big for his mouth Eli — knelt on chairs and leaned over the pans, inhaling. I grinned. Clarice’s philosophy on life is, if there’s any question about the outcome, cook in quantity.
“Huh-uh,” I warned just as Eli’s fingers, ready to pinch, hovered over the corner of the closest pan. “No snitching. You don’t want to see what happens to Clarice when you do that,” I whispered, making a face and wiggling my index fingers over my head like horns. I only took the risk because Clarice was shoulders deep in the refrigerator, her ample behind sticking out for all to see.
The kids giggled, and Clarice backed out, letting the refrigerator door slap shut behind her, a pound of butter in her hand. She scowled at us.
“The crisp should keep everyone down at the bunkhouse occupied tonight,” she grunted, giving me a pointed look.
My eyes widened. “You didn’t — uh, supplement the dessert? That’s not really necessary.”
Clarice snorted. “Of course not. What do you think this is — the first day of summer camp? They’ll be lying in their bunks moaning from the pleasure of a full belly, not dashing down the hall to — well, for goodness’ sake, girl. Not a bad idea, though.”
“It’ll be dark in less than an hour,” I said.
“Don’t I know it.” Clarice glowered at me, then clapped her hands like a command. “All right, sprouts. Get your stuff together. Five minutes.”
The two kids shot out of their seats and through the doorway to the rest of the mansion, followed by the reverberation of a trundling charge up the steps and down the distant hallway to the back bedroom.
“Finish rallying the gear,” Clarice huffed, pointing to the jumble of household accessories in the corner.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Clarice bundled the kids, CeCe’s overnight trappings, and the dessert into the station wagon and set off on the jouncing ride to the bunkhouse.
I stood over the pile of assembled tools and wondered just what Clarice had been thinking. A broomless broomstick, pruning shears, folding stepstool, miscellaneous screwdrivers and pliers, a hammer, paper bags, a box of plastic wrap, a Sharpie pen. I added two flashlights, duct tape, a brick, several dishtowels, a massive pair of rusty kitchen shears and twine. You just never know.
I hadn’t exactly done this before. My philosophy on life is, if there’s any question about the outcome, overpack. My second philosophy — ever since my husband hadn’t returned from a brief errand while on our honeymoon — is always assume the outcome is in question.
I packed the smaller tools into one of my rolling suitcases, loosely wrapping the metal instruments in the towels to keep them from clanking together. Then I wheeled out three more suitcases — my other one and two of Skip’s — and lined them up by the door.
I was dressed in my darkest, quietest clothes by the time Clarice returned, the headlights of the Subaru beaming through the growing gloom.
“Take the grand tour?” I asked when she finally shuffled into the kitchen.
“Pretty much,” she grunted. “Had to show me this, had to show me that, schoolwork, maintenance projects, skill development. Those boys are full of it. I will say one thing, though—” she peered at me quite seriously. “Walt has a way with them. Best non-father father figure I’ve ever seen.”
“Exactly what they need. Besides, being shown around is an honor. It means the boys like you —” I smirked, “or they’re terrified of you.”
“Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Load up.” Clarice marched out of the room, presumably to also change into her most invisible outfit.
The Subaru’s liftgate was open, the dome light glowing dimly. I lugged the suitcases out and stashed them in the back, wedging the stepstool in beside them. I draped a dark navy blanket over the whole schmear and closed the hatch with a firm click. Then I plopped into the passenger seat to wait for Clarice.
For once in her life, Clarice
“Huh-uh,” I warned just as Eli’s fingers, ready to pinch, hovered over the corner of the closest pan. “No snitching. You don’t want to see what happens to Clarice when you do that,” I whispered, making a face and wiggling my index fingers over my head like horns. I only took the risk because Clarice was shoulders deep in the refrigerator, her ample behind sticking out for all to see.
The kids giggled, and Clarice backed out, letting the refrigerator door slap shut behind her, a pound of butter in her hand. She scowled at us.
“The crisp should keep everyone down at the bunkhouse occupied tonight,” she grunted, giving me a pointed look.
My eyes widened. “You didn’t — uh, supplement the dessert? That’s not really necessary.”
Clarice snorted. “Of course not. What do you think this is — the first day of summer camp? They’ll be lying in their bunks moaning from the pleasure of a full belly, not dashing down the hall to — well, for goodness’ sake, girl. Not a bad idea, though.”
“It’ll be dark in less than an hour,” I said.
“Don’t I know it.” Clarice glowered at me, then clapped her hands like a command. “All right, sprouts. Get your stuff together. Five minutes.”
The two kids shot out of their seats and through the doorway to the rest of the mansion, followed by the reverberation of a trundling charge up the steps and down the distant hallway to the back bedroom.
“Finish rallying the gear,” Clarice huffed, pointing to the jumble of household accessories in the corner.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Clarice bundled the kids, CeCe’s overnight trappings, and the dessert into the station wagon and set off on the jouncing ride to the bunkhouse.
I stood over the pile of assembled tools and wondered just what Clarice had been thinking. A broomless broomstick, pruning shears, folding stepstool, miscellaneous screwdrivers and pliers, a hammer, paper bags, a box of plastic wrap, a Sharpie pen. I added two flashlights, duct tape, a brick, several dishtowels, a massive pair of rusty kitchen shears and twine. You just never know.
I hadn’t exactly done this before. My philosophy on life is, if there’s any question about the outcome, overpack. My second philosophy — ever since my husband hadn’t returned from a brief errand while on our honeymoon — is always assume the outcome is in question.
I packed the smaller tools into one of my rolling suitcases, loosely wrapping the metal instruments in the towels to keep them from clanking together. Then I wheeled out three more suitcases — my other one and two of Skip’s — and lined them up by the door.
I was dressed in my darkest, quietest clothes by the time Clarice returned, the headlights of the Subaru beaming through the growing gloom.
“Take the grand tour?” I asked when she finally shuffled into the kitchen.
“Pretty much,” she grunted. “Had to show me this, had to show me that, schoolwork, maintenance projects, skill development. Those boys are full of it. I will say one thing, though—” she peered at me quite seriously. “Walt has a way with them. Best non-father father figure I’ve ever seen.”
“Exactly what they need. Besides, being shown around is an honor. It means the boys like you —” I smirked, “or they’re terrified of you.”
“Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Load up.” Clarice marched out of the room, presumably to also change into her most invisible outfit.
The Subaru’s liftgate was open, the dome light glowing dimly. I lugged the suitcases out and stashed them in the back, wedging the stepstool in beside them. I draped a dark navy blanket over the whole schmear and closed the hatch with a firm click. Then I plopped into the passenger seat to wait for Clarice.
For once in her life, Clarice
Similar Books
