

Shaking her head, her mother said, “You’re in for some hard lessons, girl.”

Barbara saw no reason to reply. Her mother didn’t understand how much she hated this concrete city and her soul-crushing job.

Her mother whisked her napkin off her lap and tossed it on the table. “And I don’t like the idea of you and this Denise going off with two boys. It’s reckless.”

“We’re all friends, comrades of the woods. It’s not what you think.”

“It could be dangerous, going off into that rugged country.”

Barbara smirked. “You think Lindbergh’s kidnappers are lying in wait up there?”

“You know what I mean. Out there in the wilderness. With grown boys.”

“You’re so old-fashioned.”

“Have you told Ethan about this?”

Barbara brushed the crumbs off her fingertips and pushed her plate away. “I certainly have. At least he trusts me.”

“And where does he plan on staying when he visits?”

“I was hoping with us.” Barbara swung her head around, taking in the kitchen wedged into the apartment’s corner and the living area crammed with one sofa, an armchair, occasional table, and two bookcases. Yes, they’d be cramped, but they could manage.

“It’s out of the question. This place isn’t big enough for three.”

“You invited Grandma Ding to visit.”

“That’s different. She’s family.”

“I could give him my room. And scare up a cot for me.”

“Absolutely not. You haven’t seen him in nearly three years. What if things go sour between you?”

Ethan was already paying plenty to travel across the country. She’d keep trying to convince her mother to let him stay. “We have so much to talk about—because it’s been three years. Letters only go so far.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Worry, worry, worry. That’s all you ever do.”

Her mother clucked. “One of us has to.”

Just because her mother’s marriage had failed, she needn’t undermine her and Ethan’s romance. After all, they’d spent a whole month together on the Vigilant and corresponded faithfully since then. And she suspected he’d spring the marriage question during their reunion. In fact, given all the hints he’d dropped, she was quite sure of it.

CHAPTER FORTY

BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN

New York City, June 1932

What did it mean, Mr. Ashworth inviting her to meet over lunch, at the Waldorf-Astoria no less, and not at his office? Just as it had occurred to her that this might portend celebration, she blotted out the hope. Her mother had warned her off optimism. But then, her mother almost always landed on the gloomy side of the fence. So, perhaps, after all . . . She jerked her head from side to side, thinking, “Don’t torment yourself like this. Keep your head.”

She donned the most cosmopolitan outfit she could scrounge up: a straight ink-blue skirt and an ivory blouse with a tie-knot collar. She examined herself in the mirror: her wavy hair tamed as best she could, parted off-center and tucked behind an ear; her brown-and-beige oxfords at odds with the sleek lines and classic color of her skirt; and her arms