Read Online Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan May Warren
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groceries. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks, PJ.”
“Don’t say anything —it’s the least I can do.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t you dare.” PJ paid for her groceries and followed Trudi from the store.
The sun had crested the lake, fingers of gold gilding the tops of the cars in the parking lot, turning the tar to onyx. A family of ducks waddled across the lot. The scent of freshly mowed lawn lazed out into the breeze.
Trudi one-armed her around the neck. “You look great, by the way. The old PJ, only better.”
PJ let those words syrup through her, slow and sweet, as she pulled up to Connie’s house and wrangled the two bags of groceries out of the car. She waved to the postman approaching Connie’s box in his little truck. One arm hung out the window and he waved back. He looked like he should be slinging ale in some greasy pub rather than delivering the mail, with his combed-back dark hair and the well-muscled arm that PJ noticed as he gathered up the mail.
The last mailman she remembered had been about eighty-five and went by the name Oscar. As in . . . Grouch.
“You new here?” he asked as he handed her the mail.
“Yes . . . and no.”
“Name’s Colin.” Then he winked and pulled away.
She lifted her hand in a wave, then sifted through the stack of bills and magazines, walking across the long, soft grass to the front porch. The sun kissed her shoulders, and with the birds chirruping in the oak hovering over the side of the house, she could feel the beach wooing her.
Or rather, a trip to her mother’s.
Only the hum of the refrigerator cut through the quiet of the house. PJ was putting away the ice cream when she heard shouting from somewhere beyond the family room. Russian-ish shouting.
She rushed to Connie’s home office, a room outfitted for a contemporary Connie, with a mahogany desk, rich red walls, a leather sofa, and a sleek wide-screened laptop computer atop the L-shaped desk. It smelled of power. Of smarts. Of money.
“What are you doing?” She found Sergei’s parents leaning over Connie’s laptop, Boris gesturing at the screen. Vera clamped his arm, clearly in an effort to calm him.
“What?” PJ scrolled for the equivalent in Russian. “Shto? Shto?”
Please, don’t let them have crashed the computer. She circled the desk and spied a Russian site. From the layout, it looked like an auction page.
“What are you buying?”
Boris stood, slamming the desk chair back on its rollers, and brushed past her, raving.
Her Russian wasn’t as good as she hoped, because PJ netted absolutely nothing from the barrage spilling forth. Which was probably good because she remembered hearing something about Russians having more swear words than Americans.
“What?” She schooled her voice low and calm, like she had when talking to an irate German Shepherd during the short-lived days of her paper route.
Vera looked at her and began to explain.
PJ recognized a less than helpful “gift, Ukraine, Sergei.”
Boris, however, had already tugged out his Russian-English dictionary and was paging through it. A tight hush fell between them. PJ wondered if this might have been how the White House felt during the Bay of Pigs.
Then Boris ran his finger down the page, stopped, looked up at PJ, and grinned. “Keed.”
What?
He looked at Vera and nodded. “Keed.”
Kid? They were trying to buy a kid?
“I think you should stay off the Internet.” PJ reached over and closed the screen.
Boris’s smile faded.
Yes, those were probably curse words PJ heard on her way out of the room.
* * *
PJ had just turned eight the first time she left home. She remembered the crisp air redolent with decaying loam, pumpkins with saggy eyes peering out from doorsteps, and cornstalks hung from front porches, tied with baling twine. Auburn leaves crunched under her feet, and a slight northern wind bullied the cowboy hat she’d pulled over her jacket hood as she hustled down the
“Don’t say anything —it’s the least I can do.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t you dare.” PJ paid for her groceries and followed Trudi from the store.
The sun had crested the lake, fingers of gold gilding the tops of the cars in the parking lot, turning the tar to onyx. A family of ducks waddled across the lot. The scent of freshly mowed lawn lazed out into the breeze.
Trudi one-armed her around the neck. “You look great, by the way. The old PJ, only better.”
PJ let those words syrup through her, slow and sweet, as she pulled up to Connie’s house and wrangled the two bags of groceries out of the car. She waved to the postman approaching Connie’s box in his little truck. One arm hung out the window and he waved back. He looked like he should be slinging ale in some greasy pub rather than delivering the mail, with his combed-back dark hair and the well-muscled arm that PJ noticed as he gathered up the mail.
The last mailman she remembered had been about eighty-five and went by the name Oscar. As in . . . Grouch.
“You new here?” he asked as he handed her the mail.
“Yes . . . and no.”
“Name’s Colin.” Then he winked and pulled away.
She lifted her hand in a wave, then sifted through the stack of bills and magazines, walking across the long, soft grass to the front porch. The sun kissed her shoulders, and with the birds chirruping in the oak hovering over the side of the house, she could feel the beach wooing her.
Or rather, a trip to her mother’s.
Only the hum of the refrigerator cut through the quiet of the house. PJ was putting away the ice cream when she heard shouting from somewhere beyond the family room. Russian-ish shouting.
She rushed to Connie’s home office, a room outfitted for a contemporary Connie, with a mahogany desk, rich red walls, a leather sofa, and a sleek wide-screened laptop computer atop the L-shaped desk. It smelled of power. Of smarts. Of money.
“What are you doing?” She found Sergei’s parents leaning over Connie’s laptop, Boris gesturing at the screen. Vera clamped his arm, clearly in an effort to calm him.
“What?” PJ scrolled for the equivalent in Russian. “Shto? Shto?”
Please, don’t let them have crashed the computer. She circled the desk and spied a Russian site. From the layout, it looked like an auction page.
“What are you buying?”
Boris stood, slamming the desk chair back on its rollers, and brushed past her, raving.
Her Russian wasn’t as good as she hoped, because PJ netted absolutely nothing from the barrage spilling forth. Which was probably good because she remembered hearing something about Russians having more swear words than Americans.
“What?” She schooled her voice low and calm, like she had when talking to an irate German Shepherd during the short-lived days of her paper route.
Vera looked at her and began to explain.
PJ recognized a less than helpful “gift, Ukraine, Sergei.”
Boris, however, had already tugged out his Russian-English dictionary and was paging through it. A tight hush fell between them. PJ wondered if this might have been how the White House felt during the Bay of Pigs.
Then Boris ran his finger down the page, stopped, looked up at PJ, and grinned. “Keed.”
What?
He looked at Vera and nodded. “Keed.”
Kid? They were trying to buy a kid?
“I think you should stay off the Internet.” PJ reached over and closed the screen.
Boris’s smile faded.
Yes, those were probably curse words PJ heard on her way out of the room.
* * *
PJ had just turned eight the first time she left home. She remembered the crisp air redolent with decaying loam, pumpkins with saggy eyes peering out from doorsteps, and cornstalks hung from front porches, tied with baling twine. Auburn leaves crunched under her feet, and a slight northern wind bullied the cowboy hat she’d pulled over her jacket hood as she hustled down the
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