at all. And lately I’ve been wondering if maybe I should write horror. That way, my reputation would be an asset.”
“Not funny.”
“But true. Did I tell you Victor’s family’s filing a wrongful death suit against me?”
“No. Good God, what can they be thinking?”
“That they want someone to blame, I guess.”
“So you’re fighting it, right?”
“Yes. And then I’m selling my house and moving away.”
Barb’s misty blue-gray eyes widened. “No way. You love that place on Blue Moon Beach. It’s so perfect—the perfect writer’s retreat. I dream of having a place like that—something all to myself, where I can actually hear myself think.” She gazed around the cluttered kitchen in frustration. “I’m weeks behind on my deadline, and Ralph and the boys don’t give a hoot. I swear, sometimes I hate my life. I really do. I’d kill to have your life—oh, sorry.”
Sandra forgave her with a wave of her hand. “Trust me, you don’t want my life. Sometimes
I’d
kill for a little of your noise and chaos.”
Barb pushed aside her coffee mug and put her hand over Sandra’s. The connection felt warm and good. “I worry about you, Sandy. You’re too detached, alone.” Barb held her gaze. “I’m speaking as your friend here. I was worried even before all this mess with Victor. I used to watch you at party functions and social events—you always seemed alone in a crowd, like a pleasant, uninvolved stranger who was just passing through.”
Stung, Sandra withdrew her hand. “It’s easy for you to sit here and say these things. You’ve got a houseful of guys who adore you, and your books are read by millions— “
“That’s one way of looking at it. Another way is that I live in a house that’s falling down before it’s finished being built, the boys are a pack of hyenas and Ralph would rather think about his next chest-beating weekend with the guys than the fact that we’ve had three neighborhood guild warnings about the state of our yard. You think this has been easy street all these years?”
Her troubles sounded mundane and lovely, but Sandra understood that they were very real to Barb. She also realized that as wonderful as their friendship was, there were things about each other’s lives they would never comprehend. “Got any tequila?” she asked, only half joking.
“I have something better.” Barb got up from the table. Rummaging in the cluttered pantry, she moved aside boxes of Cap’n Crunch cereal and bags of Chee•tos held shut with clothespins. After a moment, she turned with a triumphant grin on her face and held out a gold box with a crushed Christmas bow stuck to the lid. “Godiva.”
Chapter
9
T hat,” Mike said, pushing back from the big kitchen table and grinning at Gloria Carmichael, “was the best thing that happened to me all week.”
Wearing an old bib apron imprinted with a fish and the slogan “I Got Scrod In Paradise,” Lenny’s wife started clearing away the dishes. Round and soft as a ripe peach, she had crooked teeth and an honest smile. “Yeah? I thought the puttanesca sauce needed a little more anchovy.”
“It was outstanding,” Mike said, and he meant it. Lenny and Gloria invited him to dinner every other Sunday, when he didn’t have the kids. They acted as though it was no big deal, but they had to know their gesture of friendship helped calm the loneliness howling inside him.
Gloria stopped behind his chair and planted a loud kiss on the top of his head. “Your mama raised you right.”
“Don’t go telling him that,” Lenny warned. “He’ll get all full of himself.”
“Yeah?” Gloria scraped a plate into the trash. “You ought to try paying me a compliment sometime, pinhead.”
“Don’t believe her ribbing, Lenny,” Mike said. “She’s nuts about you.” The earthy affection between the two of them was obvious to anyone with half a brain. This was what a marriage was supposed to be—love and laughter and being
“Not funny.”
“But true. Did I tell you Victor’s family’s filing a wrongful death suit against me?”
“No. Good God, what can they be thinking?”
“That they want someone to blame, I guess.”
“So you’re fighting it, right?”
“Yes. And then I’m selling my house and moving away.”
Barb’s misty blue-gray eyes widened. “No way. You love that place on Blue Moon Beach. It’s so perfect—the perfect writer’s retreat. I dream of having a place like that—something all to myself, where I can actually hear myself think.” She gazed around the cluttered kitchen in frustration. “I’m weeks behind on my deadline, and Ralph and the boys don’t give a hoot. I swear, sometimes I hate my life. I really do. I’d kill to have your life—oh, sorry.”
Sandra forgave her with a wave of her hand. “Trust me, you don’t want my life. Sometimes
I’d
kill for a little of your noise and chaos.”
Barb pushed aside her coffee mug and put her hand over Sandra’s. The connection felt warm and good. “I worry about you, Sandy. You’re too detached, alone.” Barb held her gaze. “I’m speaking as your friend here. I was worried even before all this mess with Victor. I used to watch you at party functions and social events—you always seemed alone in a crowd, like a pleasant, uninvolved stranger who was just passing through.”
Stung, Sandra withdrew her hand. “It’s easy for you to sit here and say these things. You’ve got a houseful of guys who adore you, and your books are read by millions— “
“That’s one way of looking at it. Another way is that I live in a house that’s falling down before it’s finished being built, the boys are a pack of hyenas and Ralph would rather think about his next chest-beating weekend with the guys than the fact that we’ve had three neighborhood guild warnings about the state of our yard. You think this has been easy street all these years?”
Her troubles sounded mundane and lovely, but Sandra understood that they were very real to Barb. She also realized that as wonderful as their friendship was, there were things about each other’s lives they would never comprehend. “Got any tequila?” she asked, only half joking.
“I have something better.” Barb got up from the table. Rummaging in the cluttered pantry, she moved aside boxes of Cap’n Crunch cereal and bags of Chee•tos held shut with clothespins. After a moment, she turned with a triumphant grin on her face and held out a gold box with a crushed Christmas bow stuck to the lid. “Godiva.”
Chapter
9
T hat,” Mike said, pushing back from the big kitchen table and grinning at Gloria Carmichael, “was the best thing that happened to me all week.”
Wearing an old bib apron imprinted with a fish and the slogan “I Got Scrod In Paradise,” Lenny’s wife started clearing away the dishes. Round and soft as a ripe peach, she had crooked teeth and an honest smile. “Yeah? I thought the puttanesca sauce needed a little more anchovy.”
“It was outstanding,” Mike said, and he meant it. Lenny and Gloria invited him to dinner every other Sunday, when he didn’t have the kids. They acted as though it was no big deal, but they had to know their gesture of friendship helped calm the loneliness howling inside him.
Gloria stopped behind his chair and planted a loud kiss on the top of his head. “Your mama raised you right.”
“Don’t go telling him that,” Lenny warned. “He’ll get all full of himself.”
“Yeah?” Gloria scraped a plate into the trash. “You ought to try paying me a compliment sometime, pinhead.”
“Don’t believe her ribbing, Lenny,” Mike said. “She’s nuts about you.” The earthy affection between the two of them was obvious to anyone with half a brain. This was what a marriage was supposed to be—love and laughter and being
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