Allison O'Brian on Her Own by Melody Carlson

Author:Melody Carlson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

She was a little girl again, hiding under Nanny Jane’s crisp white apron, and the light shone through and smelled as sweet as sunshine. But something was tickling her nose. Allison awoke wrapped in a scratchy woolen quilt with a fat tortoiseshell cat snuggled up next to her face. A fire burned in a potbellied stove, and an odd smell filled the air. Turpentine?

Sitting across from her—waiting expectantly—was a man who could have passed for Vincent VanGogh, or perhaps her father. His auburn hair and beard stuck out in wild woolly tufts, and his nose had a streak of black across it.

“Here.” He held a mug of tea in front of her. “Don’t try to talk yet. Just drink this.” She obeyed, not daring to take her eyes off of him lest he disappear—like a mirage. His brow furrowed deeply as he stared at her with equal intensity.

“I can’t take it any longer!” The words exploded from his mouth, and Allison drew back in fear. He stood for a moment, paced back and forth like a caged lion, and continued, “Could you—is it possible? Are you my daughter? Are you my Allison Mercury? Or have I completely lost my senses as they all claim?”

Allison broke into a tiny smile. “No, you’re not mad. I am Allison . . . and I think you’re my father.”

With a massive sigh, he rushed to her and swooped her up as if she were a small child. As he held her, Allison felt the strength in his arms and knew she was in good hands.

“What could have possessed you to pull such a stunt?” he asked suddenly, holding her at arm’s length. “What were you thinking to take a boat out in this weather? You could have been killed.” He placed her gently back in the chair and tucked the blanket around her. Then he ran his fingers through his untamed hair and continued in a calmer voice. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m not angry with you. I just can’t understand what you were thinking. If it hadn’t been for Picasso”—he pointed at the cat—”I probably never would’ve found you.”

Allison stroked the cat now purring contentedly in her lap. She didn’t know what to say. Instead, she just stared as her father rubbed his whiskers and paced across the tiny room, talking as he went.

“Picasso slipped out right before the storm and I was watching for him, but instead I found a half-drowned maiden on my doorstep. It isn’t that I’m not delighted to see you, Allison. I’m overcome with joy. But you took such a risk! What if—” He stared at her in wonder.

“It’s a long story, Dad,” she said slowly with a sigh. It felt good to call him Dad. She watched him retrieve a pipe from a crude wooden shelf above the wood stove. He shook it out and refilled it with fresh tobacco. Taking his time, he packed it carefully. He glanced out at the storm still raging.

“We’ve got all the time in the world.

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