Southern Hearts by Katie P. Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

forget. She was in true form, her hair bundled and combed high on her head into a b   b ouffant, forked into place and sprayed to give it immovable height. She was clothed in a saffron caftan with earthworm designs spattered over it—probably paisley, I thought as I looked at them again. It was accented with a Bakelite choker with coral pink balls that dangled over her trachea. I couldn’t help think that the color made it look like bees swarming a swollen hive. Her voice was grainy, matter-of-fact, with a presence that overtook the room as soon as she entered.
    “This is my daughter Lani.” She pressed a solid hand to the top of her backbone, then slipped it up to the side of her face to smooth her hair.
    “Hi, Lani, nice to meet you.”
    AnnLou stepped forward, swiveling her head as she peered into every room along the entryway. “Where’s your mother?”
    I pointed. “Through there and on the left, in the rumpus room.”
    “I had better go and see what that old woman is up to. I’ll leave you girls. Goodbye, darling, I will see you later on.”
    “Goodbye, Mother.”
    Girls? I thought to myself. I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I detected a hint of superiority in her voice that instantly caused a feeling of loathing to wash over me.
    I looked at Lani. Her shoulder-length hair, highlighted with streaks of blond that gradually became darker at the roots, was curled primly and teased around the sides to give it body. She was full-figured, with large breasts that were strapped into a contoured bra in an attempt to give them a more delicate shape. Her black T-shirt hung loosely at her narrow waistline, and her Birkenstock sandals were similar to mine, though less worn and scuffed. Her broad and healthy birthing hips were stashed under baggy denim shorts that were a shade beyond the ebony of her top and only thinly visible below its hem, ending inches above her kneecaps.
    “I thought we’d drive into New Orleans. We can walk around the French Quarter and then take in some jazz. Do you like jazz?”
    “I love it. It’s not too common in California, though, so I don’t get a chance to hear it as much as I would like,” she said.
    Her voice was soft, like a familiar blanket, and had a way of drawing you in as she spoke. It was crisp and rhythmic, pitching from high to low, which made it a pleasure to listen to.
    “California, huh? What part?” I slung my backpack over one shoulder, closing the door behind us and leading her to my car.
    “Sacramento. I go to UC Davis. Well, I was at Davis. I just got my master’s in women’s studies this past spring. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Life beyond being a professional student,” she said. “What about you?”
    “I just finished senior thesis, so I will be graduating— finally—in December. It’s been stressful, so the familiarity of home over the last few weeks has been a nice change of pace,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What do you think you want to pursue?” I pulled from the drive and turned out onto the road.
    “I’m thinking of something in social services, something that will get me out in the community. Where maybe I can make a difference.” She added, “Everyone says that, I know, and I almost feel dumb saying that. I just sent out a ton of resumes all over the country, so I’m hoping to find something before too long.”
    “I don’t think it’s dumb at all. I admire people who want to dedicate themselves to helping others. It’s hard work, and I think it’s great when someone wants to undertake it.”
    “My mother tells me you live in Seattle. What do you do up there?” She asked this as if, by its location, Seattle were part of another universe.
    “I’m a copy editor for the local newspaper, and then I take classes at the University of Washington two days a week. It’s nothing sexy, but it pays the bills,” I said.
    “Things don’t always have to be sexy.”
    “True.” I