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

(which, no doubt, pleased his mother) who’d never climbed a mountain or canoed down rapids. Why did Nick even keep company with Cynthia? And only lunch with her a few times a week and take her dancing the occasional Saturday?

Dash it; if only her mother hadn’t made such a fuss, she might’ve gone on without brooding so. After all, the last time they’d parted, Nick had told her he loved her to distraction and, whenever they were alone, stole kisses as if he could never get enough. As for the favors her mother alluded to, men weren’t allowed upstairs in the boarding house, and they couldn’t very well use the bedroom at his family’s home. At least Nick had told her he was nearly dying from want of their love-making.

It was her mother who was making life more complicated. It was her mother’s admonitions that nagged at her when Nick came calling that Friday evening.

“I feel like cutting loose,” he said, grasping her hands. “How about Charlie’s Place?”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Barbara, relishing the clutch of his strong hands. Yes, he was glad to see her. “We can tear into some lobster.”

They walked seven blocks to the little brown shack of a restaurant and found it humming with conversation. Nick steered them to an empty table set with butcher paper. They ordered their food, and Nick decided to splurge on some wine, too.

Barbara lifted her glass toward Nick’s. “What are we cutting loose from?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Just another week of toil.”

“Well, then,” she said, clinking his glass. “To the end of toil. And beginning of leisure.”

Nick took a sip of his wine. “You going to spend Saturday and Sunday writing?”

“I can’t write all the time. How’d you like to go to the harbor tomorrow and see what ships are in?”

His brow lifted sharply. “Tomorrow?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I can’t.” He scrunched up a side of his face. “My cousin is getting married.”

Surely, Barbara thought, he’s known this for some time. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I guess I was embarrassed. About having to go and not wanting to.”

“Who are you going with?”

Nick shifted on his haunches. “My family.”

“And nobody else? Not Cynthia?”

“Well, she’s coming along, too.”

A burning lump lodged in her gullet. “My God, I treasure my every minute with you, and you let your mother dictate who you take to a wedding. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. You know that. You’re the one I love.”

Barbara glared at him. “You don’t act like it. You act like you’re ashamed to be seen with me. You hardly ever take me to your home.”

During her eleven months in Boston, Barbara had only been invited for dinner on a handful of Sundays. Did his family exclude her because she’d declined to join them for Sunday church services? She hadn’t asked Nick if this was the reason—nor complained about his mother’s snubs. Why humiliate herself by pawing after his family’s approval?

“It’s complicated,” Nick said. “You know that.”

“I wasn’t even beside you at your father’s funeral. And now you’re taking Cynthia to a wedding.” She slammed her glass down; wine sloshed over the rim. “You know how that looks?”

“Don’t, Bar. Don’t make a scene.”

“A scene? You’re worried about a scene?”

Nick reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Just believe me. You’re the one for me.”

Barbara pulled away. “Words, words, words. That’s all I ever get from you.”

Nick softened his voice. “Please don’t say that.”

Damn you, Barbara thought. She grabbed her wine, guzzled it down, and stood. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing tomorrow. I’ll be packing. Goodbye, Nick.”

She felt heady as she stormed out of the restaurant and strode to her boarding house, not once looking back to see if Nick was following. Last week, or even days or hours ago, walking out on him would’ve never crossed her mind. Now she felt free and unafraid, like that little girl scaling ratlines and swaying in the crow’s nest. To hell with Nick. Let him be the one to worry for once. Let him come knocking.

She marched into the front parlor and pulled Pride and Prejudice off the bookshelf—it’d be easy to thumb through for distraction—and perched on the couch, hoping Nick would show up. Only he didn’t.

✭

The next morning Barbara retrieved her suitcase and knapsack from her closet shelf, plopped down on the bed, and looked around. One room, one lousy room with a crusted-up hotplate and mismatched bed, table, and chair. A musty, depressing room with faded rose wallpaper. No, she wouldn’t miss this place. Or the girls’ annoying chatter about families in faraway towns, humdrum jobs, and prospects for landing a husband. All of it—the creaking hallway and stairs, dingy doilies, and scent of putrid brown vase water—reeked of desperation.

She’d pack some of her things and go out and check the travel schedules. She wouldn’t leave today; she’d wait until tomorrow. She’d paid for her room through Sunday night. If she couldn’t get a bus or train on Sunday, she’d leave on Monday. Yes, that’s what she’d do. If Nick didn’t come to his senses by the end of Sunday, he’d see how miserable life would be without her.

Only he would come; she just knew it. And when he did, she’d tell him she was packed and ready to leave. Let him feel the sting of rejection. Let him do the begging for a change.

She took breakfast as usual in the dining room and chatted with the other girls about their Saturday plans, not letting on that she might be leaving. Surely it wouldn’t come to that. Back in her room, she bundled up her manuscripts and nestled them into her suitcase. She leafed through Lord Jim, which always reminded her of Ethan. Trusty Ethan: If only he’d offered more than letters across thousands of miles. She still thought about him from time to time. If she did move back to Manhattan, she’d write and tell him she’d be dedicating Lost Island to him.