so it worked out perfectly when Gordon needed an emergency nursemaid for Mary Pat. You’re sure you don’t want another glass of wine?”
“And go reeling into my obstetrician’s office? No, thank you.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for her appointment.
Rob called for the bill and on their way out, they paused by the cash register to watch the final shot of the game as Carolina put Clemson away for the year, 78-66.
C HAPTER 9
All up and down the radio dial, sportscasters were going wild. Duke and Georgia Tech seesawed back and forth with the lead.
“Duke’s ahead 61-59. Here comes Price with a twenty-five-footer.
Tech ties it up for the ninth time. Duke in possession. Stolen by Petway. Twelve seconds left—Petway to Price— missed! And we’re going into overtime!” shrieked a hoarse announcer.
Kate kept her eyes on the road, but her fingers continued to twiddle the dial knob until she hit a radio station playing an old Beatles song. Her foot relaxed on the accelerator and she dropped just below the speed limit, soothed as always by the strains of “Penny Lane.”
An aroma of celery and freshly baked wheat rolls rose from the brown grocery sacks on the back seat.
“More fruits and vegetables and roughage,” the obstetrician had said. The doctor had been brisk and efficient and, on the whole, pleased with Kate’s physical condition. “But no nonsense about dieting,” she told Kate. “You’re almost too thin. Drink a milk shake once in a while and try to cut out the cigarettes.”
Dr. Teresa Yates had been recommended by her doctor in New York, and Kate thought they would probably be compatible once basketball season ended. There was a small television set in the waiting room and Dr. Yates’s nurse kept popping in and out to relay the score throughout Kate’s examination.
It figured. A certificate behind Dr. Yates’s desk announced that she had interned at Duke Hospital.
There was one good side to the tournament, though. Kate hated having anyone hover while she tried on clothes, and the salesclerks at the maternity shop could barely be pried away from the game long enough to take her money for the slacks and tops she’d selected and tried on as freely as if she’d been alone in her own closet.
At the crossroads before her turnoff to the farm, Kate pulled in at a shabby white-frame country grocery and parked between a late-model pickup and one that was even older than Lacy’s.
Inside, the potbellied stove had been replaced by a small gas grate, but several men still sat around the soft drink chest on upended wooden cartons and slat-bottomed chairs to watch the ball game on a black-and-white television set up in a corner. They gave polite nods as Kate entered.
Cracker barrels and open bins of pickles were long gone and penny candy was two for a nickel these days, yet some things remained as they were when Jake was a small boy and had ridden his bike here for his mother to pick up items not worth a special trip into town: a loaf of bread, cigarettes, a quart of milk, or, best of all, a wedge of cheese.
Wheels of mild cheddar—everyone called it hoop cheese—still came in round wooden boxes, and no city supermarket could match its flavor. Mrs. Fowler, the stout and graying matron who tended the store, rose to fetch her knife as Kate approached the counter.
“Bet I know what you want,” she smiled, and Kate acknowledged that she’d guessed correctly.
As the storekeeper cut off a generous hunk, weighed and wrapped it in waxed paper, she told Kate how glad they were to hear she was going to be living here for good; then, lowering her voice, said how awful it was that someone had been killed in her packhouse and did Dwight Bryant have any idea who he was or why he was there?
“Not for sure,” said Kate, “I believe they’re still checking his fingerprints.”
Before she could open her purse, Mrs. Fowler asked, “Want me to put this on y’all’s
“And go reeling into my obstetrician’s office? No, thank you.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for her appointment.
Rob called for the bill and on their way out, they paused by the cash register to watch the final shot of the game as Carolina put Clemson away for the year, 78-66.
C HAPTER 9
All up and down the radio dial, sportscasters were going wild. Duke and Georgia Tech seesawed back and forth with the lead.
“Duke’s ahead 61-59. Here comes Price with a twenty-five-footer.
Tech ties it up for the ninth time. Duke in possession. Stolen by Petway. Twelve seconds left—Petway to Price— missed! And we’re going into overtime!” shrieked a hoarse announcer.
Kate kept her eyes on the road, but her fingers continued to twiddle the dial knob until she hit a radio station playing an old Beatles song. Her foot relaxed on the accelerator and she dropped just below the speed limit, soothed as always by the strains of “Penny Lane.”
An aroma of celery and freshly baked wheat rolls rose from the brown grocery sacks on the back seat.
“More fruits and vegetables and roughage,” the obstetrician had said. The doctor had been brisk and efficient and, on the whole, pleased with Kate’s physical condition. “But no nonsense about dieting,” she told Kate. “You’re almost too thin. Drink a milk shake once in a while and try to cut out the cigarettes.”
Dr. Teresa Yates had been recommended by her doctor in New York, and Kate thought they would probably be compatible once basketball season ended. There was a small television set in the waiting room and Dr. Yates’s nurse kept popping in and out to relay the score throughout Kate’s examination.
It figured. A certificate behind Dr. Yates’s desk announced that she had interned at Duke Hospital.
There was one good side to the tournament, though. Kate hated having anyone hover while she tried on clothes, and the salesclerks at the maternity shop could barely be pried away from the game long enough to take her money for the slacks and tops she’d selected and tried on as freely as if she’d been alone in her own closet.
At the crossroads before her turnoff to the farm, Kate pulled in at a shabby white-frame country grocery and parked between a late-model pickup and one that was even older than Lacy’s.
Inside, the potbellied stove had been replaced by a small gas grate, but several men still sat around the soft drink chest on upended wooden cartons and slat-bottomed chairs to watch the ball game on a black-and-white television set up in a corner. They gave polite nods as Kate entered.
Cracker barrels and open bins of pickles were long gone and penny candy was two for a nickel these days, yet some things remained as they were when Jake was a small boy and had ridden his bike here for his mother to pick up items not worth a special trip into town: a loaf of bread, cigarettes, a quart of milk, or, best of all, a wedge of cheese.
Wheels of mild cheddar—everyone called it hoop cheese—still came in round wooden boxes, and no city supermarket could match its flavor. Mrs. Fowler, the stout and graying matron who tended the store, rose to fetch her knife as Kate approached the counter.
“Bet I know what you want,” she smiled, and Kate acknowledged that she’d guessed correctly.
As the storekeeper cut off a generous hunk, weighed and wrapped it in waxed paper, she told Kate how glad they were to hear she was going to be living here for good; then, lowering her voice, said how awful it was that someone had been killed in her packhouse and did Dwight Bryant have any idea who he was or why he was there?
“Not for sure,” said Kate, “I believe they’re still checking his fingerprints.”
Before she could open her purse, Mrs. Fowler asked, “Want me to put this on y’all’s
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