say Betty Crocker or Suzie Homemaker. Maybe even Master Chef. Patrice wasn’t the least bit prepared to hear “Mistress of Evasion.”
Stunned into silence, she maneuvered the chair alongside his minivan.
“You want to talk about it?” her dad asked as she rolled him onto the ramp.
“Talk about what?” she asked, though she knew perfectly well what he meant.
“Whatever has you in such a dither this morning.”
“Dither?” She forced a laugh. “Such talk, and on church property yet!”
Gus buckled himself into the passenger seat. “The Mistress of Evasion strikes again!” he teased. Then he reached out, wrapped a hand around her wrist. “Seriously, Treecie, you know you can come to me with anything, right?”
Well, Patrice thought, almost anything. Talk of her mother, of the suicide, had always been off limits, because long ago she’d decided that in his shoes, she wouldn’t want to discuss it. For the same reason, she rarely spoke of Timmy. “’Course I know that,” she said, patting his hand. “Really, Dad, I’m fine.”
He gave her an “if you say so” look.
She walked around to her side of the van and slid in behind the steering wheel.
“Pork chops,” Gus said.
Cranking the motor, Patrice met his eyes.
“For Sunday dinner?”
“That sounds good. It’s been a while since I’ve made—”
“Not just any pork chops,” he said good-naturedly, “you said stuffed. ”
It took so little to please him that even if she’d been in the mood for something else, Patrice gladly would have shelved it in favor of his choice. “Okeydoke. You want to come with me to the grocery store to pick up what we need? Or would you rather I drop you off at home first?”
Chin out and lips pursed, he considered her question. “Maybe I’ll just tag along, see if I can talk you into some junk food.” He reached over the console, gave her shoulder an affectionate shove.
“Junk food, huh?”
“Well, sure. You can’t invite an eligible bachelor to dinner and not serve a decent dessert.”
Eligible bachelor.
“He doesn’t seem like the fussy type to me.”
“Bachelor of the Year, two years running?” Gus chuckled. “Ri-i-ight.”
“Bachelor of the Year?”
“I figured news like that was all over the hospital. I looked him up on the Internet. Seems Mr. Footloose and Fancy Free really gets around.”
“Gets around?”
“Y’know, like those auctions where rich gals bid on a guy and the money goes to charity? One article I read said that all by himself, Wade brought in something like ten grand.” He whistled through his teeth. “Think of it…some broad paid ten thousand bucks for one date with the guy!”
She ignored the admiring tone in his voice. “Dad,” Patrice said, “it’s not polite to say ‘broad’ these days.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not politically correct, that’s why.”
“Politically correct, my foot,” he said, harrumphing. “Why should any woman be offended? Don’t they know it’s a term of endearment?”
Grinning, she merely looked at him.
“No, really,” he said, and as if to prove his point, added, “In my day, the term was a compliment! Guys used it to describe a gal they liked, someone down-to-earth, who wasn’t all froufrou, who wasn’t into playin’ games.”
“Froufrou?”
“Y’know, a nose-in-the-air, I-know-what’s-best-for-you snob. Your mother was a broad, I’ll have you know, and proud of it, too.”
“Really.”
“Really. The woman was a saint, I tell you. She wasn’t afraid of hard work, wasn’t above getting dirty doin’ it, either. Sweetest, most loving, humblest human being I ever met, present company excluded. Person couldn’t help but love her.”
Patrice heard the sadness in Gus’s voice and prayed that God would steer the conversation to a happier subject.
Gus shrugged. “I give up. The feminists have ruined all the great words, if you ask me.”
Thank you, Lord, she thought.
The conversation had
Stunned into silence, she maneuvered the chair alongside his minivan.
“You want to talk about it?” her dad asked as she rolled him onto the ramp.
“Talk about what?” she asked, though she knew perfectly well what he meant.
“Whatever has you in such a dither this morning.”
“Dither?” She forced a laugh. “Such talk, and on church property yet!”
Gus buckled himself into the passenger seat. “The Mistress of Evasion strikes again!” he teased. Then he reached out, wrapped a hand around her wrist. “Seriously, Treecie, you know you can come to me with anything, right?”
Well, Patrice thought, almost anything. Talk of her mother, of the suicide, had always been off limits, because long ago she’d decided that in his shoes, she wouldn’t want to discuss it. For the same reason, she rarely spoke of Timmy. “’Course I know that,” she said, patting his hand. “Really, Dad, I’m fine.”
He gave her an “if you say so” look.
She walked around to her side of the van and slid in behind the steering wheel.
“Pork chops,” Gus said.
Cranking the motor, Patrice met his eyes.
“For Sunday dinner?”
“That sounds good. It’s been a while since I’ve made—”
“Not just any pork chops,” he said good-naturedly, “you said stuffed. ”
It took so little to please him that even if she’d been in the mood for something else, Patrice gladly would have shelved it in favor of his choice. “Okeydoke. You want to come with me to the grocery store to pick up what we need? Or would you rather I drop you off at home first?”
Chin out and lips pursed, he considered her question. “Maybe I’ll just tag along, see if I can talk you into some junk food.” He reached over the console, gave her shoulder an affectionate shove.
“Junk food, huh?”
“Well, sure. You can’t invite an eligible bachelor to dinner and not serve a decent dessert.”
Eligible bachelor.
“He doesn’t seem like the fussy type to me.”
“Bachelor of the Year, two years running?” Gus chuckled. “Ri-i-ight.”
“Bachelor of the Year?”
“I figured news like that was all over the hospital. I looked him up on the Internet. Seems Mr. Footloose and Fancy Free really gets around.”
“Gets around?”
“Y’know, like those auctions where rich gals bid on a guy and the money goes to charity? One article I read said that all by himself, Wade brought in something like ten grand.” He whistled through his teeth. “Think of it…some broad paid ten thousand bucks for one date with the guy!”
She ignored the admiring tone in his voice. “Dad,” Patrice said, “it’s not polite to say ‘broad’ these days.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not politically correct, that’s why.”
“Politically correct, my foot,” he said, harrumphing. “Why should any woman be offended? Don’t they know it’s a term of endearment?”
Grinning, she merely looked at him.
“No, really,” he said, and as if to prove his point, added, “In my day, the term was a compliment! Guys used it to describe a gal they liked, someone down-to-earth, who wasn’t all froufrou, who wasn’t into playin’ games.”
“Froufrou?”
“Y’know, a nose-in-the-air, I-know-what’s-best-for-you snob. Your mother was a broad, I’ll have you know, and proud of it, too.”
“Really.”
“Really. The woman was a saint, I tell you. She wasn’t afraid of hard work, wasn’t above getting dirty doin’ it, either. Sweetest, most loving, humblest human being I ever met, present company excluded. Person couldn’t help but love her.”
Patrice heard the sadness in Gus’s voice and prayed that God would steer the conversation to a happier subject.
Gus shrugged. “I give up. The feminists have ruined all the great words, if you ask me.”
Thank you, Lord, she thought.
The conversation had
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