That Certain Summer by Irene Hannon Page B

people. In any case, she’ll be getting up soon, and if I’m not there when she wakes up, I’ll have to listen to her complain for the rest of the day. I can take it—but I’d rather not.”
    â€œI hear you.” Karen rose, but as she started for the door, Val touched her arm.
    â€œYou’re not dowdy, by the way.”
    â€œAnd you’re not a dumb blonde.”
    For a moment they regarded each other in silence.
    â€œWhat do you say we do this again?” Val hoisted her shoulder purse into position.
    â€œHow does a week from Saturday sound? I have to help with month-end closing next week.”
    Her sister grinned. “I’ll pencil it in.”

    Karen cranked up the oldies radio station, reached into the refrigerator for the leftover spaghetti from last night . . . and stopped as she pictured Val’s shopping cart from this morning. There had been nary a noodle in sight.
    Switching gears, she chose the deli turkey instead. A whole-wheat sandwich would be much healthier . . . and better for her waistline.
    As Karen spread mustard on the bread, Bette Midler began to sing. Ah . . . “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Now there was a song. They didn’t write them like that anymore. And since no one was home, why not join in—even if she usually confined her musical efforts to the church choir, where she could anonymously blend into the group?
    It was a sing-along kind of day.
    Halfway through the first verse, however, she stopped mid-phrase at the sudden bang of the front door. “Kristen? Is that you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Uh-oh. She was home far too early. They were supposed to stay for the fireworks.
    But perhaps there’d been fireworks of a different kind.
    Karen wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked into the living room. Kristen was slumped on the couch, arms crossed, face stormy.
    â€œAren’t you home a little early?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œStephanie wasn’t feeling well.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.
    Karen moved to the couch and perched on the arm. “People do get sick.”
    â€œOh, please!” Kristen rolled her eyes.
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œShe was sick all right. Sick of spending her Saturday at a school picnic. I heard her tell that to Dad. And she’s so young! It’s embarrassing. She looks more like his daughter than his . . . whatever.”
    No arguments there. Michael liked his women young. She’d been a student herself when she’d caught his eye. At least his current love was in graduate school. That would put her at twenty-three or twenty-four. Better than eighteen or nineteen, but she was still too young for a fifty-one-year-old man.
    â€œI don’t know what Dad sees in her, anyway.” Kristen’s words were laced with disgust. “She didn’t talk much, but what she did say was all about herself. What movie she went to last week, what clothes she bought, what classes she was taking next semester. She never asked one single thing about me. Not even about my leg. She is, like, so shallow.”
    â€œI’m sorry your day didn’t turn out the way you hoped.” Karen draped her arm around her daughter’s stiff shoulders.
    â€œI should have gone to the picnic with you.”
    Karen tried not to let her second-choice status hurt. “You wanted some father-daughter time.”
    â€œThat didn’t happen anyway.” She reached for her crutches and struggled to her feet. “I’ll be in my room.”
    â€œDo you want some dinner?”
    â€œI had a hamburger at the picnic. Stephanie didn’t want to bother, but Dad insisted he owed me a meal.” Kristen stopped on the threshold. “I guess there was one good thing about today, though.”
    â€œWhat was that?”
    â€œThere was something wrong between Dad and Stephanie. I mean, it was obvious she didn’t