Bad to the Last Drop by Debra Lewis and Pat Ondarko Lewis Page B
Authors: Debra Lewis and Pat Ondarko Lewis
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just haven't had a chance. Alice and Anastasia came in to meet with me about probating Joe's estate. Actually, it's quite interesting. And I can't wait to tell you about it because it's going to be in the paper some time this week."
"In the paper? Come on, spill the beans. I want to hear it all."
"Not here. Nobody knows yet. Besides, I want to get some of those yummy bread things before they're gone. Come on."
Deb walked up to the counter that was laden with steaming pots of white vegetarian chili, beer-cheese soup, thick slices of sourdough bread, and big urns of hot cider and hot chocolate, served buffet style. Pat followed her, complaining, "That's not fair."
But Deb just smiled and reached for some hot cider. A few of the regulars made room for them at the large front table. Pat looked around for the hot toddies.
Chapter Nine
Pat woke up the following morning to defused silence, the kind of silence that can only come about only when there is snow. Tossing back her blankets, she jumped out of bed and ran to the window in her big old newly purchased Victorian home. She looked out at a scene that only could be called a winter wonderland. Snow was on the trees and on the rooftops, and it was accumulating quickly on the street that was already in need of plowing. And it was still snowing. Deb had assured Pat that once it started snowing, because Ashland was right on Lake Superior, there would soon be a "lake effect," which meant they could expect more snow than regions that were not situated next to the lake.
The snow was so white, it was blinding. "Yippee!" Pat gave a little dance.
"What now?" Mitchell grumbled. "First you do your yoga in bed at 5:30, and yes, before you ask, of course it wakes me up, and then you're dancing around like a kid, and it's what?" He squinted at the clock. "Not even seven? What happened to the 'relaxing time' up north?"
Pat went back to the bed and kissed Mitchell on the cheek. "Oh, you old bear. I do the yoga in bed because it's softer than the floor, and you want me to be healthy, don't you? But the dance— that was the first-snow-of-the-year dance. Come see. It must have snowed six inches already."
Mitchell groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
Pat stepped into her slippers and Mitchell's old robe and then hurried downstairs——she was meeting Deb at eight for coffee. There had been so many people at the lunch yesterday; Deb hadn't had the chance to tell her what happened with Joe's family. The only thing Deb did tell Pat was that they were having guests for coffee at 8:30, so she had better be on time if she wanted to hear the news before they got there. Pat walked out into the mud room, looking for her boots as her oatmeal warmed in the microwave.
Deb walked her prancing golden retriever on his dailies around Chapple Avenue, then quickly dropped him off at home, leaving the pooper-scooper outside. She was eager to get to the Black Cat to meet Pat.
Deb smiled at Sam, standing behind the counter, as she entered the coffeehouse. "Can you believe this snow?" she asked, tossing her coat on a chair and gathering up the paper to see if there was any mention of Joe's funeral. Taking the cup of Velvet Hammer that Sam offered, she looked around the coffeehouse at the assembled locals and waited for her chronically late friend.
As she sipped her brew, Deb marveled again that the gods must be with her this year. When she'd convinced Pat and Mitchell to move to Ashland it just so happened that there were several magnificent Victorians for sale within a three-block area of her house. In Ashland, as Deb so often told them, it was still possible to get a bargain on a great home. She'd never expected that she and Pat actually would live in the same town—their life choices and circumstances had drawn them in different directions. Now, she loved that she was living her fantasy of walking up the street for coffee or sitting on the porch together and solving the world's problems or
"In the paper? Come on, spill the beans. I want to hear it all."
"Not here. Nobody knows yet. Besides, I want to get some of those yummy bread things before they're gone. Come on."
Deb walked up to the counter that was laden with steaming pots of white vegetarian chili, beer-cheese soup, thick slices of sourdough bread, and big urns of hot cider and hot chocolate, served buffet style. Pat followed her, complaining, "That's not fair."
But Deb just smiled and reached for some hot cider. A few of the regulars made room for them at the large front table. Pat looked around for the hot toddies.
Chapter Nine
Pat woke up the following morning to defused silence, the kind of silence that can only come about only when there is snow. Tossing back her blankets, she jumped out of bed and ran to the window in her big old newly purchased Victorian home. She looked out at a scene that only could be called a winter wonderland. Snow was on the trees and on the rooftops, and it was accumulating quickly on the street that was already in need of plowing. And it was still snowing. Deb had assured Pat that once it started snowing, because Ashland was right on Lake Superior, there would soon be a "lake effect," which meant they could expect more snow than regions that were not situated next to the lake.
The snow was so white, it was blinding. "Yippee!" Pat gave a little dance.
"What now?" Mitchell grumbled. "First you do your yoga in bed at 5:30, and yes, before you ask, of course it wakes me up, and then you're dancing around like a kid, and it's what?" He squinted at the clock. "Not even seven? What happened to the 'relaxing time' up north?"
Pat went back to the bed and kissed Mitchell on the cheek. "Oh, you old bear. I do the yoga in bed because it's softer than the floor, and you want me to be healthy, don't you? But the dance— that was the first-snow-of-the-year dance. Come see. It must have snowed six inches already."
Mitchell groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
Pat stepped into her slippers and Mitchell's old robe and then hurried downstairs——she was meeting Deb at eight for coffee. There had been so many people at the lunch yesterday; Deb hadn't had the chance to tell her what happened with Joe's family. The only thing Deb did tell Pat was that they were having guests for coffee at 8:30, so she had better be on time if she wanted to hear the news before they got there. Pat walked out into the mud room, looking for her boots as her oatmeal warmed in the microwave.
Deb walked her prancing golden retriever on his dailies around Chapple Avenue, then quickly dropped him off at home, leaving the pooper-scooper outside. She was eager to get to the Black Cat to meet Pat.
Deb smiled at Sam, standing behind the counter, as she entered the coffeehouse. "Can you believe this snow?" she asked, tossing her coat on a chair and gathering up the paper to see if there was any mention of Joe's funeral. Taking the cup of Velvet Hammer that Sam offered, she looked around the coffeehouse at the assembled locals and waited for her chronically late friend.
As she sipped her brew, Deb marveled again that the gods must be with her this year. When she'd convinced Pat and Mitchell to move to Ashland it just so happened that there were several magnificent Victorians for sale within a three-block area of her house. In Ashland, as Deb so often told them, it was still possible to get a bargain on a great home. She'd never expected that she and Pat actually would live in the same town—their life choices and circumstances had drawn them in different directions. Now, she loved that she was living her fantasy of walking up the street for coffee or sitting on the porch together and solving the world's problems or
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