Read Online Starting From Scratch by Georgia Beers - Free Book Online
Authors: Georgia Beers
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time.”
“We’re two peas in a pod, Grandma.”
e timer chimed and I jumped up, anxious to see
how our cherry chocolate drop cookies had turned out.
“Sinful,” I pronounced, helping myself to a second
cookie. “Mr. Davidson will be scratching at the door the
second the scent makes it into the hallway.”
“Oh, hush,” Grandma said, pushing playfully at my
arm. But again, her blush gave her away.
1
55
Georgia Beers
Steve was his usual laidback self when I got home that
afternoon, lounging in a square of sunlight cast onto the
carpet from the sliding glass door, like always.
I let him outside into the yard where he did his usual
“perimeter sniffdown.” My backyard was small but I had a
white, four-foot picket fence on either side, just like
everybody else. When I first adopted Steve from the
pound, I bought a roll of two-foot high chicken wire-type
stuff to run across the back of the yard, connecting the
pickets on either side. Steve wasn’t a jumper but he was
part terrier and I worried that he might take off on me.
e chicken wire fencing was more for my peace of mind
than anything else, and of course, Steve could plow right
through it if he was so determined. Instead, he tended to
wander along the fence with his nose to the ground, check
out every inch of his very own twelve by twelve square of
the world, then plop down on the cement of the patio and
bake himself in the sun. It was still cool and the breeze
offset the heat of the sun nicely, so I suspected he’d be out
there for a while.
An hour later, I was parked in my favorite reading
chair, a glass of zinfandel on the end table next to me, the
latest Mary Higgins Clark novel open in my hands.
I glanced out the window to see if Steve had burnt
himself to a crisp.
And I froze.
“Oh, crap.”
Steve was sitting at the end of the yard, along the
chicken wire part of the fencing. On the other side, also
sitting, but with his arm dangling over the chicken wire
and moving gently along Steve’s dark, wiry fur, was little
Max from my tee-ball team.
56
Starting From Scratch
Wondering if I were seeing things, I squeezed my eyes
shut, then opened them again. What was he doing there?
Was he visiting a friend? ere were two kids on the swing
set in the center of the courtyard, but they paid him no
mind whatsoever and I had to conclude that they didn’t
know him.
Steve stretched out and rolled over so Max could
scratch his belly, a move that seemed to delight the boy as I
could hear him giggle through the glass of my door. I
groaned out loud, suddenly realizing the most logical
explanation for Max’s presence. Had he and Cindy moved
into the newly sold townhouse down the block? I
muttered, “No, no, no,” under my breath; I didn’t want Max
to know I lived here. I mean, I liked the boy and all, but
my house was my sanctuary and I didn’t want it invaded by
some messy kid I barely knew leaving his fingerprints on
my sliding glass door and leftover grape jelly in my dog’s
fur. Not to mention, the thought of Slick Cindy being so
close gave me an instant, uneasy case of the jitters.
I watched him for a good fifteen minutes as he loved
up my dog. en, out of sight and earshot, somebody must
have called for Max because I heard him shout, “Coming!”
He gave Steve a final pat, then a quick kiss on the head,
which made me smile; I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out
the door and watched him. Sure enough, he bee-lined
directly for the seventh door down from mine, four
buildings down, and went inside.
I spent most of the next day, my Monday off for the
Memorial Day weekend, skulking around my own living
room as Max showed up three different times throughout
the day to visit with Steve. I supposed it made sense if
Cindy was spending the holiday unpacking that he might
57
Georgia Beers
be running around, exploring his new territory and trying
to stay out of his mom’s way.
Practice
“We’re two peas in a pod, Grandma.”
e timer chimed and I jumped up, anxious to see
how our cherry chocolate drop cookies had turned out.
“Sinful,” I pronounced, helping myself to a second
cookie. “Mr. Davidson will be scratching at the door the
second the scent makes it into the hallway.”
“Oh, hush,” Grandma said, pushing playfully at my
arm. But again, her blush gave her away.
1
55
Georgia Beers
Steve was his usual laidback self when I got home that
afternoon, lounging in a square of sunlight cast onto the
carpet from the sliding glass door, like always.
I let him outside into the yard where he did his usual
“perimeter sniffdown.” My backyard was small but I had a
white, four-foot picket fence on either side, just like
everybody else. When I first adopted Steve from the
pound, I bought a roll of two-foot high chicken wire-type
stuff to run across the back of the yard, connecting the
pickets on either side. Steve wasn’t a jumper but he was
part terrier and I worried that he might take off on me.
e chicken wire fencing was more for my peace of mind
than anything else, and of course, Steve could plow right
through it if he was so determined. Instead, he tended to
wander along the fence with his nose to the ground, check
out every inch of his very own twelve by twelve square of
the world, then plop down on the cement of the patio and
bake himself in the sun. It was still cool and the breeze
offset the heat of the sun nicely, so I suspected he’d be out
there for a while.
An hour later, I was parked in my favorite reading
chair, a glass of zinfandel on the end table next to me, the
latest Mary Higgins Clark novel open in my hands.
I glanced out the window to see if Steve had burnt
himself to a crisp.
And I froze.
“Oh, crap.”
Steve was sitting at the end of the yard, along the
chicken wire part of the fencing. On the other side, also
sitting, but with his arm dangling over the chicken wire
and moving gently along Steve’s dark, wiry fur, was little
Max from my tee-ball team.
56
Starting From Scratch
Wondering if I were seeing things, I squeezed my eyes
shut, then opened them again. What was he doing there?
Was he visiting a friend? ere were two kids on the swing
set in the center of the courtyard, but they paid him no
mind whatsoever and I had to conclude that they didn’t
know him.
Steve stretched out and rolled over so Max could
scratch his belly, a move that seemed to delight the boy as I
could hear him giggle through the glass of my door. I
groaned out loud, suddenly realizing the most logical
explanation for Max’s presence. Had he and Cindy moved
into the newly sold townhouse down the block? I
muttered, “No, no, no,” under my breath; I didn’t want Max
to know I lived here. I mean, I liked the boy and all, but
my house was my sanctuary and I didn’t want it invaded by
some messy kid I barely knew leaving his fingerprints on
my sliding glass door and leftover grape jelly in my dog’s
fur. Not to mention, the thought of Slick Cindy being so
close gave me an instant, uneasy case of the jitters.
I watched him for a good fifteen minutes as he loved
up my dog. en, out of sight and earshot, somebody must
have called for Max because I heard him shout, “Coming!”
He gave Steve a final pat, then a quick kiss on the head,
which made me smile; I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out
the door and watched him. Sure enough, he bee-lined
directly for the seventh door down from mine, four
buildings down, and went inside.
I spent most of the next day, my Monday off for the
Memorial Day weekend, skulking around my own living
room as Max showed up three different times throughout
the day to visit with Steve. I supposed it made sense if
Cindy was spending the holiday unpacking that he might
57
Georgia Beers
be running around, exploring his new territory and trying
to stay out of his mom’s way.
Practice
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