The Golding by Sonya Deanna Terry

Author:Sonya Deanna Terry
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780994216793
Publisher: Sonya D Terry
Published: 2014-12-24T05:00:00+00:00

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After an exhausting workday, Matthew pulled into the garage and leaned against the steering wheel, contemplating staying at home that evening, getting an early night.

He had to remind himself he wasn’t exactly looking forward to sleep. In going out again, he’d be buying himself a temporary escape, ensuring the slumber he had after a late night was shorter and therefore less dream-filled.

The Peter Piper kid had bugged Matthew again, hijacking a dream that teetered on the border of wakefulness. An elf and an eagle standing by a dawn-drenched autumn tree. The soft, sweet whistle of a pipe made from reed. That was all he remembered. That was all he ever remembered. The dream had recurred twice.

This most recent dream was much the same as the first in the series. The second of the series also had the golden-leafed background and bird but differed. The kid, taller now, having a similar appearance to music’s current man-of-the-moment, an American teenage idol whose name Matthew couldn’t recall—had held up a floor mop and a pair of overalls. Was this an indication to Matthew that he should have worked harder? That he should not have written a letter of resignation, which would come into effect in two weeks’ time? That someone planned to dupe him of an investment by ‘taking him to the cleaners’?

But there he was again, doing what Dalesford suggested he do but doing it badly: interpreting symbols. It might have been a symbol, the dream, a coded instruction as to how to make his future life better, or it might have just been the result of that mustard and pickled onion sandwich he’d fixed before bed, a sure-fire way to induce psychedelic nightmares.

Now inside, Matthew rested his briefcase in the hall, then scooted up the marble staircase. The Audi was not in the garage. He didn’t need psychic powers to know Bernadette wouldn’t be visiting at the hospital. That was something Matthew would be expected to do on the weekend, with Laura and Sara. How was he going to say to the poor lady coughing her lungs out from pneumonia that her granddaughter was still ‘a bit busy’ a second time?

‘Tell her I’m ill if you have to,’ Bernadette had roared. ‘She hates me you know. She doesn’t deserve my attention.’

Any mention of Grandma Carmody or her frail condition infuriated her, and yet Matthew was sure the senior woman—a sunny and motherly sort—did not hold grudges in the way Bernadette did.

From what Matthew could gather, it had been two upsetting incidents that Bernadette could never forgive. The first had been the grandmother telling her at seventeen that a red dress she’d worn to a disco made her look ‘a tad too provocative’. The second had been undiluted criticism of the buttons on a jacket she’d made in high school needlework. Grandma Carmody said they were too big. Matthew had seen the 1987 yearbook. Grandma Carmody was right. Venturing all the way up to Bernadette’s chin had been a line of flat circular objects the size of mini-compact disks.

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