Knowing You by Maureen Child Page B

were over and Paul’s were riding high. Where was the fair in that? Finally, though, he looked at Paul. “We’re not gonna fight, are we?”
    Paul released a breath. “Doesn’t look like it.”
    â€œAlmost a shame. It’s been a while.”
    â€œYeah, it has,” Paul agreed, taking a seat again and reaching for his coffee.
    Nick sat down, too, grabbed his cup, and took another long drink to steady himself again. “You remember the last one?”
    â€œNot likely to forget it,” Paul said, smiling now in memory. “Three years ago. At the Fourth of July picnic. You cheated at the softball game.”
    â€œI was safe,” Nick said automatically.
    â€œOut by a mile and you know it.”
    â€œHey, the day hasn’t come when you could beat me on a playing field.”
    â€œI did that day,” Paul countered.
    They sat there in the kitchen, each of them comfortable enough to lapse into a thoughtful silence that ticked past with a gentle, steady beat.
    And after a few minutes, Nick picked up his coffee, took a long, deep drink, and set the cup back downagain. Looking at his brother, he said simply, “Change really sucks.”
    Paul thought about all of the other changes that had happened in the last few days and wondered what his brother would have to say about any of them if he knew. But Nick wasn’t going to know. The guy was low enough already. Hearing about his twin and Stevie would topple him over the emotional razor’s edge he was busy balancing on. Besides, it was over. Yet another change. So Paul kept his mouth shut. No point in opening up that can of worms now. So instead, he just agreed. “Damn right it does.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œI’ M TELLING YOU , S TEVIE , those kids from the karate class are about to knock my fence down.”
    â€œIt can’t be that bad, Mrs. Frances.”
    The older woman blew at a lock of dyed red hair as it dangled like a fishhook over her forehead. Then she picked up her cookie, took a savage bite, and chewed. Waving her arms, she chopped and slashed an invisible enemy as a demonstration. “Those little thugs come out of that class with way too much energy to spare and they’re chopping at my picket fence and screaming like they’re about to attack.”
    Stevie set the coffeepot down onto its burner, then turned back to face one of her best customers. “They’re not thugs; they’re just kids.”
    â€œThuglets,” the woman said. Using what was left of her cookie as a pointer, she jabbed it toward Stevie. “You mark my words. Those little brats need their bottoms warmed, or pretty soon they’ll be knocking over liquor stores.”
    Stevie’s lips twitched. “Don’t look now, but you’re starting to sound like Virginia.”
    The other woman’s eyes bugged open, then narrowed. “Well now, you’re just being mean.”
    Laughing, Stevie shifted a look at Virginia, one-third of Chandler’s Terrible Three. The older women had snagged a table in the only splotch of sunlight in the shop. They huddled together, like the old crones in that play of Shakespeare’s—which one was that? Didn’t matter. All they needed was a bubbling cauldron. They had the nasty dispositions already.
    Virginia—always on the lookout for “gangsters”—wore two red circles of what she still called
rouge
on what used to be her cheeks. Just like her mentor, Abigail. But her skin had faded and sunk so much, she was pretty much just drawing with crayon on her bones. Abigail, the leader of the little coven, was at least fifteen years older than Virginia’s seventy-five, but what she lacked in age she made up in mean. Abigail’s rouge was even darker. And Rachel, the last member of the Three, was only in her sixties, but her spirit was as wizened as the other two’s faces put together.
    Scary bunch. They were always the