Read Online 6 The Wedding by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie Jackson
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giggled and I realized I was hearing a five-year- old’s idea of a joke.
“Maybe we’ll call you Ricky the Joker.” He grinned at me.
“So, want to learn how to catch fish with your hands?”
* * *
Big John stared in dismay at the cake he’d pulled from the
oven and left cooling for the prescribed hour. The first one he’d made—well,
really the second one since he had spilled the first bowl of batter—had been
flat like a brownie and it had taken him a while to remember that he needed to
add baking powder—or maybe it was baking soda—to the batter.
This time he was sure that he’d gotten it right because the
cake was nice and tall, except now the cake wouldn’t come out of the pan. It
was ripping into piles of orange sponge which tasted great but which could
never be glued back into a proper cake shape.
Big John sighed. He was out of pudding and frozen orange
juice. He would have to go see if the Braids had any at the store. Probably
what he should do was wake the Flowers and ask her how
the recipe went, but he hated to admit to anyone that he had forgotten. It
seemed disrespectful to his wife.
The kitchen was a mess though and it would have to be straightened
before dinner. Maybe he should clean it first then go out for supplies. He was
going to have to wash some bowls and pans before he tried the cake again anyway.
There wasn’t an inch of counter space that wasn’t covered in dirty crockery.
No, he would go to the store first, before the Braids closed
for lunch—and then wash the dishes. Maybe the walk would help with the pain in
his side. Judy would probably nap for at least another hour. He could still get
things cleaned up and have a cake in the oven before she came downstairs to
check on him.
Big John wiped his hands on his already dusty shirt and
headed for the back door so he wouldn’t track flour through the tavern. And
that reminded him, he better get more cake flour too. Dropping the canister on
the floor had meant losing an awful lot of his supply.
The old door had barely swung shut behind him when his
daughter’s voice called out from the hall.
“Dad?” The kitchen door swung open. “Da—dear God!”
The Flowers stared in awe and horror at the room designated
the kitchen. She’d never seen anything so filthy in her thirty-odd years of
life.
For a moment she debated stepping inside and trying to bring
order to the chaos, but her courage failed her. She backed out of the room and
went back upstairs. Maybe she wasn’t done napping.
* * *
The Braids looked at her second batch of sheets. They were
even more spotty and striped than the first set, and yet not as vivid as her
hands which had gotten stained when her rubber gloves started leaking. What had
gone wrong?
And what should she do? She only had one box of dye left— Violent Violet . It wasn’t enough to
re-dye all twelve sheets.
“Big John is here, wanting some pudding. What are you doing
out here anyway?” Little Davey asked, stepping outside with a cup of coffee. “Oh,
you’re making tie-dye?”
The Braids turned to stare at her husband.
“What did you say?”
“That Big John is here, wanting pudding and cake flour.”
“No, the other thing.”
“You’re making tie-dye? That’s brilliant, eh. It will go
with any kind of flowers,” he said encouragingly.
“Tie-dye.”
She considered the striped and spotted linen. Well, why not?
At least it would look deliberate.
“Davey, go and fetch me that ball of rubber bands in my desk
and then set the large kettle on to boil. Tell Big John I’ll be in shortly.”
* * *
Misha met the Wings at the landing strip in Seven Forks. The
Russian was wearing a sidearm and carrying a shotgun. The Wings had never grown
reasonably comfortable with the Russian tendency toward being well armed at all
times, but the sight of Misha through the windshield flagging him to a stop by
waving his shotgun in the air made him wish
“Maybe we’ll call you Ricky the Joker.” He grinned at me.
“So, want to learn how to catch fish with your hands?”
* * *
Big John stared in dismay at the cake he’d pulled from the
oven and left cooling for the prescribed hour. The first one he’d made—well,
really the second one since he had spilled the first bowl of batter—had been
flat like a brownie and it had taken him a while to remember that he needed to
add baking powder—or maybe it was baking soda—to the batter.
This time he was sure that he’d gotten it right because the
cake was nice and tall, except now the cake wouldn’t come out of the pan. It
was ripping into piles of orange sponge which tasted great but which could
never be glued back into a proper cake shape.
Big John sighed. He was out of pudding and frozen orange
juice. He would have to go see if the Braids had any at the store. Probably
what he should do was wake the Flowers and ask her how
the recipe went, but he hated to admit to anyone that he had forgotten. It
seemed disrespectful to his wife.
The kitchen was a mess though and it would have to be straightened
before dinner. Maybe he should clean it first then go out for supplies. He was
going to have to wash some bowls and pans before he tried the cake again anyway.
There wasn’t an inch of counter space that wasn’t covered in dirty crockery.
No, he would go to the store first, before the Braids closed
for lunch—and then wash the dishes. Maybe the walk would help with the pain in
his side. Judy would probably nap for at least another hour. He could still get
things cleaned up and have a cake in the oven before she came downstairs to
check on him.
Big John wiped his hands on his already dusty shirt and
headed for the back door so he wouldn’t track flour through the tavern. And
that reminded him, he better get more cake flour too. Dropping the canister on
the floor had meant losing an awful lot of his supply.
The old door had barely swung shut behind him when his
daughter’s voice called out from the hall.
“Dad?” The kitchen door swung open. “Da—dear God!”
The Flowers stared in awe and horror at the room designated
the kitchen. She’d never seen anything so filthy in her thirty-odd years of
life.
For a moment she debated stepping inside and trying to bring
order to the chaos, but her courage failed her. She backed out of the room and
went back upstairs. Maybe she wasn’t done napping.
* * *
The Braids looked at her second batch of sheets. They were
even more spotty and striped than the first set, and yet not as vivid as her
hands which had gotten stained when her rubber gloves started leaking. What had
gone wrong?
And what should she do? She only had one box of dye left— Violent Violet . It wasn’t enough to
re-dye all twelve sheets.
“Big John is here, wanting some pudding. What are you doing
out here anyway?” Little Davey asked, stepping outside with a cup of coffee. “Oh,
you’re making tie-dye?”
The Braids turned to stare at her husband.
“What did you say?”
“That Big John is here, wanting pudding and cake flour.”
“No, the other thing.”
“You’re making tie-dye? That’s brilliant, eh. It will go
with any kind of flowers,” he said encouragingly.
“Tie-dye.”
She considered the striped and spotted linen. Well, why not?
At least it would look deliberate.
“Davey, go and fetch me that ball of rubber bands in my desk
and then set the large kettle on to boil. Tell Big John I’ll be in shortly.”
* * *
Misha met the Wings at the landing strip in Seven Forks. The
Russian was wearing a sidearm and carrying a shotgun. The Wings had never grown
reasonably comfortable with the Russian tendency toward being well armed at all
times, but the sight of Misha through the windshield flagging him to a stop by
waving his shotgun in the air made him wish
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