castle at the community center, Mr. McKettrick,” he announced exuberantly. “And I’m running for king.”
“I heard about the castle,” Tate said, with a wan smile. For a moment, his weary gaze connected with Libby’s. “I didn’t know there was going to be a special election, though.”
“Only kids can vote,” Calvin said importantly. “ Little kids, who go to playschool. The big ones don’t even know we’re going to elect a king.”
“Ah,” Tate said, “a coup. I’m impressed.”
“What’s a koo?” Calvin asked.
Tate sighed.
“Never mind, Calvin,” Libby interceded gently. “Go back to your table and watch for customers.”
“Why?” He pointed to Tate. “We’ve already got one.”
Tate chuckled at that, but it was a raw, broken sound, and hearing it made the backs of Libby’s eyes burn.
“Calvin,” she said evenly, but with affection, “I said never mind.”
“Jeez,” Calvin protested, flinging his arms out from his sides and then letting them fall back with a slight slapping sound. “People talk to me like I’m a baby or something, and I’m four years old. ”
“Go figure,” Tate said, with appropriate sympathy.
Libby set a cup of black coffee in front of Tate.
Calvin stalked back to his post to keep watch, clearly disgusted and probably still wondering what a coup was.
“That kid,” Tate remarked, after taking an appreciative sip of the coffee, “is way too smart. Is he really only four—or is he forty, and short for his age?”
The way Tate said “kid,” reflected Libby, was a 180 from the way Jubal Tabor did. Why was that?
“Tell me about it,” Julie interjected before Libby could respond, as she came out of the kitchen and set a plate of fresh scones in front of Tate, along with a little bowl of butter pats in foil wrapping. She’d wiped the flour smears from her face at some point, and even with the pallor of shock replacing the usual pink in her cheeks, she was radiantly lovely. “Eat these, McKettrick. You look like hell warmed over. Twice.”
“You always had a way with words, Jules,” he replied. But, his big hands shaking almost but not quite imperceptibly, he opened two pats of butter, sliced a steaming scone in two, and smeared it on. “And with cooking.”
Libby was seized by a sudden, fiercely irrational jealousy, gone as quickly as it came, fortunately. No matter how many new recipes she tried, how many chef shows and demonstrations she watched on satellite TV, taking notes and doing her best to follow instructions, when it came to cooking, she was doomed to be below average.
She was, she supposed, painfully ordinary.
Julie was the gypsy sister, with many and varied talents, of which baking was only one. She could sing, dance and act. Her scones were already drawing in customers, and if she ever made her float-away biscuits, folks would break down the door to get at them. She was great with kids— all kids, from her students to Calvin.
On top of all that, Julie had the kind of looks that made men stop and stare, even when they’d known her all their lives.
Paige, the baby of the family, was the smart one, the cool, competent one. And she was just as beautiful as Julie, though in a different way.
Libby bit her lower lip. As for her—well—she was just the oldest.
She was passably pretty, but she couldn’t carry a tune, let alone perform in professional theater companies, singing and dancing in shows people paid money to see—spectacular productions of Cats and Phantom of the Opera and Kiss Me, Kate, as Julie had done periodically, during her college years.
She didn’t shine in a life-and-death emergency, like Paige.
And why was she even thinking thoughts like this, whenPablo Ruiz, a man she’d liked and deeply respected, had just died—and long before his time, too?
“I don’t see a single customer!” Calvin reported, his voice ringing across the shop.
“Keep looking,” Julie counseled. “There’s got to be one out
“I heard about the castle,” Tate said, with a wan smile. For a moment, his weary gaze connected with Libby’s. “I didn’t know there was going to be a special election, though.”
“Only kids can vote,” Calvin said importantly. “ Little kids, who go to playschool. The big ones don’t even know we’re going to elect a king.”
“Ah,” Tate said, “a coup. I’m impressed.”
“What’s a koo?” Calvin asked.
Tate sighed.
“Never mind, Calvin,” Libby interceded gently. “Go back to your table and watch for customers.”
“Why?” He pointed to Tate. “We’ve already got one.”
Tate chuckled at that, but it was a raw, broken sound, and hearing it made the backs of Libby’s eyes burn.
“Calvin,” she said evenly, but with affection, “I said never mind.”
“Jeez,” Calvin protested, flinging his arms out from his sides and then letting them fall back with a slight slapping sound. “People talk to me like I’m a baby or something, and I’m four years old. ”
“Go figure,” Tate said, with appropriate sympathy.
Libby set a cup of black coffee in front of Tate.
Calvin stalked back to his post to keep watch, clearly disgusted and probably still wondering what a coup was.
“That kid,” Tate remarked, after taking an appreciative sip of the coffee, “is way too smart. Is he really only four—or is he forty, and short for his age?”
The way Tate said “kid,” reflected Libby, was a 180 from the way Jubal Tabor did. Why was that?
“Tell me about it,” Julie interjected before Libby could respond, as she came out of the kitchen and set a plate of fresh scones in front of Tate, along with a little bowl of butter pats in foil wrapping. She’d wiped the flour smears from her face at some point, and even with the pallor of shock replacing the usual pink in her cheeks, she was radiantly lovely. “Eat these, McKettrick. You look like hell warmed over. Twice.”
“You always had a way with words, Jules,” he replied. But, his big hands shaking almost but not quite imperceptibly, he opened two pats of butter, sliced a steaming scone in two, and smeared it on. “And with cooking.”
Libby was seized by a sudden, fiercely irrational jealousy, gone as quickly as it came, fortunately. No matter how many new recipes she tried, how many chef shows and demonstrations she watched on satellite TV, taking notes and doing her best to follow instructions, when it came to cooking, she was doomed to be below average.
She was, she supposed, painfully ordinary.
Julie was the gypsy sister, with many and varied talents, of which baking was only one. She could sing, dance and act. Her scones were already drawing in customers, and if she ever made her float-away biscuits, folks would break down the door to get at them. She was great with kids— all kids, from her students to Calvin.
On top of all that, Julie had the kind of looks that made men stop and stare, even when they’d known her all their lives.
Paige, the baby of the family, was the smart one, the cool, competent one. And she was just as beautiful as Julie, though in a different way.
Libby bit her lower lip. As for her—well—she was just the oldest.
She was passably pretty, but she couldn’t carry a tune, let alone perform in professional theater companies, singing and dancing in shows people paid money to see—spectacular productions of Cats and Phantom of the Opera and Kiss Me, Kate, as Julie had done periodically, during her college years.
She didn’t shine in a life-and-death emergency, like Paige.
And why was she even thinking thoughts like this, whenPablo Ruiz, a man she’d liked and deeply respected, had just died—and long before his time, too?
“I don’t see a single customer!” Calvin reported, his voice ringing across the shop.
“Keep looking,” Julie counseled. “There’s got to be one out
Similar Books
