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Authors: Laura Childs
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well stocked refrigerator for something quick.
The something quick
turned out to be a little leftover beef Stroganoff. Forgoing the noodles tonight,
Suzanne heated
the beef mixture on top of her stove, stirred in a dollop of sour cream at the last minute;
then poured it all onto a slice of toasted baguette. She loaded her plate onto a wicker tray, then
went back to the refrigerator and poured out a half glass of Barolo Riserva.
Baxter was finished by
then, so he accompanied Su zanne into the living room for a casual dinner on the
learner couch.
As Suzanne ate and
watched TV, Baxter watched Su zanne
eat.
“Not this,” she told
him. “Not tonight.”
Baxter edged his
muzzle onto the couch and tried to convey a sad, appealing look, but no dice.
Suzanne ate her own dinner, cleaned up, then found herself back in front of the TV. When
nothing seemed all that interesting, she turned down the sound and reached
for Kostova’s novel, The Historian, which she’d promised herself she’d
start reading.
Suzanne was deep into
chapter six when the doorbell rang. One loud, long briiiing that
startled both she and Baxter.
Leaping up from where
he’d been twitching and snooz ing, Baxter raced to the door, head held stiffly down,
hack les bristling.
Tiptoeing after him,
Suzanne was also wary, recalling last night’s bizarre incident and, at the last second,
stepping to one side before
she asked, “Who is it?”
Chapter Seven
“It’s me,” came Toni’s muffled voice.
Suzanne pulled open the
door. “Toni, what are you ... ?” Suzanne stopped abruptly when she recognized the stun ning young woman who
was standing next to Toni. “Kit?” she said, her voice rising in surprise.
A smile lit Kit
Kaslik’s clean, scrubbed oval face. “You remember me,” she said in a soft
voice. Then she shrugged back her long blond hair, looking supremely pleased.
“Of course, I do,”
said Suzanne.
“From when I
pinch-hitted at your cake show,” said Kit.
“Sure,” said Suzanne,
still slightly blown away by Kit’s appearance on her doorstep. Kit normally worked
eve nings,
churning out a living as an exotic dancer at Hoo bly’s roadhouse, a big, ugly
Quonset hut of a place out on County Road 18. Though Kit wasn’t a stripper per
se, because technically she didn’t remove her clothes, Suzanne had still urged her to
pursue more suitable work, since ex otic dancing wasn’t the most promising career
move. But Kit,
for whatever reason, by personal choice or by dint of simple economics, was still
prancing about in black go-go boots and red lace undies on Hoobly’s postage
stamp-sized stage.
“We gotta talk,” said
Toni. “It’s real important. Be sides ...” She did a quick little dance and shrug. “It’s
start ing to rain like crazy.”
“Come on in,” said
Suzanne, opening the door wider.
Toni shrugged off her
brown leather bomber jacket and hung it on the antique walnut coatrack that stood in the entry.
Kit, dressed in denim jacket, baggy sweater, and cargo pants—clothes that certainly didn’t
scream, Look at me, I’m a wild and crazy dancer! —opted to keep her
jacket on.
“Hey, Baxter,” said
Kit, bending down to pet Baxter, who pretended not to eat up the attention, but
immediately stuck his muzzle in Kit’s hand when she tried to pull it away.
“Don’t mind him,” said
Suzanne. “He’ll bug you for hugs
and pets and treats all night.”
“Sweet guy,” murmured
Toni, smiling at Baxter. Then her eyes seemed to shift into serious mode and they all trooped into the
living room, settling into chairs somewhat self-consciously.
“We interrupted your
dinner,” said Kit, spying a tray on the coffee table.
“Not really,” said
Suzanne. “I was just having tea and ba nana bread. There’s plenty of
banana bread left if anybody wants some. And a little bit of beef Stroganoff if
anybody’s real hungry.”
Both women shook
their heads. “Pass,” said Toni.
“How about something
to drink?”
The something quick
turned out to be a little leftover beef Stroganoff. Forgoing the noodles tonight,
Suzanne heated
the beef mixture on top of her stove, stirred in a dollop of sour cream at the last minute;
then poured it all onto a slice of toasted baguette. She loaded her plate onto a wicker tray, then
went back to the refrigerator and poured out a half glass of Barolo Riserva.
Baxter was finished by
then, so he accompanied Su zanne into the living room for a casual dinner on the
learner couch.
As Suzanne ate and
watched TV, Baxter watched Su zanne
eat.
“Not this,” she told
him. “Not tonight.”
Baxter edged his
muzzle onto the couch and tried to convey a sad, appealing look, but no dice.
Suzanne ate her own dinner, cleaned up, then found herself back in front of the TV. When
nothing seemed all that interesting, she turned down the sound and reached
for Kostova’s novel, The Historian, which she’d promised herself she’d
start reading.
Suzanne was deep into
chapter six when the doorbell rang. One loud, long briiiing that
startled both she and Baxter.
Leaping up from where
he’d been twitching and snooz ing, Baxter raced to the door, head held stiffly down,
hack les bristling.
Tiptoeing after him,
Suzanne was also wary, recalling last night’s bizarre incident and, at the last second,
stepping to one side before
she asked, “Who is it?”
Chapter Seven
“It’s me,” came Toni’s muffled voice.
Suzanne pulled open the
door. “Toni, what are you ... ?” Suzanne stopped abruptly when she recognized the stun ning young woman who
was standing next to Toni. “Kit?” she said, her voice rising in surprise.
A smile lit Kit
Kaslik’s clean, scrubbed oval face. “You remember me,” she said in a soft
voice. Then she shrugged back her long blond hair, looking supremely pleased.
“Of course, I do,”
said Suzanne.
“From when I
pinch-hitted at your cake show,” said Kit.
“Sure,” said Suzanne,
still slightly blown away by Kit’s appearance on her doorstep. Kit normally worked
eve nings,
churning out a living as an exotic dancer at Hoo bly’s roadhouse, a big, ugly
Quonset hut of a place out on County Road 18. Though Kit wasn’t a stripper per
se, because technically she didn’t remove her clothes, Suzanne had still urged her to
pursue more suitable work, since ex otic dancing wasn’t the most promising career
move. But Kit,
for whatever reason, by personal choice or by dint of simple economics, was still
prancing about in black go-go boots and red lace undies on Hoobly’s postage
stamp-sized stage.
“We gotta talk,” said
Toni. “It’s real important. Be sides ...” She did a quick little dance and shrug. “It’s
start ing to rain like crazy.”
“Come on in,” said
Suzanne, opening the door wider.
Toni shrugged off her
brown leather bomber jacket and hung it on the antique walnut coatrack that stood in the entry.
Kit, dressed in denim jacket, baggy sweater, and cargo pants—clothes that certainly didn’t
scream, Look at me, I’m a wild and crazy dancer! —opted to keep her
jacket on.
“Hey, Baxter,” said
Kit, bending down to pet Baxter, who pretended not to eat up the attention, but
immediately stuck his muzzle in Kit’s hand when she tried to pull it away.
“Don’t mind him,” said
Suzanne. “He’ll bug you for hugs
and pets and treats all night.”
“Sweet guy,” murmured
Toni, smiling at Baxter. Then her eyes seemed to shift into serious mode and they all trooped into the
living room, settling into chairs somewhat self-consciously.
“We interrupted your
dinner,” said Kit, spying a tray on the coffee table.
“Not really,” said
Suzanne. “I was just having tea and ba nana bread. There’s plenty of
banana bread left if anybody wants some. And a little bit of beef Stroganoff if
anybody’s real hungry.”
Both women shook
their heads. “Pass,” said Toni.
“How about something
to drink?”
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