been proven by four unsuccessful marriages and a string of other relationships with even less longevity. Which, perhaps, suggests the brain-dead condition is reversible.
“I remember who she is,” he said. “But she didn’t wanna come. She hates California.”
I won the battle with the door and stepped inside. Harlequin thundered up, nails clicking. I gave his ear a tug before he galloped a loop around us, then scrambled down the outside steps. I closed the door behind him and turned toward Peter.
“Then I repeat,” I said, “why are you here?”
Pete sauntered into my kitchen and began rummaging through my refrigerator. “If I didn’t know better, sis, I’d say you’re not very happy to see me.”
I scowled at his rear end. Why didn’t McMullen men get fat? “I’m pretty well stocked on dead rats right now,” I said.
He chuckled, gave me a glance over his shoulder, then gazed back into my fridge again. “So you found that, huh? Christ, don’t you keep any food in this place?”
“Peter, why are you here?” I asked. “It’s, like, what, three seconds before your wedding?”
“Jesus, Christopher!” He straightened. “Can’t a guy visit his little sister a couple weeks before his wedding?”
I stared at him, remembered the rat and a dozen other decaying rodents, and said, “No,” with some feeling.
He laughed again. “I’m starving.” Harlequin whined at the door. Pete let him in, grabbing at his tail as he entered, and Harley, always ready for a romp with the boys, made a lunge and galloped past, doing a mad loop through the family room and back into the kitchen. Pete snagged him on the way through and flopped to the floor, dog on his lap, both panting happily. “Harley’s hungry, too.” He glanced up. “Let’s eat.”
I opened the cupboard where the dog food should have been. It was, quite literally, bare. I swore under my breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re out of dog food, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer, but he was already crooning to Harlequin as he wrestled him onto his back. “Mommy’s out of dog food. She’s not a very good mommy, is she?”
I refrained from cracking him over the head with a frying pan so as not to give the impression that I wasn’t a very good sister, either.
Popping to his feet, Pete make a feint to the right. Harlequin lunged after, then seeing the fake, dashed off into the family room again, ears flying, paws scrambling madly. Pete dashed after. If I hadn’t had the misfortune of knowing him since my birth, I would have thought he was on drugs. But it was just his normal behavior. Had ADHD been discovered earlier, the whole damn McMullen clan would have been high on Ritalin and self-pity years ago.
“Hey.” He was back in a second. “Let’s go get some groceries.”
“Why are you—”
“I’ll cook,” he said.
My mouth remained open for a second, prepared for the genius to come. “You cook?” The idea was both ludicrous and intriguing.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said, and handed me my purse. I reached for it, but he had already snatched it back.
Still I didn’t kill him. Instead, I left Harlequin with a promise of goodies and was soon sliding behind my Saturn’s little steering wheel. Pete plopped in beside me.
“Shouldn’t a classy psychiatrist like you have a flashier car?” he asked.
“Psychologist, Pete,” I said. I felt tired.
“What?”
“I’m a psychologist,” I said.
“Yeah?” He was staring at me. “Since when?”
I gritted my teeth. A blue Pontiac zipped past on the shoulder. This is a relatively common occurrence in the City of Angels, and not exactly an anomaly in Chi-town, but Pete jerked away from his door, and I turned toward him, curious. “Something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“You seem nervous,” I said, and refrained from grinning even as I thought of a thousand times he’d scared the living bejeezus out of me. My mood was improving.
He snorted, glanced
“I remember who she is,” he said. “But she didn’t wanna come. She hates California.”
I won the battle with the door and stepped inside. Harlequin thundered up, nails clicking. I gave his ear a tug before he galloped a loop around us, then scrambled down the outside steps. I closed the door behind him and turned toward Peter.
“Then I repeat,” I said, “why are you here?”
Pete sauntered into my kitchen and began rummaging through my refrigerator. “If I didn’t know better, sis, I’d say you’re not very happy to see me.”
I scowled at his rear end. Why didn’t McMullen men get fat? “I’m pretty well stocked on dead rats right now,” I said.
He chuckled, gave me a glance over his shoulder, then gazed back into my fridge again. “So you found that, huh? Christ, don’t you keep any food in this place?”
“Peter, why are you here?” I asked. “It’s, like, what, three seconds before your wedding?”
“Jesus, Christopher!” He straightened. “Can’t a guy visit his little sister a couple weeks before his wedding?”
I stared at him, remembered the rat and a dozen other decaying rodents, and said, “No,” with some feeling.
He laughed again. “I’m starving.” Harlequin whined at the door. Pete let him in, grabbing at his tail as he entered, and Harley, always ready for a romp with the boys, made a lunge and galloped past, doing a mad loop through the family room and back into the kitchen. Pete snagged him on the way through and flopped to the floor, dog on his lap, both panting happily. “Harley’s hungry, too.” He glanced up. “Let’s eat.”
I opened the cupboard where the dog food should have been. It was, quite literally, bare. I swore under my breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re out of dog food, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer, but he was already crooning to Harlequin as he wrestled him onto his back. “Mommy’s out of dog food. She’s not a very good mommy, is she?”
I refrained from cracking him over the head with a frying pan so as not to give the impression that I wasn’t a very good sister, either.
Popping to his feet, Pete make a feint to the right. Harlequin lunged after, then seeing the fake, dashed off into the family room again, ears flying, paws scrambling madly. Pete dashed after. If I hadn’t had the misfortune of knowing him since my birth, I would have thought he was on drugs. But it was just his normal behavior. Had ADHD been discovered earlier, the whole damn McMullen clan would have been high on Ritalin and self-pity years ago.
“Hey.” He was back in a second. “Let’s go get some groceries.”
“Why are you—”
“I’ll cook,” he said.
My mouth remained open for a second, prepared for the genius to come. “You cook?” The idea was both ludicrous and intriguing.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said, and handed me my purse. I reached for it, but he had already snatched it back.
Still I didn’t kill him. Instead, I left Harlequin with a promise of goodies and was soon sliding behind my Saturn’s little steering wheel. Pete plopped in beside me.
“Shouldn’t a classy psychiatrist like you have a flashier car?” he asked.
“Psychologist, Pete,” I said. I felt tired.
“What?”
“I’m a psychologist,” I said.
“Yeah?” He was staring at me. “Since when?”
I gritted my teeth. A blue Pontiac zipped past on the shoulder. This is a relatively common occurrence in the City of Angels, and not exactly an anomaly in Chi-town, but Pete jerked away from his door, and I turned toward him, curious. “Something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“You seem nervous,” I said, and refrained from grinning even as I thought of a thousand times he’d scared the living bejeezus out of me. My mood was improving.
He snorted, glanced
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