Read Online Butterfly Tattoo by Deidre Knight - Free Book Online Page B

neatly pressed shirt, like a refugee from some preppy detention camp.
    Rebecca nods, and for a tense moment we stand eyeing each other. I clear my throat. “Look, I really appreciate you coming over like this,” I begin. “You know, to be with Andrea. She doesn’t have enough women in her life. I mean, there’s Marti, but…” How can I explain to Rebecca how she’s different than the other women, and not offend her?
    She hoists a bag up onto the countertop with a bittersweet laugh. “Michael, I get it.” She begins unloading cheeses and spices and meat, and I get the feeling she’s avoiding looking at me. “Andrea and I have something important in common. You can just say it.” She keeps organizing her ingredients, busying herself too much, like she’s trying to defuse a bomb or something.
    “Okay, yeah, you and Andrea do have something in common.”
    “Where are your knives? Cutting board?” she asks matter-of-factly, turning to face me finally. I step close, reaching around her to open the utensil drawer, and as I do, my hand brushes against hers. She reacts, jerks backward a little, and I place a steadying palm on her forearm, feeling tensed muscle beneath my fingertips. Thing is, she’s feminine, but she’s strong, too.
    “Just getting it for you,” I explain gently, and wonder what exactly haunts her past that’s left her this jumpy.
    She stares down, nodding, and I see warmth creep into her rose-colored complexion. She’s wearing a clingy white T-shirt with khaki pants again—almost exactly what she had on yesterday. Different shoes this time. Another pair of sparkly, open-toed sandals, a mild racy touch in an otherwise conservative wardrobe.
    “How’s Foot tonight?” I ask, and this time she does look at me. Like she’s surprised that I’m picking back up our little flirtation. I lean closer, and staring at her pink painted toenails, whisper, “Out on the town again, huh? Foot really gets around, doesn’t she?”
    She smiles, a broad, genuine smile, and for once doesn’t even bother hiding the quirky way it turns up sideways. “She’s advised me to be a good chaperone, but yes, she’s out.”
    “Foot is out?”
    “Yes, on the town.” She stares at her feet, gesturing. “You know, like you said.”
    “Hmm, I thought maybe Foot was gay or something. If Foot’s out .”
    She rolls her eyes dismissively. “No way. She’s totally straight.”
    I’m not. I almost say it, but I bite back the words, and drain the rest of the Heineken from the bottle instead.
     
     
    Andrea and Marti come clattering into the house, talking and laughing, and seeing my little girl smiling so easily is like catching air. Like dropping into a mammoth wave, the kind that leaves you unable to breathe at first.
    “Hey, sweetheart,” I call out, and she looks around, her face clouding with confusion as she spots the meal brewing on the stove. Rebecca’s left me stirring the ground beef in a saucepan while she’s gone to the bathroom.
    “Are you cooking?” Andrea’s auburn eyebrows furrow into a dramatic line. It’s an expression I’ve seen on Alex’s face countless times—funny how she mirrors him without even trying. It’s definitely in the genetics.
    “You have a good time with Aunt Marti?” I ask brightly.
    Marti, closing the door to the garage behind them, looks surprised. “You’re cooking , Warner?” she laughs. “Oh, my God. Not you, not really?”
    “Uh, actually…” I stall a moment, glancing toward the hallway bathroom. “Well…a friend came to make a good meal for us.”
    “A friend?” Marti’s green eyes widen as undisguised hope flits across her face.
    “Who?” Andrea folds her small arms across her chest.
    “ Your new friend,” I say, a tad defensively, feeling ganged up on by the women in my life. “Rebecca O’Neill.”
    For a long moment, Andie stays silent, and I fear this has been a lethal mistake, but then a small smile forms on her face. “Oh.” She nods