Wind in Her Hair by Karin Kallmaker

Author:Karin Kallmaker [Kallmaker, Karin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Romance and Chocolate Ink

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE UNLOCKED THE CAR and stood for a moment, aware that folding her overly full stomach into the seat was going to be uncomfortable. It might also make her sleepy, and driving without full daylight had its own challenges, even if there wouldn’t be any road works.

Why not a short walk first to clear her head?

The inside of the car was stuffy, so she went round and rolled down all the windows. She’d be glad of cooler air. Remembering the air conditioning made her happy all over again, and she began her walk, handbag over her arm, with a smile.

Mariah was very much a small town with one crossroads. The highway seemed to have more industrial types of business, while Park Street had the shops. Where the shops ended she discovered a few scattered cabins set well off the road. There was a stone-and-concrete bridge over the creek, which was running slow at the bottom of a sharp-edge crevasse. A stern sign read, “Flash flood risk. Do not swim.”

Just the other side was a public park, so she chose the path that seemed like it would take her all the way around it. There were wildflowers — scarlet, pink, and dark orange — on the side nearest the creek. Farthest from it, where there were no trees and the soil abruptly changed from red and mulchy to red and sandy, there were tall spiny cactus and short broad-leafed succulents.

The tallest cactus was all stems growing up from the ground, as tall as she was. Pure white flower cups were in bloom, one atop each stem. She paused to let a brown and-orange butterfly flit past. It came to a brief rest on one of the white blooms, then fluttered on in its journey.

As the path curved it led into a wide circle paved with red brick. In the center was a sculpture, with its plinth set on thick concrete. Inset into the plinth was a bronze plaque reading, “In Memory of Dorothy Rose, E. Turner, 1948.” The central figure, taller than Irene by several feet, was constructed of bent sheets of smooth aluminum with curled edges, curved like a full sail in a steady wind. The arms were also aluminum, ropes of it braided, making Irene think of strong muscles. One arm wrapped around the figure’s waist, while the other reached skyward. In its extended hand was a large bouquet of exquisite, finely detailed rose buds and blooms full blown, given color by an alloy, perhaps bronze and copper. Amongst the flowers were sheafs of silver leaves that caught the evening sun.

It was glorious, and, Irene thought, what a thing to have been so admired.

By the time she was at the street again, she’d seen four more sculptures, all by E. Turner. One was made up of bright steel hoops stacked on each other in a way that seemed haphazard until she saw it was called The Number Eight. After that, no matter where she looked, she saw the number.

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