Read Solsbury Hill A Novel Online
Authors: Susan M. Wyler
Solsbury Hill A Novel
RIVERHEAD BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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First Riverhead trade paperback edition: April 2014
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13721-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wyler, Susan M., date.
Solsbury Hill : a novel / Susan M. Wyler.—First Riverhead trade paperback edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59463-236-5 (pbk.)
1. Heiresses—Fiction. 2. Americans—England—Fiction. 3. Heathlands—Fiction. 4. Bronte, Emily, 1818–1848. Wuthering Heights—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 6. Yorkshire (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.Y6285S65 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014000038
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Version_1
It takes the longest time to find your way . . .
This is for Timothy
CONTENTS
PART
ONE
The phone rang off the hook
, she read. As she poured milky coffee from the saucer back into the cup, she wondered if old phones had startled with electricity, if they’d jumped right out of the cradle from the shock. With a blister on her heel from the recent heat and humidity, she folded down the back of her ballet flat. The café’s air-conditioning was up too high and she had no sweater to cover her bare shoulders. She was trying to read a book her friend Tabitha had lent her, but it was filled with a tedious cast of artists in turn-of-the-century Paris, so she set it aside.
Eleanor pulled her hair into a ponytail and swirled it into a bun, which she punctured with the stem of her glasses to hold in place. She pondered the word
cradle
. The café air was thick with roasted beans, and the waiter, who set her plate
with a clatter on the zinc table, reeked of coffee from his pores. She thanked him, sat up in her chair, brought the cup to her lips, and sipped. Eleanor had elegant limbs and three feet of straight spine to the top of her head. Despite the challenges of being tall, she refused to stoop. Even in high school, once she got over the drama of being taller than many of the boys, she wore heels whenever she wanted to. These days, she wandered about the East Village in five different versions of ballet slippers, one for almost every day of the week. She checked the blister and resolved to stop by the pharmacy for some liquid bandage, slipped the leather slippers off, and sat on her feet to keep them warm as a blast of thunder clapped and a downpour exploded outside.
Miles swept in and shook out his umbrella. He would be irritated by the rain, she knew. On the lake at Christmastime with pine and cinnamon in the air, he liked the rhythmic backdrop of rain, but at the end of a busy day in the city, with the outdoor tables pulled inside, he wouldn’t be able to smoke a cigarette with his coffee. She watched as he shook his wet hair and scanned the place for her profile: the angled nose, creamy cheeks on pale skin, the self-assurance in the length of the back of her neck, and then the quirky red glasses stuck in her tangle of hair.
Miles bumped through the tables on his way toward her, excusing himself to the other patrons till a young woman stood and said his name in a husky voice that carried to the
back of the room and the table where Eleanor was reading. She looked up. The pixie was pressed too close against him. There were gray bentwood chairs and metal tables urging them toward each other. The girl wasn’t trying to move away and neither was Miles. His face was flushed and the girl said, “Call me,” as Miles looked caught in a tight space between pleasing the dark pixie’s pleasant smile and tossing glances at Eleanor to say, “I’m on my way, babe. I’m trying to get there, honey.”
She studied his face, how he’d changed since they were in high school when he was awkward and stood too close at parties, popped up behind her locker door, and was hesitant to drop his tray across from hers in the lunchroom. Miles had grown into good looks over the years. His slight build had filled out, his bright hair had darkened to a curly, tousled gold, and he had stretched to six feet, two inches tall, but more than that, he had grown into charisma, and she smiled to herself to see the boy she’d known since sixth grade exercising his newfound magnetism.
“Sorry, El,” he said as he got to the table.
He kissed her.
She kissed him and offered a sip of her coffee. “It’s a latte with whipped cream.” She licked her upper lip to catch any remnant sweet.
His legs wrapped around her legs under the table and he took her hand, kissed the tips of her fingers and took a tiny
nibble, then a tender suck of her forefinger. He could be gentle. Raised genteel, from an old Connecticut family with money and manners to match, Miles wore smart shoes and tailored suits in fine wools. Still, he tangled his body around hers as often as he could.
“What was your day like?” he asked.
“Amazing.”
His hand rested above her knee on the inside of her thigh. He was distracted.
Eleanor nibbled on a corner of lemon tart as her eyes shifted to the girl who was watching them, then back to Miles. “You?”
“Average day. Mostly looked forward to seeing you at the end of it.” He pulled the glasses out of her hair and ran his fingers through the long strands, his eyes soft with affection. “What’s this?” He picked up her book. “Is it good?”
Eleanor scrunched up her face and shrugged, and just then the light in the café changed and they both turned to see what had happened outside. The burst of brilliant sunlight from a break in the stormy clouds was enough to silence them for a minute. He reached for her hand. Whenever the sun broke through the darkness of clouds in this particular way, it reminded them both of the day of her mother’s funeral, when she and Miles were twelve years old.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. They were expected for dinner at her friend Violet’s apartment. Miles took Eleanor’s hand and led her through the tangle of tables, right past the
pixie, out into the silver light of a tropical storm in New York City.
