Circled Heart by Karen J. Hasley Read Free Book Online

back into the house, surprised and taken aback by the fervor in his voice. For a moment I felt foolish and childish, heard in Allen’s tone a rebuke I didn’t understand. I had never experienced even a mild chastisement from him before, and perhaps my surprise was proof of what he implied, that I was unrealistic and did not really know people at all. Jennie came to the door and called my name from the doorway.
    “I’m coming.” I turned to look at her, appreciating how the porch light flushed her complexion and gave sparkle to her eyes.
    “People are asking where you disappeared to,” she chided affectionately.
    “Tell them into the night, Jen. Tell them I’ve run away to join the circus or take to the stage. Tell them I’ve gone to seek my fortune.” She held the door open for me as I came back inside and put an arm around my shoulders for a quick hug as I passed her.
    “You must have forgotten you already have a fortune. Stop speaking in riddles, Johanna, and come say good night to your friends. For the smart one in the family, you sometimes make no sense at all.”
    She said it all with a smile, her tone cool and practical and matter-of-fact. As I followed her into the front room, I was conscious of an odd reversal, Jennie suddenly decisive and mature and I childish and uncertain, an untried girl longing for something she could not name and did not understand.
    * * *
    Monday I took the train to Indiana Street.
    “Levi could very easily drive you,” Grandmother pointed out with a touch of asperity as I pinned on my hat.
    Hats were a necessary fashion evil that I always thought looked ridiculous on me. Small straw boaters made me resemble a child ready for the seashore. Large flamboyant versions overwhelmed my short hair and small stature so that a good wind off the lake using the hat as a sail could surely lift me up and blow me all the way to my destination. In the mirror I wrinkled my nose at my reflection with its sharp chin and big eyes.
    I could do no more about those unfashionable physical attributes than I could about the hat, so I jammed in a last pin and turned to say, “How would it look if I drove up to a home for destitute and desperate women in a chauffeured automobile? I’d be embarrassed. Besides, I like the train and the passing parade of people. I liked your friend Dr. Barrett, too, by the way, so thank you for the introduction, and don’t wait on me for lunch. I may plan a couple of side trips along the way.”
    Since the first day I crossed my grandparents’ threshold, Grandmother never protested my independence or expressed a worry. When I told her I was accepted by Bryn Mawr College in Philadelphia, she nodded and went back to the newspaper she was reading. When I informed her of my acceptance into the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing in London, she asked only when I would be leaving and how long I would be gone. It was more a matter of respect and trust than a lack of love or concern on her part. From the beginning she understood how to handle me with few missteps. Although a few of those had occurred through the years—on my part as well as hers—we never spoke of the altercations now, and I could hardly remember what all the fuss had been about. When Grandfather was alive, he had little patience for brawling women, as he phrased it. He argued cases in court, he said, and he was not about to come home to more arguments. Because Grandmother and I both loved him, we were always able to put aside our differences; and after a while whatever our issue had been quietly faded away.
    The Anchorage Home was nothing like I pictured, not a brooding Gothic mansion with wrought iron railings and small, dark windows. Probably not a madwoman held captive in the attic, either, I thought, laughing at myself, although that remained to be seen. Instead, the house was neat red brick, the trim painted dark brown, windows showing frilly white curtains to the outside and the front yard surrounded by