Rinehart has left the war behind."
And she set The Breaking Point on the desk before me. I gasped and clasped my hands to my bosom. "Oh, I'm so glad! The Amazing Interlude about did me in. I'm so glad she's through with war stories." I had too many of my own that yet haunted me. I didn't need to read about anyone else's. "Thank you so much, Miss Petrie! These will keep my family and me happy for days and days."
"I've saved the best for last," said Miss Petrie, a gleam in her eye. Again, she reached under her stool where, I presume, a shelf had been built into the booth. She revealed her next selection with quite a bit of élan, for her.
"Oh, thank you!" I felt like gasping and clasping my hands to my bosom again, but restrained myself. There, before me in Miss Petrie's smallish hands, was The Great Roxhythe , by Miss Georgette Heyer, another British lady writer. I hadn't read many of her books, mainly because she hadn't written many, but I'd adored every one I'd read.
"You'll love it. It's really... wonderful." Miss Petrie sort of breathed the last word on a soft sigh.
I understood. Miss Heyer wrote the best, most thrilling, and most romantic books I'd read to date.
Whatever would the world be without books in it? I didn't even want to consider the possibility.
"Well, drop by any time," she said, in a wistful sort of voice. "Just to chat, if you feel like it."
I'd gathered for some time by then that Miss Petrie led a rather lonely life. But I loved chatting with her, so I'd be in again soon. I silently promised her that. Then I figured, what the heck, and promised her aloud, "I will." Then I scooped up my treasure trove of books and staggered to the check-out desk with them. Oh, happy day!
That afternoon, after I'd dusted and dust-mopped the house, carpet-swept the carpet, and set the table for dinner, I lounged on the sofa in the living room with Spike curled up on my lap and read. Miss Petrie was absolutely correct. The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle was charming. So, after reading that one, I sank more deeply into the sofa cushions and buried my nose and imagination in The Great Roxhythe . Oh, my. There I was, in Restoration England, in the very court of King Charles II. I was almost sorry when Vi came home, fixed dinner, and I had to put the meal on the table.
Not that dinner wasn't as delicious as ever, what with Vi teasing our palates with spaghetti and meatballs, a great big green salad, and some garlic bread she'd made with sourdough French bread (which she'd also made). Yum.
"This is so good," I managed to say between bites.
"The sauce is Sam's recipe," Vi told us.
"Speaking of Sam, where is he tonight?" asked Pa.
Everyone at the table looked at me. A trifle annoyed, I said, "I don't know. I didn't see him today. Anyhow, I'm not his keeper." I was engaged to marry him, but they didn't know that, darn it.
"Daisy," said Ma in a mildly reproving tone of voice. "I know the two of you sometimes have little tiffs—"
I sat up straight in my chair, dropped my fork and interrupted my mother, something I seldom do. "Little tiffs ? The big galoot drives me crazy !"
"Piffle," said Ma. "I know the two of you are... Well, let's say you're friends." She gave the word a deeper meaning and I understood perfectly. Crumb.
"Huh," I said, reminding myself of Sam. Oh, well. I saw my dinner companions exchange a series of glances and knowing looks and figured I was doomed. So I just kept eating.
Along about the end of dinner—we all had seconds. Actually, I think I had thirds—a knock came at the door, and Spike went into his usual "a friend has come to call" frenzy, wagging his tail like crazy and barking fit to beat the band. Because Spike was so happy, I assumed the caller to be Sam, and I was proved correct when I opened the front door and saw him there, looming and glowering.
"C'mon in," I told him, ignoring his ominous mood.
"Thanks."
"Want some dinner? There's plenty left, and it's delicious." We were generally
And she set The Breaking Point on the desk before me. I gasped and clasped my hands to my bosom. "Oh, I'm so glad! The Amazing Interlude about did me in. I'm so glad she's through with war stories." I had too many of my own that yet haunted me. I didn't need to read about anyone else's. "Thank you so much, Miss Petrie! These will keep my family and me happy for days and days."
"I've saved the best for last," said Miss Petrie, a gleam in her eye. Again, she reached under her stool where, I presume, a shelf had been built into the booth. She revealed her next selection with quite a bit of élan, for her.
"Oh, thank you!" I felt like gasping and clasping my hands to my bosom again, but restrained myself. There, before me in Miss Petrie's smallish hands, was The Great Roxhythe , by Miss Georgette Heyer, another British lady writer. I hadn't read many of her books, mainly because she hadn't written many, but I'd adored every one I'd read.
"You'll love it. It's really... wonderful." Miss Petrie sort of breathed the last word on a soft sigh.
I understood. Miss Heyer wrote the best, most thrilling, and most romantic books I'd read to date.
Whatever would the world be without books in it? I didn't even want to consider the possibility.
"Well, drop by any time," she said, in a wistful sort of voice. "Just to chat, if you feel like it."
I'd gathered for some time by then that Miss Petrie led a rather lonely life. But I loved chatting with her, so I'd be in again soon. I silently promised her that. Then I figured, what the heck, and promised her aloud, "I will." Then I scooped up my treasure trove of books and staggered to the check-out desk with them. Oh, happy day!
That afternoon, after I'd dusted and dust-mopped the house, carpet-swept the carpet, and set the table for dinner, I lounged on the sofa in the living room with Spike curled up on my lap and read. Miss Petrie was absolutely correct. The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle was charming. So, after reading that one, I sank more deeply into the sofa cushions and buried my nose and imagination in The Great Roxhythe . Oh, my. There I was, in Restoration England, in the very court of King Charles II. I was almost sorry when Vi came home, fixed dinner, and I had to put the meal on the table.
Not that dinner wasn't as delicious as ever, what with Vi teasing our palates with spaghetti and meatballs, a great big green salad, and some garlic bread she'd made with sourdough French bread (which she'd also made). Yum.
"This is so good," I managed to say between bites.
"The sauce is Sam's recipe," Vi told us.
"Speaking of Sam, where is he tonight?" asked Pa.
Everyone at the table looked at me. A trifle annoyed, I said, "I don't know. I didn't see him today. Anyhow, I'm not his keeper." I was engaged to marry him, but they didn't know that, darn it.
"Daisy," said Ma in a mildly reproving tone of voice. "I know the two of you sometimes have little tiffs—"
I sat up straight in my chair, dropped my fork and interrupted my mother, something I seldom do. "Little tiffs ? The big galoot drives me crazy !"
"Piffle," said Ma. "I know the two of you are... Well, let's say you're friends." She gave the word a deeper meaning and I understood perfectly. Crumb.
"Huh," I said, reminding myself of Sam. Oh, well. I saw my dinner companions exchange a series of glances and knowing looks and figured I was doomed. So I just kept eating.
Along about the end of dinner—we all had seconds. Actually, I think I had thirds—a knock came at the door, and Spike went into his usual "a friend has come to call" frenzy, wagging his tail like crazy and barking fit to beat the band. Because Spike was so happy, I assumed the caller to be Sam, and I was proved correct when I opened the front door and saw him there, looming and glowering.
"C'mon in," I told him, ignoring his ominous mood.
"Thanks."
"Want some dinner? There's plenty left, and it's delicious." We were generally
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