Flo. “I was sure her book was a figment of her imagination. She’s been talking about that thing for forty years. I thought that manuscript was as fictional as the tooth fairy.”
Sara winced. “It looks like she’s offering it up for Rebecca’s inspection.”
Flo shook her permed head. “There’s nothing about poor Mildred that can hold up to inspection, honey. She already has two strikes against her because she looks like the skinny, bug-eyed spinster on the old maid cards. Bless her heart.”
Sara hurried toward the impending catastrophe, and Flo followed along beside her. “Maybe we can stop her.”
“And just think,” added Flo a little breathlessly, “it’s a romance. Dear God.”
It was too late. Mildred Cameron’s honking voice squawked, “Miss Adrian, I’ve waited for years for someone to present my manuscript to a worthy New York publisher.”
“Oh no,” groaned Sara.
“And so,” continued Mildred with rather touching dignity, “I present you with my life’s work. My pièce de résistance.” Her spindly arms, which clasped the bundle of raggedy papers to her flat bosom, abruptly proffered them to Rebecca Adrian.
“Looks like Abraham offerin’ up Isaac for the sacrifice,” whispered Flo.
“What the hell ,” said Rebecca, “is this?”
Mildred gaped at Rebecca in utter confusion. Had she not heard what she said? “My manuscript ,” she repeated loudly. You never could tell who was hard of hearing, thought Mildred. Maybe the lady had turned up her iPod too loud too many times.
Rebecca rolled her eyes and made a great show of reverently placing the papers on the lunch counter in front of her. She flipped to twenty pages in or so and read dramatically, “‘She trembled like a trapped bird at his masterful touch. His sardonic eyes gleamed with his devilish intent. As he gripped her yielding softness—’”
Mildred Cameron gave a choked cry.
If it had been a slow-motion disaster, like in a movie, then maybe somebody could have stopped the super-sized iced tea as it catapulted toward Rebecca Adrian’s fancy “casual” clothes.
But this wasn’t the movies. And Mildred Cameron’s drink was well on its way to being splashed all over Rebecca Adrian.
It was debated at some length afterward whether Mildred Cameron had intentionally covered Rebecca with the sweet tea. Some people thought Mildred had been aghast enough to do almost anything. But others thought that nobody on this earth would deliberately knock over a glass of Aunt Pat’s iced tea. It was just that good.
Shoring up the evidence in favor of accidental drenching was Mildred’s face right after the incident. It was a study in horror. Her eyes made perfect Os; her mouth was a replica of the agonized figure in Munch’s The Scream .
But there was a flash of triumph in Mildred’s eyes, too. Particularly at the choked-back laughter from everyone at the lunch counter.
Rebecca was livid. She surged up from her stool like a Fury, slammed both palms on the lunch counter, then whirled and bent into Mildred Cameron’s face. It was about that time when all the snickering stopped. “In a couple of hours I’ll be dry. But you’ll still be untalented.”
Even the whispers had stopped now, and a hostile silence enveloped Rebecca Adrian. Now she wasn’t the only one who was livid. Lulu said with narrowed eyes and a lowered voice, “Don’t you ever set foot in here again. I don’t care if you like the damned barbeque or not.”
Rebecca grabbed a full paper towel roll off a nearby table and sashayed across the crowded restaurant to the door. It was a slower than usual walk since her route was crowded with glowering patrons.
“Could this day possibly get any worse?” Lulu demanded of Ben. “We’ve got two dashed dreams, a devastated teenager, some royally ticked off Graces, and we will probably get completely overlooked for a plug on the Cooking Channel.”
“Don’t look now, Mother,” drawled Ben, “but
Sara winced. “It looks like she’s offering it up for Rebecca’s inspection.”
Flo shook her permed head. “There’s nothing about poor Mildred that can hold up to inspection, honey. She already has two strikes against her because she looks like the skinny, bug-eyed spinster on the old maid cards. Bless her heart.”
Sara hurried toward the impending catastrophe, and Flo followed along beside her. “Maybe we can stop her.”
“And just think,” added Flo a little breathlessly, “it’s a romance. Dear God.”
It was too late. Mildred Cameron’s honking voice squawked, “Miss Adrian, I’ve waited for years for someone to present my manuscript to a worthy New York publisher.”
“Oh no,” groaned Sara.
“And so,” continued Mildred with rather touching dignity, “I present you with my life’s work. My pièce de résistance.” Her spindly arms, which clasped the bundle of raggedy papers to her flat bosom, abruptly proffered them to Rebecca Adrian.
“Looks like Abraham offerin’ up Isaac for the sacrifice,” whispered Flo.
“What the hell ,” said Rebecca, “is this?”
Mildred gaped at Rebecca in utter confusion. Had she not heard what she said? “My manuscript ,” she repeated loudly. You never could tell who was hard of hearing, thought Mildred. Maybe the lady had turned up her iPod too loud too many times.
Rebecca rolled her eyes and made a great show of reverently placing the papers on the lunch counter in front of her. She flipped to twenty pages in or so and read dramatically, “‘She trembled like a trapped bird at his masterful touch. His sardonic eyes gleamed with his devilish intent. As he gripped her yielding softness—’”
Mildred Cameron gave a choked cry.
If it had been a slow-motion disaster, like in a movie, then maybe somebody could have stopped the super-sized iced tea as it catapulted toward Rebecca Adrian’s fancy “casual” clothes.
But this wasn’t the movies. And Mildred Cameron’s drink was well on its way to being splashed all over Rebecca Adrian.
It was debated at some length afterward whether Mildred Cameron had intentionally covered Rebecca with the sweet tea. Some people thought Mildred had been aghast enough to do almost anything. But others thought that nobody on this earth would deliberately knock over a glass of Aunt Pat’s iced tea. It was just that good.
Shoring up the evidence in favor of accidental drenching was Mildred’s face right after the incident. It was a study in horror. Her eyes made perfect Os; her mouth was a replica of the agonized figure in Munch’s The Scream .
But there was a flash of triumph in Mildred’s eyes, too. Particularly at the choked-back laughter from everyone at the lunch counter.
Rebecca was livid. She surged up from her stool like a Fury, slammed both palms on the lunch counter, then whirled and bent into Mildred Cameron’s face. It was about that time when all the snickering stopped. “In a couple of hours I’ll be dry. But you’ll still be untalented.”
Even the whispers had stopped now, and a hostile silence enveloped Rebecca Adrian. Now she wasn’t the only one who was livid. Lulu said with narrowed eyes and a lowered voice, “Don’t you ever set foot in here again. I don’t care if you like the damned barbeque or not.”
Rebecca grabbed a full paper towel roll off a nearby table and sashayed across the crowded restaurant to the door. It was a slower than usual walk since her route was crowded with glowering patrons.
“Could this day possibly get any worse?” Lulu demanded of Ben. “We’ve got two dashed dreams, a devastated teenager, some royally ticked off Graces, and we will probably get completely overlooked for a plug on the Cooking Channel.”
“Don’t look now, Mother,” drawled Ben, “but
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