Domestic Affairs [antikvár]

PROLOGUE ©o GREENHAVEN, GEORGIA, 1982 The last day at 337K Vermeer Road began like any other. Abigail's mother rose before dawn and headed over to the main house to make breakfast. It was a Sunday in August, and Mr. Meriwhether liked to cat early on weekends in order to take his morning ride in the relative cool of the day, so she was gone by the time Abigail tumbled out of bed. Abigail usually hurried to join her—it was her job to make coffee and set the table—but on that particular morning, she took her time getting dressed, choosing her outfit with care: her most flattering shorts and a sleeveless blouse that showed to advantage her breasts, which had recently emerged into a bona fide bosom. She dabbed on colognc. She peered into her bureau mirror, trying to coax a curl into her stubbornly straight hair. Abigail had a secret. A secret that glowed like a jewel at her center, warming her and casting a rosy glow over her surroundings.The hideous landscape over the bed, painted by some long-dead Meriwhether aunt, might have been a Rembrandt and the old chifforobe that listed to one side the magic portal to Narnia. She was giddy with nervousness, wondering what was in store today. How would he act when she saw him at breakfast? Would it be as if last night had never happened, or was her life about to change?