Hummingbird Lane by Brown, Carolyn (good books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

in one of the chairs, typed “bras” into the search engine, and picked out a pretty lacy one, but she didn’t know what size she wore. She laid the phone down and hurried inside, checked the one she’d worn the day before, and then went back out. “Crazy, isn’t it? I have no idea what sizes I wear.”

“What did you wear at home?” Sophie asked as she started to do a rough sketch of the mountains.

“Slacks, sweaters, shirts—unless I was going to the beauty shop, and then I had to be dressed up,” Emma answered.

“What do you want to wear?” Sophie asked.

“Don’t laugh at me, but I liked what Filly was wearing last night. Long flowing skirts and sandals. I think I might have been a fortune teller in another life,” Emma replied.

“Then order whatever will make you feel good when you wear it,” Sophie told her.

“What do you like to wear?” Emma asked as she scrolled through the site.

“I have two pair of bibbed overalls I’ve cut off to make shorts that I wear when I paint. I can wear one and wash one, so I only need a couple, and I can use the pockets for my brushes. I have the normal little black dresses for gallery showings, and seasonal things for when Teddy and I go out to eat. From now until then, that will be sundresses and Filly’s jewelry. I always buy at least two or three of her pieces while I’m here.” Sophie sketched as she talked.

Emma’s chest tightened again when she thought of what her mother would say if she saw the virtual cart loaded with lacy bras and bikini underwear and the skirts and tank tops. Victoria would tell her that hookers dressed like that and that her daughter was a dignified woman. She almost deleted everything and went back to start all over with sensible bras and white underpants, but then she heard Sophie’s words—loud and clear in her head—about making her own decisions.

A screen popped up asking for her shipping address.

“What’s the address here?” Emma asked.

“That would be Hummingbird Trailer Park, Hummingbird Lane #13, Terlingua, Texas, 79852,” Sophie answered.

Emma held her breath as she punched in her credit card information next and let it out in a whoosh when she finished.

She pressed the “Submit” button. A screen immediately popped up that said her credit card was invalid. She couldn’t remember the last thing she’d bought with it, so the card company was probably just being super careful. She laid the phone aside, went to her room, and got the actual card from her purse. Using the landline, she called the number on the back and found that her card had been closed as of that morning.

“Mother is really in control of my life,” she groaned.

Sophie poked her head inside the open doors. “Did you say something to me?”

Emma slid down to the floor and put her head into her hands. “Mother has shut down my credit card and probably frozen my bank account.”

“How can she do that?” Sophie asked.

“She insists on being on all my accounts. What money I have comes from what my grandmother left for me. I didn’t get a job while I was at college. The interest goes into my checking account each month and Mother’s name is on the account as well as mine since I’m . . .” Tears spilled down Emma’s cheeks. Her newly found freedom had only been a pipe dream.

Sophie picked up her cell phone, poked a few buttons, and said, “There, I fixed it.”

“How?” Emma asked without raising her head.

“I used my credit card.” Sophie shrugged and went back to work.

“I can’t let you do that,” Emma said.

“The wrong time to tell someone that they can’t do something is right after they’ve already done it.” Sophie came into the living room and sat down beside Emma. “You gave me all those beautiful hand-me-downs when we were growing up. I’m just repaying the debt.”

“B-but . . . ,” Emma stammered as more tears flooded her cheeks.

Sophie slung an arm around Emma’s shoulders. “There are no buts in friendship. Your things are ordered, and you will be beautiful when they arrive. And, honey, it’s tough to shut off a grown-up’s credit card, so we’ll check into this.”

“Sophie, you don’t understand.” Emma tried to suck it up, but it felt so damn good to cry that she gave up and sobbed like she hadn’t done in years. “I have maybe a hundred dollars in my purse. I can’t begin to pay . . .” She buried her head in her hands and wept.

“I guess you’ll have to find a job or make something to sell.” Sophie motioned toward all the art supplies stacked in the corner of the living room. “The buyer comes out here every few weeks to get Filly’s, Arty’s, and Josh’s work. Produce something that will interest him, and you won’t need to depend on Victoria for anything.”

“I haven’t touched brushes since . . .” A flashback of the last painting she had been working on came to Emma’s mind.

“Since when?” Sophie pressured.

“I went to my apartment . . .” She frowned. “The night I went to my apartment and used a knife from the kitchen to slash my painting.”

“Why did you do that?” Sophie asked.

“I have no idea. The vision just came to me in a flash. My therapists say I have repressed-memory syndrome. Something happened that I won’t remember, but I just now remembered cutting that picture all to pieces,” Emma answered.

“What was the picture? Landscape? Portrait?” Sophie pulled her closer to her side.

“White clouds that looked like the snow angels we made one winter when we were little girls. Sunshine behind them and wheat fields ready for harvest on the ground below them,” Emma answered as she stared at the picture in her mind’s eye. “I was so angry about something that I destroyed the picture.”

“What did you do then?” Sophie asked.

“I don’t remember much past that. The next thing that comes to mind is being in an institution. Nancy