phrases even mentioning the term “carbohydrates.” James decided to pursue the good carbs, good fats approach as at least the adjectives put a more positive spin on the mountain of depravity he and his new friends were about to climb.
After skimming through several books, James realized that he had already exceeded his daily allowance of carbohydrates by having a bagel for breakfast. True, he had skipped his regular layer of cream cheese and had used a generous measure of strawberry jam instead, but he had innocently added on even more bad carbs cleverly disguised as sugar.
“How can they expect anyone to lose weight with all of these conflicting menus? This book says no fruit, this book says only berries, and this one says eat all fruit!” James snapped a weight loss book shut and stared at the cover. A shirtless man with washboard abs and a pair of biceps that looked like they were actually concealed cannonballs had a veined forearm around the trim waist of a busty and toothy blonde who gazed up at her bronzed diet-mate with a look of rapture.
In order to keep his fingers occupied during his lunch break (so that they would not be tempted to buy a package of cheese puffs from the lobby snack machine), James surfed the Internet. He was able to achieve a tenuous idea of the types of foods the supper club should be eating. Energized, he was busily typing up a shopping list and a list of acceptable snacks when Lucy arrived.
Francis and Scott had already left for the day. James seemed so preoccupied with his typing on the computer that the twins simply disappeared after softly calling, “Until tomorrow, Professor!”
James should have realized that his workday had officially come to an end, but he only grunted in reply as he consulted yet another website created for hopeful dieters. Even when Mrs. Waxman, the part-time librarian in charge of the evening shift, arrived and began to assist a group of boisterous high school students at the reference desk, James remained absorbed with his task.
“Hello, Lucy,” Mrs. Waxman whispered. “Haven’t seen you in here for a few weeks. What true crime books are you reading these days?”
Mrs. Waxman had taught eighth grade English at the Thomas Jefferson Middle School for so many years now that no one could remember who had occupied the position before she moved to town. She had taught both Lucy and James and remembered the names of every one of her students as well as the reading habits of each library patron within a three-county radius.
“Hi, Mrs. Waxman,” Lucy smiled. “I’m still working on that Ann Rule paperback.”
“I bet you finished those M. C. Beaton novels, though,” Mrs. Waxman chuckled. “I think you have a thing for that fictional detective.”
“Hamish Macbeth?” Lucy shrugged. “He is a dog lover, but he’s too tall and skinny for me. Plus, I’m not really attracted to redheads.”
“My . . . aren’t we fussy?” Mrs. Waxman clicked her tongue in disapproval. “How old are you now, Lucy?” she asked wickedly.
Lucy flushed. She knew where this conversation was headed and she did not want to admit that she was thirty-five and had never even come close to walking down the aisle. Not even as a bridesmaid. “Actually, I’m not here for books, Mrs. Waxman. I’m here to see . . . ah . . . Professor Henry.”
“ James is in his office.” Mrs. Waxman called everyone by his or her first name, regardless of title or occupation. Dr. Morris, the town vet, was still Emily, and Reverend Beasley of the First Baptist Church was and always would be Mike Jr. “He’s doing something on the computer. Go on back.”
Lucy tapped lightly on the door separating James’s tiny office from the shelving area behind the circulation desk. James jumped up in surprise and put his hand over his racing heart. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Lucy offered a shy grin, pointing at the wad of papers James clutched in his hand. “Is the diet starting to make
After skimming through several books, James realized that he had already exceeded his daily allowance of carbohydrates by having a bagel for breakfast. True, he had skipped his regular layer of cream cheese and had used a generous measure of strawberry jam instead, but he had innocently added on even more bad carbs cleverly disguised as sugar.
“How can they expect anyone to lose weight with all of these conflicting menus? This book says no fruit, this book says only berries, and this one says eat all fruit!” James snapped a weight loss book shut and stared at the cover. A shirtless man with washboard abs and a pair of biceps that looked like they were actually concealed cannonballs had a veined forearm around the trim waist of a busty and toothy blonde who gazed up at her bronzed diet-mate with a look of rapture.
In order to keep his fingers occupied during his lunch break (so that they would not be tempted to buy a package of cheese puffs from the lobby snack machine), James surfed the Internet. He was able to achieve a tenuous idea of the types of foods the supper club should be eating. Energized, he was busily typing up a shopping list and a list of acceptable snacks when Lucy arrived.
Francis and Scott had already left for the day. James seemed so preoccupied with his typing on the computer that the twins simply disappeared after softly calling, “Until tomorrow, Professor!”
James should have realized that his workday had officially come to an end, but he only grunted in reply as he consulted yet another website created for hopeful dieters. Even when Mrs. Waxman, the part-time librarian in charge of the evening shift, arrived and began to assist a group of boisterous high school students at the reference desk, James remained absorbed with his task.
“Hello, Lucy,” Mrs. Waxman whispered. “Haven’t seen you in here for a few weeks. What true crime books are you reading these days?”
Mrs. Waxman had taught eighth grade English at the Thomas Jefferson Middle School for so many years now that no one could remember who had occupied the position before she moved to town. She had taught both Lucy and James and remembered the names of every one of her students as well as the reading habits of each library patron within a three-county radius.
“Hi, Mrs. Waxman,” Lucy smiled. “I’m still working on that Ann Rule paperback.”
“I bet you finished those M. C. Beaton novels, though,” Mrs. Waxman chuckled. “I think you have a thing for that fictional detective.”
“Hamish Macbeth?” Lucy shrugged. “He is a dog lover, but he’s too tall and skinny for me. Plus, I’m not really attracted to redheads.”
“My . . . aren’t we fussy?” Mrs. Waxman clicked her tongue in disapproval. “How old are you now, Lucy?” she asked wickedly.
Lucy flushed. She knew where this conversation was headed and she did not want to admit that she was thirty-five and had never even come close to walking down the aisle. Not even as a bridesmaid. “Actually, I’m not here for books, Mrs. Waxman. I’m here to see . . . ah . . . Professor Henry.”
“ James is in his office.” Mrs. Waxman called everyone by his or her first name, regardless of title or occupation. Dr. Morris, the town vet, was still Emily, and Reverend Beasley of the First Baptist Church was and always would be Mike Jr. “He’s doing something on the computer. Go on back.”
Lucy tapped lightly on the door separating James’s tiny office from the shelving area behind the circulation desk. James jumped up in surprise and put his hand over his racing heart. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Lucy offered a shy grin, pointing at the wad of papers James clutched in his hand. “Is the diet starting to make
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