Read Online Month of Sundays by Yolanda Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Yolanda Wallace
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afternoon excursions on which she and her parents used to embark.
“When I was a kid, I loved going to open houses with my parents. Every Sunday morning, my mother would scour the real estate supplement in the newspaper. She’d find listings in upper crust neighborhoods we could never afford to live in, then the three of us would put on our Sunday best, jump in my dad’s Buick Regal, and drive around looking for realtors’ signs. We’d tour all these houses we had no intention of buying, then have lunch somewhere and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the places we’d visited.”
“Which one would you have loved to live in?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Cross my heart.”
“You have to keep in mind that I was ten.”
Griffin squeezed her hand. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
Does she make everyone feel this special or just me?
“It was a seventies-style bachelor pad with mirrors on the ceiling, wall-to-wall shag carpeting, and an honest-to-God bear rug in front of the fireplace.” She stopped when Griffin began to guffaw. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. I have something in my throat.”
“Yeah, I think it’s called mirth. What’s your favorite memory?”
“Every year for the Fourth of July, my family would have a clambake on the beach. Each of us had assigned roles. My brothers would dig the fire pit, my father would gather the rocks to line the bottom of the pit, my mother and I would collect seaweed to place between the layers of food, and my grandparents would ‘supervise’ the entire affair. My favorite is the one we had before my brother Kieran left for college because I knew that was the last one we’d have while we all lived under the same roof. We still have the clambakes, of course, but they aren’t the same. Because when the food’s gone and the fire’s out, we head off in different directions. We don’t pile into a wood-paneled station wagon and go back to the same house.”
“I’m sensing a theme. Food and family are a part of everything you do.”
“It’s true. I’m nothing without either one.”
“Then why are you single?”
“If I knew the answer to that question, I don’t think I’d be single.”
“Can you see yourself being married with kids some day?”
Griffin pulled back. “I get the feeling if I say no, it could be a deal breaker.”
“Not necessarily.”
“If I squint real hard, I can see myself being married. A mom? Not so much. I love children, but I don’t want one of my own. I’d rather be the fun aunt who takes the kids to the beach, teaches them to surf, and takes them home, not the mom who has to get them off to school every morning and stay up half the night worrying each time they get the sniffles.” Griffin sipped her drink. “You look disappointed.”
Rachel felt that way, too.
“Did I give the wrong answer?”
“The truth is never right or wrong. It just is.”
And sometimes, the truth hurts.
Chapter Six
Rachel arrived at Jane and Colleen’s place an hour early so she could help with any last-minute preparations. She wanted to pat herself on the back for managing to climb the four flights without breaking a sweat, but her arms were too full to accomplish the feat. She had been working out for just a week and she wasn’t even halfway to her goal weight, but she felt better than she had in months.
She banged on the apartment door with her elbow, being careful not to spill the contents of the Crock-Pot in her hands. Jane let her in and ushered her to the kitchen, where Griffin was conducting a master class on the fine art of preparing the perfect pot roast.
“The secret is to caramelize the meat first. Season it, put it in an oiled Dutch oven, and brown it on both sides on medium-high heat for about four minutes. That seals in the flavor.”
Colleen and a few early arrivals were gathered around her. They hung on every word. Colleen’s boss,
“When I was a kid, I loved going to open houses with my parents. Every Sunday morning, my mother would scour the real estate supplement in the newspaper. She’d find listings in upper crust neighborhoods we could never afford to live in, then the three of us would put on our Sunday best, jump in my dad’s Buick Regal, and drive around looking for realtors’ signs. We’d tour all these houses we had no intention of buying, then have lunch somewhere and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the places we’d visited.”
“Which one would you have loved to live in?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Cross my heart.”
“You have to keep in mind that I was ten.”
Griffin squeezed her hand. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
Does she make everyone feel this special or just me?
“It was a seventies-style bachelor pad with mirrors on the ceiling, wall-to-wall shag carpeting, and an honest-to-God bear rug in front of the fireplace.” She stopped when Griffin began to guffaw. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. I have something in my throat.”
“Yeah, I think it’s called mirth. What’s your favorite memory?”
“Every year for the Fourth of July, my family would have a clambake on the beach. Each of us had assigned roles. My brothers would dig the fire pit, my father would gather the rocks to line the bottom of the pit, my mother and I would collect seaweed to place between the layers of food, and my grandparents would ‘supervise’ the entire affair. My favorite is the one we had before my brother Kieran left for college because I knew that was the last one we’d have while we all lived under the same roof. We still have the clambakes, of course, but they aren’t the same. Because when the food’s gone and the fire’s out, we head off in different directions. We don’t pile into a wood-paneled station wagon and go back to the same house.”
“I’m sensing a theme. Food and family are a part of everything you do.”
“It’s true. I’m nothing without either one.”
“Then why are you single?”
“If I knew the answer to that question, I don’t think I’d be single.”
“Can you see yourself being married with kids some day?”
Griffin pulled back. “I get the feeling if I say no, it could be a deal breaker.”
“Not necessarily.”
“If I squint real hard, I can see myself being married. A mom? Not so much. I love children, but I don’t want one of my own. I’d rather be the fun aunt who takes the kids to the beach, teaches them to surf, and takes them home, not the mom who has to get them off to school every morning and stay up half the night worrying each time they get the sniffles.” Griffin sipped her drink. “You look disappointed.”
Rachel felt that way, too.
“Did I give the wrong answer?”
“The truth is never right or wrong. It just is.”
And sometimes, the truth hurts.
Chapter Six
Rachel arrived at Jane and Colleen’s place an hour early so she could help with any last-minute preparations. She wanted to pat herself on the back for managing to climb the four flights without breaking a sweat, but her arms were too full to accomplish the feat. She had been working out for just a week and she wasn’t even halfway to her goal weight, but she felt better than she had in months.
She banged on the apartment door with her elbow, being careful not to spill the contents of the Crock-Pot in her hands. Jane let her in and ushered her to the kitchen, where Griffin was conducting a master class on the fine art of preparing the perfect pot roast.
“The secret is to caramelize the meat first. Season it, put it in an oiled Dutch oven, and brown it on both sides on medium-high heat for about four minutes. That seals in the flavor.”
Colleen and a few early arrivals were gathered around her. They hung on every word. Colleen’s boss,
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