Free Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) by P.G. Lengsfelder Page B

rewarding himself with a scan of his library and the small desk, “I’ll ask that you not alter this room in any way except by your presence.” But then he added, “Your magnificent presence.” And he wrapped his arms around me and whispered in my ear. “I love you.”
    The moving-in thing was kind of cool. As I said, an experiment. Like a badge they’d give to exploring Girl Scouts. After putting it off for days I told Momma, “I’m moving out.”
    “Out where? Don’t be ridiculous.” She stopped wiping the counter for a moment, shook her head and turned back to stare out the window at the caboose going nowhere on its single length of track.
    “It’s time. I’ll still come see you. I won’t be far.”
    “I knew this college thing was a mistake. You’re full of yourself.”
    “It was okay for Carly and she’s gone.”
    “She’s made something for herself. You’re mixin’ around with stuff that’s useless.”
    I knew I should just shut up and leave. “Because of the way I look.”
    “You need to take account a that, sure.”
    “You ever had dreams?”
    “I need you here.” She muffled a sob, her back still to me. “I would miss you so much. You’re my big girl.”
    “I need to be someplace else.” Anywhere else. Away from Momma, away from Lyle the reckless man-child. And into Desire, a fantasy I’d only begun to examine.
     

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Smooth with a refined purr, the motor coach to Minneapolis rode like a queen’s carriage. I was nervous but glad to be away from Harold, even for a day. I scolded myself for such thoughts. He’d been good to me. I liked soothing him. I liked watching his eyes relax and close. My brain was too busy for its own good.
    Over my dark glasses rows of harvested barley fields slipped by, glazed in morning frost, an assurance of harder things to come. Yet I was cozy. Except for tending to my hood and maintaining a divide from the woman seated next to me, I marveled at the ease of escaping Bemidji, the excitement and luxury of it. And streaming past at incredible speed was what remained of the immense glacial Lake Agassiz, as chronicled in the encyclopedia. It wasn’t the first time I’d imagined it, but there it was. I fantasized again swimming across the legendary lake, it holding more water than is contained now in all the lakes in all the world.
    Careful not to draw attention, I stroked the plush-blue, deep-set seat. I nestled into it and considered the questions to ask Matthew Deere. The young actor was bringing his book-signing tour to the large Barnes & Noble in the Twin Cities, and his autobiography Deere in the Headlights about his insecurities in public and in front of a camera, compelled me to take the risk that Harold had advocated.
    “You need to be out and about,” he’d said, and so here I was, surprising Harold with my courage. He’d be thrilled when he returned from visiting a client.
    And now I had the chance to ask Matthew Deere, a man sensitive to personality traits, what he’d experienced working with various actors. Did personality reflect attractiveness on a face? Perhaps there would be some actors he’d rather not discuss, but even that would be telling and something I could correlate to my other research, though I was certain I wouldn’t be able to stand in line with people milling around, under rows of fluorescent lights, to ask him the questions. I had so many; he’d starred with countless famous faces.
    The sight of him surprised me. He was smaller in person than on screen, not only shorter, but also less muscular. I stuck with my plan. At least fifty women —mostly women— had listened along with me to his sweet story of shyness and his ascension to film idol. I pulled his book and my journal closer. Some of the women gathered round him, asking for additional signatures, pawing at him, asking questions. And the questions, from what I could hear, were so petty. About clothing, about his alleged affair with Zooey