Who Is Frances Rain? by Margaret Buffie Read Free Book Online Page B

next time, I may be terribly busy. Check with my secretary and we’ll get back to you.” I marched into the veranda.
    He laughed and shouted, “Will do, Ms. McGill. My secretary will contact your secretary and we’ll do lunch.”
    I listened to the fading drone of his motor for a few minutes, wondering what I really thought of this new Alexander Bird. The word interesting definitely came to mind.

Chapter Eleven
    â€œBUT that was last night,” I said aloud, pushing my bare feet into the cool corners of the covers. “And today is today, and I’ve got work to do on Rain Island.”
    I forced myself to concentrate on the gear I’d need to excavate the cabin site. In the pile of history books I’d read over the winter, there had been a pamphlet put out by the city museum showing how a group of their archaeologists had dug up the remains of an ancient Indian village. Maybe I could be an archaeologist someday — if not a trapper or a writer or an artist, that is.
    I’d need a trowel, a shovel, a tape measure, some strong string, my sketchbook, a cardboard box or two, an old screen and my lunch. For starters.
    A few minutes later, after washing up in last night’s basin of soapy water and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, I walked down the hall towards the kitchen. Raised voices floated towards me along with the smell of frying bacon. Mother and Gran were arguing. I peeked around the corner.
    â€œÂ ... so don’t go lecturing me on being a better wife and parent, Ma. You should be in Toronto lecturing Carl on good parenting. He’s the one who left town.”
    Her shoulders were up near her ears and her thin hands were clenched in front of her. I sincerely hoped that she didn’t do that in court when she was arguing a case. No one wants to be defended by Squirrel Nutkin.
    Gran was calmly pouring herself a cup of coffee, but the hand holding the cup shook a little and her voice had gone down two octaves. It always does when she’s mad.
    â€œI’m not lecturing you, Connie,” she said patiently, “but you might have gone blueberry picking with Tim and Erica. That’s all. They really wanted you to go. He’s very good to her. Spending time. You’re practically handing her over to him to raise. She needs you. So does he. He’s good to you, too.”
    â€œI am so sick of hearing how good he is,” Mother said fiercely. “What the hell am I? Chopped liver? I should never have married him. Tim pressured me too soon and now he expects everything to be just rosy. Don’t you see? I wasn’t ready — it’s more than I can give. And now Carl’s calling all the time. Wanting to talk.”
    â€œTalk’s cheap, Connie. Tim is here.”
    â€œThank you, Ma, I didn’t notice.”
    I had moved into the room, drawn by a dreadful curiosity, but began to edge out again, trying to be invisible. Funny how the minute you try to disappear, everyone sees you.
    â€œElizabeth! Stay right there,” Mother demanded. “Tell your Gran. Go ahead. Tell her about Tim. You and your brother have made it very clear how you feel about my new husband.”
    â€œUh ... he’s okay,” I said. “He just takes getting used to. He did come out in the storm to get me. And he’d never driven a boat before. He could’ve —”
    She stared at me, her eyes bulging. “So now he’s Mr. Wonderful, is he? That’s just fine. After three months of treating him as if he’s a social disease.”
    â€œDon’t worry.” I tried for a joke. “Evan’ll still treat him like that. Tim won’t get spoiled.”
    â€œVery cute. Now Tim is just fine! And I suppose I’m not.” She turned to Gran. “Don’t give me that look, Ma. I come home every night. I work hard. I like my job. Why can’t I do it, without being suffocated?” She shook her hands in the