blows of his nose.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said when he came out of the bathroom. “You’ll destroy the fibers in your nose.”
He said nothing. She went into the bathroom. Why did she always feel much worse
after
she apologized.
She crawled into bed beside him. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, his hands folded under his head. Donna spent several minutes looking at him before she spoke. “I love you,” watching his mouth, waiting for him to reply.
“It’s okay,” he said, sliding an arm out from under his head and moving it toward her, her signal that she was finally being forgiven and it was all right to approach him. She moved into the half-circle his arm created, resting against his chest, running a hand up and down his bodywhile his hand absently stroked her back.
“Why do you give me such a hard time?” he asked softly.
Somewhere in her gut, in muted, muffled cries, the voice inside her began screaming.
SEVEN
“Y ou made this a different way,” he said.
“It’s the same way I always make shepherd’s pie.”
“No, it isn’t. Something’s different. I can taste it.”
“Nothing’s different. You say that every time.”
“Every time it’s different.”
“It’s the same way I always make it. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s all right. Not as thick as usual.” He rose from the table.
“Where are you going?”
He opened the cabinet door under the sink.
“What are you doing in there?”
He had his hand in the garbage bag.
“I thought so,” he said triumphantly, pulling out an empty tin of tomato sauce.
“You thought what?” Donna asked, her finely tuned tentacles sensing a response she would not like.
“Tomato sauce. I thought the recipe called for tomato paste.”
“The recipe calls for tomato sauce,” she said testily. “Are you going to come back to the table before it gets cold?”
“Let me see the recipe book.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Can’t I see the recipe book? No one said I didn’t believe you! Jeez, Donna. A little paranoid, aren’t you?”
Donna put down her fork and got up from the table. “You know, if I said something like that to you, you’d be furious.” She reached into the shelves over the phone where she kept her assorted cookbooks and handed him the well-worn copy of
Second Helpings, Please.
He took the book from her hands and let out a deep sigh. “Are you going to start something because I asked if I could see the cookbook?”
She looked down at her enormous belly. The doctor had said the baby could come any time now. Her due date was only two weeks away and it was, at best, an educated guess. “No, I’m not trying to start anything.”
She watched with growing irritation as he flipped through the pages.
“What’s it called?” he asked.
“Hamburger Shepherd’s Pie,” she answered, walking back to the kitchen table and sitting down. “And it’s getting cold.”
He read the list of ingredients. “Well, you’re right. Tomato sauce is what it says.”
“Thank you.”
He returned the book to its shelf. “I always thought you used tomato paste.”
“I usually do,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn’t. His eyes shot to hers with lightning speed. Shecontinued quietly. “I made a mistake once and used the tomato paste, and when you said you liked it—”
“You changed it.”
“No! I used it. Except today I didn’t have any tomato paste so I used tomato sauce which is what the recipe calls for in the first place.”
“Then why did you tell me you hadn’t changed anything?”
“Because I didn’t want to have precisely this conversation.”
“We wouldn’t be having it if you had told me the truth. I’m not stupid, you know. I knew something was different.”
“It tastes the same to me.”
“But not to me! I knew right away there was something different.”
“Do we have to continue this discussion? We sound like one of those commercials on TV! ‘That’s not
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said when he came out of the bathroom. “You’ll destroy the fibers in your nose.”
He said nothing. She went into the bathroom. Why did she always feel much worse
after
she apologized.
She crawled into bed beside him. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, his hands folded under his head. Donna spent several minutes looking at him before she spoke. “I love you,” watching his mouth, waiting for him to reply.
“It’s okay,” he said, sliding an arm out from under his head and moving it toward her, her signal that she was finally being forgiven and it was all right to approach him. She moved into the half-circle his arm created, resting against his chest, running a hand up and down his bodywhile his hand absently stroked her back.
“Why do you give me such a hard time?” he asked softly.
Somewhere in her gut, in muted, muffled cries, the voice inside her began screaming.
SEVEN
“Y ou made this a different way,” he said.
“It’s the same way I always make shepherd’s pie.”
“No, it isn’t. Something’s different. I can taste it.”
“Nothing’s different. You say that every time.”
“Every time it’s different.”
“It’s the same way I always make it. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s all right. Not as thick as usual.” He rose from the table.
“Where are you going?”
He opened the cabinet door under the sink.
“What are you doing in there?”
He had his hand in the garbage bag.
“I thought so,” he said triumphantly, pulling out an empty tin of tomato sauce.
“You thought what?” Donna asked, her finely tuned tentacles sensing a response she would not like.
“Tomato sauce. I thought the recipe called for tomato paste.”
“The recipe calls for tomato sauce,” she said testily. “Are you going to come back to the table before it gets cold?”
“Let me see the recipe book.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Can’t I see the recipe book? No one said I didn’t believe you! Jeez, Donna. A little paranoid, aren’t you?”
Donna put down her fork and got up from the table. “You know, if I said something like that to you, you’d be furious.” She reached into the shelves over the phone where she kept her assorted cookbooks and handed him the well-worn copy of
Second Helpings, Please.
He took the book from her hands and let out a deep sigh. “Are you going to start something because I asked if I could see the cookbook?”
She looked down at her enormous belly. The doctor had said the baby could come any time now. Her due date was only two weeks away and it was, at best, an educated guess. “No, I’m not trying to start anything.”
She watched with growing irritation as he flipped through the pages.
“What’s it called?” he asked.
“Hamburger Shepherd’s Pie,” she answered, walking back to the kitchen table and sitting down. “And it’s getting cold.”
He read the list of ingredients. “Well, you’re right. Tomato sauce is what it says.”
“Thank you.”
He returned the book to its shelf. “I always thought you used tomato paste.”
“I usually do,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn’t. His eyes shot to hers with lightning speed. Shecontinued quietly. “I made a mistake once and used the tomato paste, and when you said you liked it—”
“You changed it.”
“No! I used it. Except today I didn’t have any tomato paste so I used tomato sauce which is what the recipe calls for in the first place.”
“Then why did you tell me you hadn’t changed anything?”
“Because I didn’t want to have precisely this conversation.”
“We wouldn’t be having it if you had told me the truth. I’m not stupid, you know. I knew something was different.”
“It tastes the same to me.”
“But not to me! I knew right away there was something different.”
“Do we have to continue this discussion? We sound like one of those commercials on TV! ‘That’s not
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