Solomon's Oak Read Online Free Page A

couple of plastic ponies out of a basket of thrift-store toys and offered them to the littlest pirates. “What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked the girl.
    “Erica.”
    “And you?”
    “Uh, it’s Matt. Can I, uh, have the, you know, uh, fire engine?”
    “Of course. And here you go, Erica. Tell me which pony is your favorite.”
    “The black one. She’s a girl horse, and she scares stallions for miles around.”
    “Those are good qualities to have in a mare,” Glory said, while the boy rolled the fire engine across the wood floor to its imaginary disaster.
    Mrs. Brown twisted to zip her sheath of amber satin dressed up with an attached cape. “Darn this thing.”
    “Allow me,” Glory said, and zipped it for her. “Mrs. Brown, I have to say, you make a lovely mother of the pirate bride.”
    Karen’s mother looked into the door-length mirror and smoothed her dress. “Weddings shouldn’t be silly.”
    “Think what a great story this will make to tell your grandchildren. I’m sure you’d like to check on the chapel to make sure everything’s exactly the way you want it. Just past the porch and to the right of the big oak tree.”
    As Mrs. Brown walked away, Glory thought, bless her heart. Every bride’s mother wanted everything perfect for her daughter’s wedding because over the years she hadn’t forgotten that her own wedding was lacking. Glory had no pictures of her own wedding day. Eighteen years earlier she had thought diamonds and bridesmaids were trivial. Her sister, Halle, stood up for her wearing a dress straight from her closet. Today Glory would have given her big toe for one blurry snapshot. Dan strong and healthy, and she wide-eyed at age twenty behind a bouquet of wildflowers, certain she’d be granted a happy ending.
    Ah, well.
    Glory walked outside to see how the servers were managing. Cooling afternoon air blew inland from the coastline, carrying with it the faint smell of salt. Surrounded by land the color of wheat, it was hard to believe it was only twenty miles to the most beautiful section of the California coastline, where, depending on the time of year, you might see local otters, migrating whales, or elephant seals. The fastest way there was to drive the recently paved road (G18) across the Santa Lucia Mountains. Of course, arriving safely meant praying for no flat tires or hungry mountain lions or middle-aged guys racing Italian sports cars around the curves and past sheer drop-off cliffs that had no guardrails.
    The groom’s party arrived dressed in M.C. Hammer pants paired with white shirts and knee-high boots. Angus’s shirtfront was an explosion of ruffles. Mike Patrick, the portrait photographer, called Glory over to help with the bounce-flash reflectors. “Look fierce,” she reminded everyone. To save the pirates from his hefty per hour fee, she’d agreed to take the candid shots during the reception.
    When Glory heard another car approach, she panicked, thinking some guests had decided to arrive an hour early. Then she recognized Caroline’s tan Buick Skylark, county-issue. Caroline was the kind of hero Bruce Springsteen wrote songs about. She worked eighty-hour weeks so that for the time they were in the system kids felt safe and well fed. Here it was Thanksgiving and she was on the job as usual. Dodge started his frantic barking, and Cadillac joined in. They knew Caroline’s shoulder bag held cookies. Caroline got out of the car, waved to Glory, then walked around to open the passenger-side door. “Come on out, kiddo. Mrs. Solomon won’t bite you. Happy turkey day, Glory.”
    “Same to you, Caroline.”
    The girl was about five-five, twenty pounds overweight, and her dyed-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Metal piercings were in her eyebrow, nose, and lip. Right away Glory spotted a tattoo on her neck, positioned over her jugular vein, of a bluebird. Glory wondered who would perform such a thing on an underage child. The girl wore black track pants, an