The Darkest Time of Night

Начало книги

Even before I learned about the boldness of blue, the vanity of purple, and the purity of white, the bell taught me the meaning of red. You go any farther than that bell, Lynn Marie Stanson, Daddy had said, pointing to the Faraday original shining like an apple at the pitch of the greenhouse roof, and you’re as good as dead.

He’d made the threat on a Sunday. I remember this because I was wearing half-size-too-small saddle oxfords, shined to the best of Daddy’s ability, which hurt my toes. I’d meant to take them off as soon as we got home, but Mrs. Ross, who watched me sometimes after Mass while he worked, had insisted that I immediately help her with the double wedding ring quilt for Ruth Mosely’s daughter. After a few agonizing moments of trying to thread a single needle, I mentioned that Daddy would be drowning in sweat if he were in the greenhouse. Mrs. Ross raised one eyebrow and said she’d put the lemonade in the icebox.

Читать дальше →