Sanctuary by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online

yourself.” He shoved the broom at her.
    “I won’t.” Though she already regretted the impulsive act, she shoved the broom back at him. The colorful Fiestaware was like a ruined carnival at their feet. “They’re your precious dishes. You clean them up.”
    “You’re going to clean it up, or I swear I’ll use this broom on your backside.”
    “Just try it, Bri.” She went toe-to-toe with him. Knowing she’d been wrong was only a catalyst for standing her ground. “Just try it and I’ll scratch your damn eyes out. I’m sick to death of you telling me what to do. This is my house as much as it is yours.”
    “Well, I see nothing’s changed around here.”
    Their faces still dark with temper, both Brian and Lexy turned—and stared. Jo stood at the back door, her two suitcases at her feet and exhaustion in her eyes.
    “I knew I was home when I heard the crash followed by the happy voices.”
    In an abrupt and deliberate shift of mood, Lexy slid her arm through Brian’s, uniting them. “Look here, Brian, another prodigal’s returned. I hope we have some of that fatted calf left.”
    “I’ll settle for coffee,” Jo said, and closed the door behind her.

THREE
    J O stood at the window in the bedroom of her childhood. The view was the same. Pretty gardens patiently waiting to be weeded and fed. Mounds of alyssum were already golden and bluebells were waving. Violas were sunning their sassy little faces, guarded by the tall spears of purple iris and cheerful yellow tulips. Impatiens and dianthus bloomed reliably.
    There were the palms, cabbage and saw, and beyond them the shady oaks where lacy ferns and indifferent wildflowers thrived.
    The light was so lovely, gilded and pearly as the clouds drifted, casting soft shadows. The image was one of peace, solitude, and storybook perfection. If she’d had the energy, she’d have gone out now, captured it on film and made it her own.
    She’d missed it. How odd, she thought, to realize only now that she’d missed the view from the window of the room where she’d spent nearly every night of the first eighteen years of her life.
    She’d whiled away many hours gardening with her mother, learning the names of the flowers, their needs and habits, enjoying the feel of soil under her fingers and the sun on her back. Birds and butterflies, the tinkle of wind chimes, the drift of puffy clouds overhead in a soft blue sky were treasured memories from her early childhood.
    Apparently she’d forgotten to hold on to them, Jo decided, as she turned wearily from the window. Any pictures she’d taken of the scene, with her mind or with her camera, had been tucked away for a very long time.
    Her room had changed little as well. The family wing in Sanctuary still glowed with Annabelle’s style and taste. For her older daughter she’d chosen a gleaming brass half-tester bed with a lacy canopy and a complex and fluid design of cornices and knobs. The spread was antique Irish lace, a Pendleton heirloom that Jo had always loved because of its pattern and texture. And because it seemed so sturdy and ageless.
    On the wallpaper, bluebells bloomed in cheerful riot over the ivory background, and the trim was honey-toned and warm.
    Annabelle had selected the antiques—the globe lamps and maple tables, the dainty chairs and vases that had always held fresh flowers. She’d wanted her children to learn early to live with the precious and care for it. On the mantel over the little marble fireplace were candles and seashells. On the shelves on the opposite wall were books rather than dolls.
    Even as a child, Jo had had little use for dolls.
    Annabelle was dead. No matter how much of her stubbornly remained in this room, in this house, on this island, she was dead. Sometime in the last twenty years she had died, made her desertion complete and irrevocable.
    Dear God, why had someone immortalized that death on film? Jo wondered, as she buried her face in her hands. And why had they sent that