Wicked Forest by V.C. Andrews Read Free Book Online Page B

tell you it's not only foolish but pathetic and cruel for you to be encouraging that woman not to sell her property to the Eatons."
    " 'That woman'? 'That woman.' as you call her, is my mother, if you don't mind. She has a name, and she has more intelligence and compassion in her pinky finger than the two of you have in your whole bodies," I countered.
    They spun around like tops and marched away.
    When I turned back to the salesgirl, she was staring with a mouth so agape I could diagnose tonsillitis.
    "Anything else you need?" I snapped, and she leaped to finish my sale.
    My heart was still pounding when I exited the department store. How cruel people could be. I thought. How difficult life must have been for my mother all these years, and how easy it was now to understand why she had chosen to remain like a hermit. I walked along, past the quaint shops and galleries, then stopped when something caught the corner of my eye.
    Through the window of a small café. I saw Thatcher at a table sitting across from an attractive dark-haired woman, elegantly dressed, wearing designer sunglasses. At first I imagined her to be one of his clients, but he had his hand over hers and was looking so intently at her, they appeared more like two lovers. For a moment the sight took my breath away and drained the blood from my face. Then he turned slowly as he leaned back in his seat and started to bring his cocktail to his lips. His eyes shifted toward the window, through which I was sure he saw me. He froze for a moment, then turned back to the woman as if he had not seen me at all.
    Now I had two men treating me as if I were invisible, I thought, and pounded the sidewalk hard as I marched to my car, threw the packages into it, and drove home.
    .
    As I had hoped, my mother's smile was like a sun-burst when I gave her the present. However, almost as if she realized she had violated some bargain she had made with a guardian angel, she quickly hid her joy and declared I was doing enough for them, too much as it was.
    "You don't have to buy me presents. too.
    Willow." "I know. I don't do it because I have to.
    Mother."
    She stared at the pashmina shawl covetously, torn between her admiration for it and her guilt in accepting it.
    "You don't have to be afraid to be happy.
    Mother," I said. It was like tossing a dart and hitting the bull's-eye. She looked up at me quickly, her face revealing the accuracy of my analysis. I could almost feel the patter of her quickened heart. Sometimes, it was painful to be right, especially if it was a heartfelt secret someone would rather keep under lock and key.
    "Every time I permit myself to enjoy something. Willow, I can't help but feel like a little girl blowing up a festive balloon with such excitement and enthusiasm, she causes it to burst."
    "You don't have to feel that way anymore. We can blow up all the balloons we want. In fact, we'll bury this place in balloons," I declared with a furious air.
    She brought back her smile, then put on the shawl and gazed at herself in the mirror. Suddenly, her face returned to that dark, pained look.
    "What's wrong? Don't you like it?" I asked.
    "Oh, yes, Willow. Yes, of course. It's beautiful.
    It's just... it seems like a waste, like putting a new window in a jalopy, a run-down junk heap of a car.
    Look at my dull hair, these streaks of gay, these split ends, and my complexion. I'm so pale, so sickly-looking. And this ridiculous old rag I wear."
    She thrust her hands at me.
    "I have fingernails like a garage mechanic. See!
    I hate mirrors. That's why there are so few of them in this house. All they do is remind me of what I've become," she declared, and started to whip off the shawl. "Why tease and torment myself?"

    "Then don't," I said sharply, and seized her hand, stopping her from completely removing the beautiful shawl. It dangled off her right shoulder, "Let this be the beginning of a renewal.
    Mother. Let this be magical." I urged, stroking the shawl.
    Then,