Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

probably plenty of nice ones out there, but she always seemed to encounter the other kind.

“This feels like my lucky day,” he said. “I wanted to explain about the airport—”

“That’s best forgotten,” she interrupted. “Mr. Crutcher—” She caught his look. “I won’t lie to you. If it were up to me, I’d ask you to find someplace else to live. But this is my mother’s establishment, and, based on Mr. Carminucci’s reference, she wants to accommodate you.”

He offered her the warmest of smiles, as if she’d just welcomed him with open arms. “We’re going to get along just fine,” he said. “I got a feeling a house like this is just what AJ needs.”

Through the doorway, they could see the boy in the rotunda. Pale winter light flooded through the mullioned windows. He was checking out the shelves of well-thumbed books, a collection of Meerschaum pipes, her grandfather’s chess board, the pieces lined up in readiness like an army geared for battle. The ship-in-a-bottle never failed to fascinate. AJ treated the objects in the room with respect and reverence. This might be because he knew he was being watched. Then again, unlike his father, he might just be a well-behaved kid.

Who needed a place to live.

Suddenly Kim felt petty. “Why don’t you hang up your coat?” she said to Bo. “I’ll show you around.” On autopilot, she led the way into the kitchen, which adjoined the dining room through a set of double doors covered in green baize. “Breakfast and dinner are served buffet-style every day. Guests help themselves in the kitchen, and everyone eats in the dining room. Er, if you decide this is going to work for you, that is.” Please say no, she thought. Please say you need to keep looking.

“It’s just right,” Bo said.

AJ was checking out the kitchen. Like everything else, it had been painted in startling colors—walls the color of a lime Lifesaver, tangerine trim. Yet it still retained its old-fashioned character, with bead-board wainscoting and high ceilings, tall cupboards with wavy glass cabinet doors and a deep farm sink. There was a butcher-block island and a long wooden table, lace curtains in the windows.

“This used to be my grandparents’ house,” she told AJ, suddenly flooded by a rush of memories, the smells and sounds of cooking and conversation. “We spent every Thanksgiving here.” She could still see her grandmother in a flowered apron and huge oven mitts, bringing the feast to the table. Her grandfather, who had turned Kim’s own childhood to days of magic, used to ad lib prayers of thanks that were as natural as conversation.

“This is a really nice house,” AJ commented.

Kim showed them to the sitting room, which was equipped with TV, stereo and shelves of books. “I’m glad you like it. I spent a lot of happy hours here when I was a kid.” Long ago, she’d been filled with hopes and dreams, but those had been the dreams of a girl who didn’t know who she was. Now here she was, years later, and she still didn’t know. Not anymore. It was a bit depressing that she’d built a fine career for herself in California, then lost it all in a single moment. Thanks to a strict employment contract, her other clients would stay with the firm, not with her.

“Your lodgings are on the third floor,” she said, heading for the stairs.

Many questions occurred to her, but she didn’t ask them. It was a tricky thing, this concept of a boardinghouse. Her mother called the residents guests, yet they weren’t, not really. They hadn’t been invited, and their stay lasted much longer than a few days. In reality, this was a house filled with paying strangers. Her mother swore they came by referral only, and provided impeccable references. Bo had been referred by Dino, whom Penelope seemed to trust implicitly.

Still, Kim didn’t think she’d ever get used to the boardinghouse arrangement, nor could she imagine getting accustomed to the invisible fine line between intimacy and privacy. Not that it was up to her. So long as she was a member of this household, she went by her mother’s rules.

She imagined how Bo’s references would read: A natural at baseball and flirting.

A man with a child and, apparently, no wife.

She opened the door to the top floor and stood to the side, feeling a bit like a hotel bellman as she invited them in. A glow of soft light, reflected by the snow off the sloping roof, filled the room. The stream of light through the gabled windows reminded her of moments long past, when she used to gaze outside on white winter days, imagining herself a snowflake from The Nutcracker, an inhabitant of an enchanted kingdom. She wondered if AJ would do the same, or if he was too old for childhood fantasies.

The room was L-shaped, with a twin bed in an alcove and another around the corner, a sitting area with a desk and small television, and an adjoining bath.

“Is this where we’re staying, ma’am?” AJ asked.

She smiled at the boy, turning her back on Bo. “You can call me Kim,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Kim.”

“Ah, I’m guessing you’re from Texas, then. Boys from Texas say ‘ma’am’ a lot.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed his first smile since stepping through the door, and that smile took her breath away. It was like seeing a glimpse of the sun in the midst of the darkest days of winter—rare and bright, fired by an invincible spirit. When he saw her watching him, he quickly turned solemn again.

“This looks fine here,” Bo declared. “It’s just fine.”

So his mind was made up, she thought with a shudder of nerves.

“How about you put your things away,” Bo suggested. “I’ll go down and get the rest of the stuff.”

AJ nodded without looking at him, and set his backpack on a chair. “Okay.”

“See this bookcase?” Kim asked, feeling a thrum of tension emanating from both of them. “It’s got all my favorite books from when I