A Catered Fourth of July by Isis Crawford Page A

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Chapter 12
    L ibby was sitting at the nail drying station trying to keep from scratching an itch that she’d suddenly developed when her cell started playing Bernadette . It was her sister’s ring. Drats and double drats , she thought, wondering what Bernie had found or if she’d found anything at all in Rick and Gail’s house. For a moment, Libby considered digging her cell out of her purse and finding out, but then she decided she going to have to wait to hear the news until after her nails dried.
    The phone rang again. She had second thoughts about not answering it, but quashed them. She was sure that whatever Bernie wanted to tell her could wait another fifteen minutes. She was always given to the dramatic. Libby knew if she got her phone out, she’d ruin her nails and she wasn’t about to do that given the time and the money the mani-pedi had cost. Also, she was loath to admit it, especially to Bernie, but she kind of liked the way her nails looked. Pink was not such a bad color after all! Libby groaned to herself. She’d always made fun of women who couldn’t do anything that would ruin their nails and now she was becoming one of them. Go figure.
    She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Bernie would be there shortly. More to the point, Gail Evans was sitting right next to her. She’d finally started talking about something other than how hot it was and Libby wasn’t going to do anything to stem the conversational flow. Otherwise, the torture she’d put herself through for Marvin’s sake for the last three-quarters of an hour would all be in vain. One thing was for certain. She was never ever going to do it again, even though she did like the way her hands looked.
    For openers, she didn’t like someone she didn’t know touching her feet. For some reason, getting a manicure wasn’t as bad, but that was balanced by the fact that she couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to reach into her bag and get a piece of chocolate out if she wanted to. Or answer the phone. The process made her feel claustrophobic. She was wondering why that should be when she realized Gail was talking again.
    â€œYou know,” Gail confided in her chirpy voice, a voice that always made Libby want to put on a pair of noise canceling headphones, “I envy your talent.”
    Libby turned and looked at her. “For what?”
    â€œFor cooking, of course. I’m a complete klutz in the kitchen.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re not that bad,” Libby told her, although she thought that maybe Gail was.
    It had been her experience that really skinny people, people who were that way not by nature but because they didn’t like to eat, generally sucked in the kitchen. They were always in a hurry to get in and out. Understandable if one didn’t like what one was doing. Cooking and baking took time and patience. Each step, no matter how trivial, contributed to the final result. If you didn’t like to eat, you didn’t want to be bothered.
    Gail’s cell began to ring. She ignored it. “I am a klutz,” she insisted. “Every time I’m in the kitchen I either cut or burn myself.” She gestured toward her left arm with her chin. “Look at those.”
    Libby squinted. She couldn’t see anything. “What?”
    â€œThe scars, of course.”
    Libby studied Gail’s arm again. It was suntanned and muscled and looked as if Gail hit the gym frequently.
    â€œSee them? I’m thinking of having plastic surgery.”
    It took Libby a moment, but she finally made out three thin raised lines radiating up from Gail’s wrist. “But they’re tiny,” she objected.
    â€œNot to me. I see them in the mirror every time I put on a short-sleeved shirt, which I’m doing a lot this summer.”
    Libby wanted to say it must be hard being perfect, but she didn’t. Instead, she asked Gail how she’d