it? Is the inn on fire?”
“No fire,” Freni said, still shaking me. “The English are revolting.”
I yawned. “ Tsk, tsk, dear, you really shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“Yah, maybe, but now is not the time for sermons. The English are revolting.”
“Well, okay, if you insist on a little disparagementbefore breakfast, that Gingko gal and her actor boyfriend are definitely Hollywood weird, that pudgy pair of carnivores have bizarre eating habits, and—uh—oh, that basketball coach is too tall. Only the African-American couple seem normal.”
“Magdalena, get your grip on yourself. I mean this literally. They are revolting downstairs.”
I translated Freni’s English into American Standard. “Oh! You mean they’re rioting?”
“Yah. The carnations say there is not enough meat for breakfast, and the hippie wants wheat germs for her cereal. Then they argue with each other about meat and cancer and”—Freni blushed—“hormones.”
“Oh, dear, and they were getting along together famously last night.”
“Yah, famous! They argue about that too. The Hollywood man says he is famous, and the black lady says she has never heard of him. Then he says all cyclists are crazy, and that makes the black man mad too, and the tall one tells them all to shut up.”
“She did?”
“Yah, but then the hippie calls the tall one a dike, and soon they are throwing food.”
“What?” I flung back the covers, burying Freni.
“Ach!” The poor woman floundered about, turning my quilt into a huffing, puffing creature.
I snatched my chenille robe from my bedside chair while my cousin extricated herself. “They’ll pay for any damages,” I roared and charged from the room.
Thank heavens Freni had exaggerated. The only food flung was one biscuit, which Archibald Murray admitted having tossed at Darlene Townsend, who was sitting opposite.
“Shame, shame, shame,” I said, pounding my fist on the table with each word. “Shame on all of you.” Fortunately, the table is solid oak, built by my ancestor Jacob “The Strong,” and has withstood generations of Yoder families.It, and Grandma Yoder’s bed, were the only two pieces of furniture to survive a tornado last year.
“She started it,” Dr. George Hanson said.
I glared at him down the considerable length of my nose. “And you call yourself a cyclist—I mean, a psychiatrist! You are all adults, and I expect you to act as such.”
“You tell them, Miss Yoder.” Pretty boy Archibald was grinning beneath his sunglasses. His teeth were so white, I would need a pair of shades of my own in order to glare at him.
“Be quiet, all of you!” I pounded so hard, the salt and pepper shakers danced. Fortunately, it was not a sin for them.
My guests grumbled into silence, like the children in my Sunday School class.
I pounded the table one more time for good measure. “Now listen up, folks. This is a respectable inn, not a den of iniquity. There won’t be any arguing at this table, and the only shouting will come from me. The same thing goes for name calling. Anyone who can’t follow these few simple rules of common decency is welcome to pack their bags and leave.”
“Then we’re out of here,” Dr. George Hanson said.
I smiled at the distinguished man. “Fine. But along with the application you submitted, was an agreement explaining that due to my booking system, and the excessive demand for my services, there will be no refunds. Under any circumstances.”
“Except death,” Freni said.
I smiled at the stout woman at my elbow. She had managed to extricate herself from the quilt, and although her organza indoor bonnet was askew, she looked none the worse for her ordeal.
“Yes,” I agreed, “except for death. And none of you look particularly dead.”
Like the kids in my Sunday School class, the group grumbled some more, but when they were certain Iwasn’t going to budge, and that they had better make the best of things, or else have a
“No fire,” Freni said, still shaking me. “The English are revolting.”
I yawned. “ Tsk, tsk, dear, you really shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“Yah, maybe, but now is not the time for sermons. The English are revolting.”
“Well, okay, if you insist on a little disparagementbefore breakfast, that Gingko gal and her actor boyfriend are definitely Hollywood weird, that pudgy pair of carnivores have bizarre eating habits, and—uh—oh, that basketball coach is too tall. Only the African-American couple seem normal.”
“Magdalena, get your grip on yourself. I mean this literally. They are revolting downstairs.”
I translated Freni’s English into American Standard. “Oh! You mean they’re rioting?”
“Yah. The carnations say there is not enough meat for breakfast, and the hippie wants wheat germs for her cereal. Then they argue with each other about meat and cancer and”—Freni blushed—“hormones.”
“Oh, dear, and they were getting along together famously last night.”
“Yah, famous! They argue about that too. The Hollywood man says he is famous, and the black lady says she has never heard of him. Then he says all cyclists are crazy, and that makes the black man mad too, and the tall one tells them all to shut up.”
“She did?”
“Yah, but then the hippie calls the tall one a dike, and soon they are throwing food.”
“What?” I flung back the covers, burying Freni.
“Ach!” The poor woman floundered about, turning my quilt into a huffing, puffing creature.
I snatched my chenille robe from my bedside chair while my cousin extricated herself. “They’ll pay for any damages,” I roared and charged from the room.
Thank heavens Freni had exaggerated. The only food flung was one biscuit, which Archibald Murray admitted having tossed at Darlene Townsend, who was sitting opposite.
“Shame, shame, shame,” I said, pounding my fist on the table with each word. “Shame on all of you.” Fortunately, the table is solid oak, built by my ancestor Jacob “The Strong,” and has withstood generations of Yoder families.It, and Grandma Yoder’s bed, were the only two pieces of furniture to survive a tornado last year.
“She started it,” Dr. George Hanson said.
I glared at him down the considerable length of my nose. “And you call yourself a cyclist—I mean, a psychiatrist! You are all adults, and I expect you to act as such.”
“You tell them, Miss Yoder.” Pretty boy Archibald was grinning beneath his sunglasses. His teeth were so white, I would need a pair of shades of my own in order to glare at him.
“Be quiet, all of you!” I pounded so hard, the salt and pepper shakers danced. Fortunately, it was not a sin for them.
My guests grumbled into silence, like the children in my Sunday School class.
I pounded the table one more time for good measure. “Now listen up, folks. This is a respectable inn, not a den of iniquity. There won’t be any arguing at this table, and the only shouting will come from me. The same thing goes for name calling. Anyone who can’t follow these few simple rules of common decency is welcome to pack their bags and leave.”
“Then we’re out of here,” Dr. George Hanson said.
I smiled at the distinguished man. “Fine. But along with the application you submitted, was an agreement explaining that due to my booking system, and the excessive demand for my services, there will be no refunds. Under any circumstances.”
“Except death,” Freni said.
I smiled at the stout woman at my elbow. She had managed to extricate herself from the quilt, and although her organza indoor bonnet was askew, she looked none the worse for her ordeal.
“Yes,” I agreed, “except for death. And none of you look particularly dead.”
Like the kids in my Sunday School class, the group grumbled some more, but when they were certain Iwasn’t going to budge, and that they had better make the best of things, or else have a
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