everything the market will bear.”
“As the sign says, we’re paying for convenience.” Liza held open the back door as Michael dumped his burden on the drinks. “This isn’t exactly a well-traveled road. I’m surprised Mr. Patel manages to stay in business.”
They got in the car, retraced their route, and then continued up the hill. Soon they arrived at Liza’s favorite picnic spot. A copse of trees provided shade while the elevation offered an amazing view of the town and the bay in the distance.
Liza spread an old blanket right at the edge of sunlight while Michael lugged over the bag of ice. “This thing has frozen into one big mass,” he complained.
“Just drop it a few times.”
While he did that, she went back to the car, returning with the toolbox from the trunk.
“I think it’s in three pieces now,” Michael puffed as he bent to pick up the bag again.
Liza dropped to her knees and opened the box, removing a utility knife and a screwdriver. She slit the plastic, spread it, and then began attacking the frozen masses, using the screwdriver as an improvised ice pick. “Why don’t you bring over the drinks?”
When Michael returned, she set the bottles in the chopped ice and then rose to retrieve the rest of their lunch.
“There, now,” she said, setting the sandwiches and salad down beside Michael, who was already sprawled on the blanket. She poked a toe in his ribs. “Shift over.”
He made room, and she joined him on the blanket, hip to hip. “We’re lucky. If those developers had gotten their way, this would probably be the front lawn of a luxury residence for some family from California.”
“I thought you guys really hated those interlopers from California.”
Liza shrugged. “They’re a fact of life . . . and they help to spread the tax bill a bit farther around. Pauncecombe and his cronies have turned Killamook into Disneyland on the Bay. They want to maintain the status quo, and that’s expensive, as I found when I took over the property taxes for the house in Maiden’s Bay. Not to mention that the Killamook machine keeps siphoning off funds for their own purposes.”
“I guess it’s true,” Michael said. “You can’t go home again.” He looked over at Liza. “And it looks as if revisiting your past may not be much fun, either.”
“Some people look back on high school as the most wonderful time of their lives.” Liza shook her head. “I’m not one of them. Too much petty BS—and yes, Brandy D’Alessandro was often the one who was dishing it out. Now I see her with her perfect boobs, showing off her tiny waist with a gold belt, and she’s probably paying for it with money her husband sucked out of my taxes.”
Michael snaked his hand into the bag of ice. “I think there’s only one cure when you get that hot under the collar. And luckily, I think the beer is cool enough now.”
He extracted a bottle, twisted off the cap, and handed it to Liza. “Keep on like this, and you’ll end up with no appetite for your sandwich.”
“I was hoping we could trade halves,” Liza said and then took a sip.
It took some additional negotiation, but Michael finally agreed to swap half his sandwich. They took their time eating, and Liza switched to soda after she finished her first beer.
And for a long while they just lay in companionable silence on the blanket, looking up at the sky through the branches overhead.
“The only thing we lack is music,” Michael said, stretching lazily. “My folks used to pack a transistor radio with our picnic lunches.”
“With my luck, all we’d get is KMUC, and we’re coming up to the Blowhard Hour.”
Michael turned to her. “Blowhard Hour?”
“They’ve got some low-rent political pundit who pontificates and takes phone calls. He might as well be the minister of propaganda for the Killamook machine.”
She decided to demonstrate after they’d cleaned up and gotten back in the car, tuning in the local station.
“Any
“As the sign says, we’re paying for convenience.” Liza held open the back door as Michael dumped his burden on the drinks. “This isn’t exactly a well-traveled road. I’m surprised Mr. Patel manages to stay in business.”
They got in the car, retraced their route, and then continued up the hill. Soon they arrived at Liza’s favorite picnic spot. A copse of trees provided shade while the elevation offered an amazing view of the town and the bay in the distance.
Liza spread an old blanket right at the edge of sunlight while Michael lugged over the bag of ice. “This thing has frozen into one big mass,” he complained.
“Just drop it a few times.”
While he did that, she went back to the car, returning with the toolbox from the trunk.
“I think it’s in three pieces now,” Michael puffed as he bent to pick up the bag again.
Liza dropped to her knees and opened the box, removing a utility knife and a screwdriver. She slit the plastic, spread it, and then began attacking the frozen masses, using the screwdriver as an improvised ice pick. “Why don’t you bring over the drinks?”
When Michael returned, she set the bottles in the chopped ice and then rose to retrieve the rest of their lunch.
“There, now,” she said, setting the sandwiches and salad down beside Michael, who was already sprawled on the blanket. She poked a toe in his ribs. “Shift over.”
He made room, and she joined him on the blanket, hip to hip. “We’re lucky. If those developers had gotten their way, this would probably be the front lawn of a luxury residence for some family from California.”
“I thought you guys really hated those interlopers from California.”
Liza shrugged. “They’re a fact of life . . . and they help to spread the tax bill a bit farther around. Pauncecombe and his cronies have turned Killamook into Disneyland on the Bay. They want to maintain the status quo, and that’s expensive, as I found when I took over the property taxes for the house in Maiden’s Bay. Not to mention that the Killamook machine keeps siphoning off funds for their own purposes.”
“I guess it’s true,” Michael said. “You can’t go home again.” He looked over at Liza. “And it looks as if revisiting your past may not be much fun, either.”
“Some people look back on high school as the most wonderful time of their lives.” Liza shook her head. “I’m not one of them. Too much petty BS—and yes, Brandy D’Alessandro was often the one who was dishing it out. Now I see her with her perfect boobs, showing off her tiny waist with a gold belt, and she’s probably paying for it with money her husband sucked out of my taxes.”
Michael snaked his hand into the bag of ice. “I think there’s only one cure when you get that hot under the collar. And luckily, I think the beer is cool enough now.”
He extracted a bottle, twisted off the cap, and handed it to Liza. “Keep on like this, and you’ll end up with no appetite for your sandwich.”
“I was hoping we could trade halves,” Liza said and then took a sip.
It took some additional negotiation, but Michael finally agreed to swap half his sandwich. They took their time eating, and Liza switched to soda after she finished her first beer.
And for a long while they just lay in companionable silence on the blanket, looking up at the sky through the branches overhead.
“The only thing we lack is music,” Michael said, stretching lazily. “My folks used to pack a transistor radio with our picnic lunches.”
“With my luck, all we’d get is KMUC, and we’re coming up to the Blowhard Hour.”
Michael turned to her. “Blowhard Hour?”
“They’ve got some low-rent political pundit who pontificates and takes phone calls. He might as well be the minister of propaganda for the Killamook machine.”
She decided to demonstrate after they’d cleaned up and gotten back in the car, tuning in the local station.
“Any
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