![]() ![]() Finally I nod, turn, and go to the kitchen.Īs I measure out coffee grounds, I can hear murmurs and low laughter coming from the living room. I stand there, struggling for a response, and come up blank. The other part instantly feels chagrined, the way I do at school when I’ve forgotten to do the extra credit math problem, or at home when I shove my newly laundered clothes into a drawer unfolded. Fact is, I usually do make tea for Mom when she comes in late. My face heats and I take an involuntary step back. “Seems to me,” he says, “you’re the kind of girl who’d make the coffee herself and let her mama relax.” She whirls toward the kitchen, but before she can take a step, Clay Tucker comes up to me, putting his hand on my shoulder. Instead, she gives that little girlish laugh again, toys with a pearl earring, and says, “I’ll just make coffee.” ![]() ![]() In fact, she’s barely dated at all.īut Mom doesn’t do her usual thing, glance at her watch, say, “Oh, goodness, look at the time,” and politely shove him out the door. He walks around slowly, examining the gigantic paintings of landscapes on the white, white walls, taking in the so-puffy-you-can’t-sit-on-it beige couch and the immense armchairs, finally settling into the one in front of the fireplace. She’s proud of our house, renovates rooms all the time, tweaking the already perfect. “Just invites a man to put his feet up after a long hard day.” Mom beams. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |