them, and she winced.
And then she scooted forward until her legs were bent, and with a rush of breath, kicked her feet forward with all her might. All too easily, a spindle cracked in half, the bottom of it coming loose from its nails and plunging to the coffee table below.
She grinned, scooted down to the other side of the rocking chair, and did it again. And again. And again. Until all the spindles were trashed.
She could hear him, her father, in her head, ranting and raving, practically foaming at the mouth.
Why in God’s name, Bailey, would you do this?
“Because,” she said aloud, breathing heavily as she gazed down at the splintered mess below. She dropped her worn paperback, which fluttered to a landing on top of it. “Because you never looked up.”
FIVE
“K nock, knock!” Jean heard from the entryway just as she pulled a bubbling rosemary chicken potpie out of the oven.
“In the kitchen,” she called, shutting the oven door with her knee. She carried the potpie to the counter, which she’d already arranged for the book club meeting. There were potholders scattered about, serving spoons laid out, even a set of salad tongs, just in case. She knew it was supposed to be a quickie do-over meeting, to replace the one she’d cut short when Curt had called. But she also knew the ladies well enough to know that “do-over” did not mean to skimp on the cuisine. She set the pie on a potholder.
“What do I smell?” Loretta said, scuffing through the kitchen in her house shoes, her arms full of a cheese tray. “My nose is doing backflips.”
“Cheese?” Jean said, incredulous. “You know Mitzi’s going to say it’s cheating to just cut up a block of cheese.”
“Well, Mitzi can just keep her man hands off it, then.”
Jean chuckled, waved at Loretta with a towel. “Stop it. She does not have man hands.”
“And cheese is not cheating. See? We’re both right.” Loretta leaned over the potpie and took a deep breath. “I do believe you are becoming quite the chef, Miss Jeanie. This smells amazing. I can’t wait to get my man hands on it.”
“Thank you, I’m proud of it,” Jean said. “If it tastes as good as it smells, anyway. Did you bring the books?”
“Chuck is pulling ’em over in Wendy’s old red wagon as we speak. I told him to leave them on the porch, and everyone can pick one up as they come in. I’m excited to read it. I hear it’s causing quite a stir.”
Jean picked at the crust, nibbled it. “Doesn’t Thackeray always? I thought that’s why we read him.”
Loretta stole a cheese cube from the tray and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe that’s why you read him. I read him because I think he’s sexy. Where’s the wine?”
“At the table, breathing.” Jean sauntered toward the dining room, Loretta following close behind and palming another cheese cube on the way. Jean didn’t know any more about wine than she did about cooking, but she thought
letting the wine breathe
was something wine-knowledgeable people did. Sort of the oenophilic equivalent of stirring roasted red peppers into macaroni and cheese. “Sexy? Really? He’s kind of . . . loose skinned, don’t you think?”
“Oh, honey, at our age who isn’t? Loose skin is the new black—haven’t you heard?” Loretta saw the bottle, made a noise. “Pour it, Jeanie. It’s not the wine that should be breathing. It’s me. I should be inhaling a glass right now. Maybe if I drink enough, Chuck will get some ideas.”
Poor Loretta. Her marriage to Chuck had once been vibrant and exciting. They were one of those couples everyone envied—a couple with such chemistry, it radiated off them. But after Chuck retired, things changed. He bought a new recliner, and that chair became his mistress. Loretta could barely get him out of it to come to the Sunday dinner table, much less the bedroom. Jean knew Loretta was all talk when it came to men like Thackeray—she loved Chuck dearly and would never lay a hand on
And then she scooted forward until her legs were bent, and with a rush of breath, kicked her feet forward with all her might. All too easily, a spindle cracked in half, the bottom of it coming loose from its nails and plunging to the coffee table below.
She grinned, scooted down to the other side of the rocking chair, and did it again. And again. And again. Until all the spindles were trashed.
She could hear him, her father, in her head, ranting and raving, practically foaming at the mouth.
Why in God’s name, Bailey, would you do this?
“Because,” she said aloud, breathing heavily as she gazed down at the splintered mess below. She dropped her worn paperback, which fluttered to a landing on top of it. “Because you never looked up.”
FIVE
“K nock, knock!” Jean heard from the entryway just as she pulled a bubbling rosemary chicken potpie out of the oven.
“In the kitchen,” she called, shutting the oven door with her knee. She carried the potpie to the counter, which she’d already arranged for the book club meeting. There were potholders scattered about, serving spoons laid out, even a set of salad tongs, just in case. She knew it was supposed to be a quickie do-over meeting, to replace the one she’d cut short when Curt had called. But she also knew the ladies well enough to know that “do-over” did not mean to skimp on the cuisine. She set the pie on a potholder.
“What do I smell?” Loretta said, scuffing through the kitchen in her house shoes, her arms full of a cheese tray. “My nose is doing backflips.”
“Cheese?” Jean said, incredulous. “You know Mitzi’s going to say it’s cheating to just cut up a block of cheese.”
“Well, Mitzi can just keep her man hands off it, then.”
Jean chuckled, waved at Loretta with a towel. “Stop it. She does not have man hands.”
“And cheese is not cheating. See? We’re both right.” Loretta leaned over the potpie and took a deep breath. “I do believe you are becoming quite the chef, Miss Jeanie. This smells amazing. I can’t wait to get my man hands on it.”
“Thank you, I’m proud of it,” Jean said. “If it tastes as good as it smells, anyway. Did you bring the books?”
“Chuck is pulling ’em over in Wendy’s old red wagon as we speak. I told him to leave them on the porch, and everyone can pick one up as they come in. I’m excited to read it. I hear it’s causing quite a stir.”
Jean picked at the crust, nibbled it. “Doesn’t Thackeray always? I thought that’s why we read him.”
Loretta stole a cheese cube from the tray and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe that’s why you read him. I read him because I think he’s sexy. Where’s the wine?”
“At the table, breathing.” Jean sauntered toward the dining room, Loretta following close behind and palming another cheese cube on the way. Jean didn’t know any more about wine than she did about cooking, but she thought
letting the wine breathe
was something wine-knowledgeable people did. Sort of the oenophilic equivalent of stirring roasted red peppers into macaroni and cheese. “Sexy? Really? He’s kind of . . . loose skinned, don’t you think?”
“Oh, honey, at our age who isn’t? Loose skin is the new black—haven’t you heard?” Loretta saw the bottle, made a noise. “Pour it, Jeanie. It’s not the wine that should be breathing. It’s me. I should be inhaling a glass right now. Maybe if I drink enough, Chuck will get some ideas.”
Poor Loretta. Her marriage to Chuck had once been vibrant and exciting. They were one of those couples everyone envied—a couple with such chemistry, it radiated off them. But after Chuck retired, things changed. He bought a new recliner, and that chair became his mistress. Loretta could barely get him out of it to come to the Sunday dinner table, much less the bedroom. Jean knew Loretta was all talk when it came to men like Thackeray—she loved Chuck dearly and would never lay a hand on
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