A Shattering Crime by Jennifer McAndrews Page A

in the world than my frustration at having to surrender my room, with my nice, big bed, for the week or so Mom and Ben planned on staying. But it’s hard to keep perspective when you haven’t slept well.
    Carrie chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”
    I was saved from arguing—and displaying how truly shallow I can be—by Diana’s arrival. She dropped her purse on the seat next to me then pointed to me then Carrie and back again. “Sorry I’m late. You guys ready for another?”
    Our standard was one drink. One drink was enough to relax and be social and feel like being out was somewhat special. If conversation was really rolling, we’dmove on to club sodas for me and Carrie and diet cola for Diana.
    â€œMore wine, please,” I said.
    Carrie’s eyes widened in surprise.
    â€œCarrie?” Diana asked.
    She shook her head—“No thank you”—and waited for Diana to move to the bar before furrowing her brow at me. “A second glass? That’s not like you.”
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with a second glass of wine.”
    â€œI didn’t say there was. I just said it’s not like you. What aren’t you telling me?”
    Worried about what my eyes might give away if I continued to allow Carrie to study me, I angled my head so I could see Diana at the bar tapping her foot while she waited for the bartender to bring her wine.
    â€œGeorgia . . .” Carrie tried to sound stern—she always sounded like she was holding back a burp when she attempted this—but failed to pull it off.
    â€œNothing,” I said. I tried to catch the score on the hockey game playing on the flat screen at the end of the bar. Instead I caught the eye of one of the Pour House regulars. Not wanting to give the impression I was interested in him, I glanced away quickly.
    Carrie took in a noisy breath and sat back. “You know, I have a mom who comes to visit, too. It’s not easy.”
    I flapped a hand at her, dismissing her comment. “I’m fine with my mom visiting. I’m just being a baby about the bedroom thing.”
    She narrowed one eye at me.
    â€œThere’s nothing,” I insisted.
    In the same moment, Diana lifted the two glasses of wine from the bar and headed back to our booth. “What’s nothing?” she asked.
    â€œMy mother being here,” I said before Carrie could. “Apart from the fact that I’m stuck in the tiny guest room for the duration, I’m fine with it. Now tell us what’s going on with Rozelle.”
    Both of Diana’s brows rose high on her forehead. She slid into the booth beside me, gently placed the wine glasses down on the table. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
    It was my turn to huff. “I was telling Carrie about how you guys took a bunch of samples from the bakery this morning.”
    â€œDon’t listen to her,” Carrie said. “She’s trying to change the subject.”
    â€œThat so?” Diana asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œYes,” Carrie countered.
    â€œLook, I’m fine with my mother visiting. It’s strange, I know, but I do actually get along with her.”
    Diana shifted in her seat so she could face both Carrie and me somewhat equally. “Is it your stepfather then?”
    I held up a hand. “Okay, whoa. There is no way we’re going to refer to my mother’s husband as my stepfather.”
    Wrapping a finger around a low-hanging brown curl, Carrie said, “You know, technically, the man your mother marries—”
    â€œI don’t care about technically or legally or historically. We will be referring to Ben only as he relates to my mother, not to me, got it?” Wrapping one hand aroundthe glass of wine Diana had brought me and keeping hold of the remains of my other glass, I lifted my elbows onto the table and pulled both glasses in close.