Read Online The Shape of Mercy by Susan Meissner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Meissner
Ads: Link
where I had done both.
It was a strange experience letting my eyes rove about the Writing Room, Mercy practically at my elbow, the day I arrived home for Uncle Loring’s party. I could almost see her sitting in my white wicker chair by the dormer window, sunlight falling across her face, penning the story about the girl who loved the man who could not speak. Mercy would’ve liked that room.
When I came downstairs later, my cousins—Uncle Loring’s sons—had arrived and were outside kicking a soccer ball on the immense patio while my mom and Aunt Denise scurried about, giving orders to the Spanish-speaking caterers. Tyler, twenty-five, who got his MBA at Stanford like a good boy, had brought a date named Bria, who sat with her cell phone to her ear while she watched the boys play. It was an hour before I actually talked to her. Cole, twenty-two, nodded a wordless greeting, and Blaine, my age and languishing at Stanford with Cole,greeted me with a playful punch and a reminder that he was going to fail his lit class because I wasn’t there to help him. Kip, seventeen and preparing to take the ACT the following week, told me as he ran by that he was going to beat my score by at least two points. I had managed a 27. I watched him dash away and wished him luck.
There they were: the future of Uncle Loring’s vast transportation and logistics company. Four young men in various stages of Empire Building 101. Confident, brash, single-minded, and with the blood of Abel Durough coursing through their veins. And there I was with the same blood, the lone heir to Durough Design & Development Inc.—a monstrously large development firm that turned ordinary land into resorts, skyscrapers, and whole cities—watching my cousins frolic while white-shirted caterers bowed to the half-understood wishes of my mother.
I lingered a few minutes and then went back inside the house. As I stepped into the tiled entry, my sandaled foot hit something wet, and I started to slip. A Hispanic man wearing an untucked white oxford shirt and black pants was about to glide past me, and he reached out to steady me.
“That was a close one,” he said, smiling. “You okay?” His accent was pronounced but lilting. The other caterers did not have the command of the language he did.
Mom should be speaking to him,
I thought.
“I’m all right. Thanks.” I bent down to rub my ankle. I had twisted it slightly when I began to fall.
“No problem.” He started to walk past me, his concern already dissipating.
I called after him. “Hey. Maybe you could tell the kitchen staff to take care of that so no one else slips on it?”
He looked at the spill and then at me. He looked past me, as if he thought I’d been addressing someone else. Then he faced me again and slowly lifted the corners of his mouth in a relaxed smile.
“Sure.” He turned and went back toward the kitchen. I’d begun towalk gingerly toward my father’s library when he returned with a wad of paper towels.
“Everyone is busy doing other things,” he said when I looked at him. “I can take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
Behind us, the patio doors opened and Cole stepped inside.
“Raul, what’re you doing?” Cole gazed down at him.
“Just mopping up a little spill. We wouldn’t want anyone to slip.” The man named Raul turned to me and winked.
I felt my face drain of color and poise.
“We got a million people to do that, man,” Cole said. “Do you even know how to clean up a spill? If you do, you’ve been holding out on me.”
“I think I can figure it out,” Raul said, smiling and rubbing the floor with the paper towel.
Cole looked at me. “Hey, Lars. Did you meet my roommate?”
I steadied myself on the wall behind me. His roommate.
“We didn’t actually meet,” Raul said as he stood and took a step toward me. “Hello. I’m Raul.” He looked down at his right hand, which held a damp paper towel. He raised his head and shrugged. “I don’t think you want
It was a strange experience letting my eyes rove about the Writing Room, Mercy practically at my elbow, the day I arrived home for Uncle Loring’s party. I could almost see her sitting in my white wicker chair by the dormer window, sunlight falling across her face, penning the story about the girl who loved the man who could not speak. Mercy would’ve liked that room.
When I came downstairs later, my cousins—Uncle Loring’s sons—had arrived and were outside kicking a soccer ball on the immense patio while my mom and Aunt Denise scurried about, giving orders to the Spanish-speaking caterers. Tyler, twenty-five, who got his MBA at Stanford like a good boy, had brought a date named Bria, who sat with her cell phone to her ear while she watched the boys play. It was an hour before I actually talked to her. Cole, twenty-two, nodded a wordless greeting, and Blaine, my age and languishing at Stanford with Cole,greeted me with a playful punch and a reminder that he was going to fail his lit class because I wasn’t there to help him. Kip, seventeen and preparing to take the ACT the following week, told me as he ran by that he was going to beat my score by at least two points. I had managed a 27. I watched him dash away and wished him luck.
There they were: the future of Uncle Loring’s vast transportation and logistics company. Four young men in various stages of Empire Building 101. Confident, brash, single-minded, and with the blood of Abel Durough coursing through their veins. And there I was with the same blood, the lone heir to Durough Design & Development Inc.—a monstrously large development firm that turned ordinary land into resorts, skyscrapers, and whole cities—watching my cousins frolic while white-shirted caterers bowed to the half-understood wishes of my mother.
I lingered a few minutes and then went back inside the house. As I stepped into the tiled entry, my sandaled foot hit something wet, and I started to slip. A Hispanic man wearing an untucked white oxford shirt and black pants was about to glide past me, and he reached out to steady me.
“That was a close one,” he said, smiling. “You okay?” His accent was pronounced but lilting. The other caterers did not have the command of the language he did.
Mom should be speaking to him,
I thought.
“I’m all right. Thanks.” I bent down to rub my ankle. I had twisted it slightly when I began to fall.
“No problem.” He started to walk past me, his concern already dissipating.
I called after him. “Hey. Maybe you could tell the kitchen staff to take care of that so no one else slips on it?”
He looked at the spill and then at me. He looked past me, as if he thought I’d been addressing someone else. Then he faced me again and slowly lifted the corners of his mouth in a relaxed smile.
“Sure.” He turned and went back toward the kitchen. I’d begun towalk gingerly toward my father’s library when he returned with a wad of paper towels.
“Everyone is busy doing other things,” he said when I looked at him. “I can take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
Behind us, the patio doors opened and Cole stepped inside.
“Raul, what’re you doing?” Cole gazed down at him.
“Just mopping up a little spill. We wouldn’t want anyone to slip.” The man named Raul turned to me and winked.
I felt my face drain of color and poise.
“We got a million people to do that, man,” Cole said. “Do you even know how to clean up a spill? If you do, you’ve been holding out on me.”
“I think I can figure it out,” Raul said, smiling and rubbing the floor with the paper towel.
Cole looked at me. “Hey, Lars. Did you meet my roommate?”
I steadied myself on the wall behind me. His roommate.
“We didn’t actually meet,” Raul said as he stood and took a step toward me. “Hello. I’m Raul.” He looked down at his right hand, which held a damp paper towel. He raised his head and shrugged. “I don’t think you want
Similar Books
