The Lullaby Sky by Carolyn Brown Read Free Book Online

I’m surprised that you sleep upstairs, as protective as you are,” Darcy answered as she wrapped a stretchy hot-pink headband around her hair.
    “I still have a baby monitor in her room. I know when she rolls over in bed,” Hannah answered.
    “Well, okay then. Let’s go reclaim your property.”
    Hannah led the way across the foyer, took a deep breath, and opened the bedroom door. Flashbacks stopped her right inside the door. This was where Marty had beaten her down with his words and sometimes his fists. Either way, it was always her fault. If she hadn’t folded the napkins wrong, if Sophie’s toy hadn’t been left on the coffee table, if she’d been raised in the right circles, if he’d only known that she was nothing but low-class white trash—then she would understand what he needed in a wife and she wouldn’t be living in the backwoods where he had to train her even to be able to take her to a Christmas party.
    Darcy went straight to the shiny black dresser with nine drawers and pulled out the bottom one on the right side. Carrying it to the bed, she gasped. “Sweet Lord! Do they all look this neat?”
    Hannah nodded. “I told you that Marty is OCD.”
    “This goes beyond OCD, Hannah. Did you iron these socks?” Darcy dumped the whole drawer on the bed.
    Hannah blushed and took a deep breath. “What should I do with all of his things?”
    “You own them. The judge said everything in this house. What do you think? A bonfire?”
    “No!” Hannah said quickly. “If we did that, Sophie would want to roast marshmallows.”
    “And I damn sure don’t want her to eat anything that comes from the flames from this stuff,” Darcy said. “It might poison the child. I vote we put all of his stuff in a big black garbage bag and store it with the furniture.”
    The idea came to Hannah in the form of a picture of a sign outside a women’s shelter in Gainesville. She’d made it to that shelter once, but Marty had figured out where she was within five minutes of the time she walked through the doors. Why not donate all of this stuff to that shelter that helped abused women? They could sell whatever they couldn’t use and keep the money. She whipped her phone from her hip pocket and clicked on the phone number highlighted on their website.
    “Patchwork Home. Gina speaking,” a brisk voice answered.
    “This is Hannah O’Malley. I came to your place a while back, but only stayed about five minutes. I live in Crossing, and I’ve got some things I would like to donate.”
    “I remember you. You are kin to Birdie Wilson, right?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And you had a little dark-haired girl with you?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “Did you resolve that abuse issue?”
    “Divorce was signed on Wednesday.”
    “Good for you. Now, about this stuff you want to donate?”
    Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed. “A complete bedroom suite, sheets, comforters. How much can you handle? And what about men’s clothing?”
    “All of it, and we’ll be glad to get it. Sometimes women show up here with teenage boys in tow, and we seldom have anything that they can wear.”
    Darcy sat down beside her, picking up the tail of the conversation. “Great idea.”
    “My ex-husband wasn’t a very big man, so these things should work for a teenage boy. Socks and underwear?” she asked.
    “Honey, sometimes they arrive in nothing but their pajama pants, and even barefoot if their mama has left in a hurry. I can round up some volunteers to come and get it,” Gina said.
    “No, we’ll bring it to you. Is tonight all right?”
    “Of course. I’ve got two volunteers here now who’ll help unload and then get the clothing organized,” Gina said. “I’ll be expecting you.”
    “I never knew that you went to the shelter,” Darcy said after Hannah hung up.
    “I tried, but he figured out where I was.” Hannah stood up, threw open the closet doors, and tossed three expensive suits on the bed. “This stuff needs to be