Read Online Something Borrowed, Something Bleu by Cricket McRae - Free Book Online

walked to the bookshelf. Turned. “And how exactly did you know where to find it?”
My inner child whimpered, but I squared my shoulders and said, “I followed a hunch.” I shrugged. “Turned out I was right.”
Surprise warred with the anger on her face. Then they gave way to an expression of amused admiration.
Now I was confused.
Her lips quirked up in a half grin.
“What’s so funny?”
“If only you could see your face. You look like you did when you were eight years old, and I caught you sitting on the floor of your closet eating a whole bag of Oreos.”
Great. “Well, I’m glad you’re not upset.”
Her eyes hardened. “Oh, I’m upset all right. You had no right to come into my private space and snoop around. I didn’t raise you that way. What were you thinking?”
But her earlier smile mitigated her current scolding, and I answered truthfully. “I told you. I needed that letter to show Tabby. Do you or do you not want me to get to the bottom of what happened eighteen years ago?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. A long moment of silence as she weighed how to respond. Then, “You could have called me, asked where the letter was, told me you wanted to take it.”
I bowed my head. “You’re right. I could have called.” Old habits had dictated my actions. “I should have.”
“And I don’t suppose it occurred to you to take a copy of the letter, instead of the original?” She nodded toward the combination printer/copier in the corner behind her desk.
“Er,” I said, feeling more chastened by the moment.
She stepped over to the machine, opened it, and placed the letter and envelope on the glass surface. As the copies printed, I said, “I took it to the post office, too. To ask about how it could have taken so long to come back.”
“I want to hear everything. Here.” She handed me copies of the note and the envelope.
We heard the front door close, and my father’s voice filtered through to the den. He sounded enthusiastic about something.
Anna Belle looked at me expectantly.
I turned and opened the door. “Come on. Let’s join the others.”
Behind me, she made a small sound of protest, but had no choice but to follow me to the kitchen.
    _____
     
     
    “This is so incredibly yummy,” Meghan said, taking another bite of bread and butter.
“Who knew something so mundane could be so tasty?” my mother added, licking her lips.
We sat around the table, sampling the cultured butter Tabby had given me. I’d picked up a loaf of rustic ciabatta at the Spring Creek Bakery on the way home. Dad was at the counter, dressing the trout a friend had given him with lemon and dill. That’s what he’d been so excited about: scoring the fresh fish. Erin had gone upstairs to change out of her hiking clothes. Bright sunburn swooped across Meghan’s perky little nose, and her freckles stood out in stark relief. Anna Belle had just finished lecturing her on the strength of the sun at high altitude and broken off a piece of the aloe vera plant on the window sill for my friend to rub on her burn.
“So did you make this?” Meghan asked me now.
“No. Tabby did, but tomorrow I’ll learn how.”
“You know, Europeans regularly culture their butter.” There was a tang of self-satisfaction in Dad’s voice.
“And we don’t in America? Then where does cultured buttermilk come from?” Meghan asked.
“In most cases, the buttermilk itself is cultured, rather than the cream before it’s churned into butter.”
Erin entered the kitchen and plopped down on a chair. “You churned butter today? God, Sophie Mae. Don’t you think this whole pioneer woman thing is getting out of control?”
“Actually, I didn’t. Maybe tomorrow, though I’d be surprised if we use a churn. More likely a food processor. Not exactly like sitting on the front porch working a dasher.”
“What’s a dasher?”
“The handle thingie that you move up and down in a traditional butter churn.”
“See what I mean?” she said. “You know what a dasher is. Do you know how weird that is?”
“Hey!” I