Read Online Switcheroo by Goldsmith Olivia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Goldsmith Olivia
Ads: Link
exposed, humiliated. “I have to…go get a pedicure or something,” she said and bolted.
7
Jim, Sylvie’s father, was sitting in his wing chair, his feet on an ottoman, watching television. Mildred was deadheading her African violets. She noted that the pot on this one was cracked. She made a mental note to glaze another one at the pottery shop she owned. She looked over at her husband, seeing what the world saw. Jim was still good-looking, but he’d mellowed into a slightly overweight, grandfatherly type, the kind of man who could sell oatmeal on television. In fact, at the moment he had the television on, the remote in his hand. He was watching a PBS documentary on Dunkirk, or maybe it was Anzio—one that he’d probably seen a hundred times.
“Mildred. Look at this.”
“Please. Change the channel. You’re making me nervous,” she told him. “I hate it when you say, ‘Honey…the Nazis are on.’ As if I care.”
“I thought you wanted to see them lose again.”
“Jim, I’m not interested. Women don’t want to watch World War II unless Gary Cooper is an officer in it. Why don’t you give me the remote? There’s an Angela Lansbury rerun on.”
He waved her away, then realized she was teasing. “You know, we’ve been fighting about television since it was invented,” Jim commented.
Mildred laughed. Jim put his arm out but before he could hug her, gunfire broke out. He looked back at the screen and only patted Mildred’s back. Mildred had hoped for more and, anyway, she didn’t like to be patted. Never had. It felt…condescending. There, there, old girl. She turned to go back to her deadheading. Just then the doorbell chimed. Jim, of course, didn’t move, so Mildred went to the door and opened it. Sylvie was standing there, disheveled, out of breath and clearly upset.
“My God! Sylvie! What’s happened? Another car incident?”
Sylvie shook her head and tried to talk, but no words came out of her mouth. Looking in both directions, Mildred drew her into the foyer. No use sharing the latest bizarre family behavior with the entire neighborhood, not to mention Rosalie the Mouth. “Take a deep breath. There. Now another,” Mildred directed. “Okay. Talk.”
“Bob’s having an affair,” Sylvie finally managed to gasp.
The two women stared at one another for a silent moment. Mildred then shook her head. “Not Bob. I admit my son is crazy, but not my son-in-law. We took him into the business and the cul-de-sac…” She paused. “How do you know?”
“He’s never home. He forgave me about my car too easily. Did you see the crane he’s got in the backyard? He and Phil are using it to shoot a commercial. Daddy told them to.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mildred murmured.
“Mom, don’t you see? Next he’ll even let me drive Beautiful Baby. Something is definitely wrong. And…people are saying they saw us out together. But it’s always some place I haven’t been to.”
Mildred, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest, forced herself to take on the practical aspect that Angela Lansbury used in Murder, She Wrote . “That’s nothing. Circumstantial,” she said dismissively. “You still haven’t given me anything definitive.”
Sylvie burst into tears. “He’s gotten a pedicure.”
“A pedicure! My god!” Mildred took her daughter into her arms. Sylvie wasn’t just paranoid. “Was it a professional pedicure?” Mildred asked, giving her son-in-law the benefit of the doubt.
Sylvie nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “He’s been stabbing me with those pointy, deadly, fungoid toenails for twenty-one years. And now, just when he’s ignoring me, they’re short and shell pink.”
“He had a professional pedicure?” Mildred repeated, outraged. “He was dying to get caught,” she muttered.
Sylvie began crying on Mildred’s shoulder. “I know he’s sleeping with a younger woman.”
Mildred rocked Sylvie in her arms, but managed to shrug. “Of course
7
Jim, Sylvie’s father, was sitting in his wing chair, his feet on an ottoman, watching television. Mildred was deadheading her African violets. She noted that the pot on this one was cracked. She made a mental note to glaze another one at the pottery shop she owned. She looked over at her husband, seeing what the world saw. Jim was still good-looking, but he’d mellowed into a slightly overweight, grandfatherly type, the kind of man who could sell oatmeal on television. In fact, at the moment he had the television on, the remote in his hand. He was watching a PBS documentary on Dunkirk, or maybe it was Anzio—one that he’d probably seen a hundred times.
“Mildred. Look at this.”
“Please. Change the channel. You’re making me nervous,” she told him. “I hate it when you say, ‘Honey…the Nazis are on.’ As if I care.”
“I thought you wanted to see them lose again.”
“Jim, I’m not interested. Women don’t want to watch World War II unless Gary Cooper is an officer in it. Why don’t you give me the remote? There’s an Angela Lansbury rerun on.”
He waved her away, then realized she was teasing. “You know, we’ve been fighting about television since it was invented,” Jim commented.
Mildred laughed. Jim put his arm out but before he could hug her, gunfire broke out. He looked back at the screen and only patted Mildred’s back. Mildred had hoped for more and, anyway, she didn’t like to be patted. Never had. It felt…condescending. There, there, old girl. She turned to go back to her deadheading. Just then the doorbell chimed. Jim, of course, didn’t move, so Mildred went to the door and opened it. Sylvie was standing there, disheveled, out of breath and clearly upset.
“My God! Sylvie! What’s happened? Another car incident?”
Sylvie shook her head and tried to talk, but no words came out of her mouth. Looking in both directions, Mildred drew her into the foyer. No use sharing the latest bizarre family behavior with the entire neighborhood, not to mention Rosalie the Mouth. “Take a deep breath. There. Now another,” Mildred directed. “Okay. Talk.”
“Bob’s having an affair,” Sylvie finally managed to gasp.
The two women stared at one another for a silent moment. Mildred then shook her head. “Not Bob. I admit my son is crazy, but not my son-in-law. We took him into the business and the cul-de-sac…” She paused. “How do you know?”
“He’s never home. He forgave me about my car too easily. Did you see the crane he’s got in the backyard? He and Phil are using it to shoot a commercial. Daddy told them to.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mildred murmured.
“Mom, don’t you see? Next he’ll even let me drive Beautiful Baby. Something is definitely wrong. And…people are saying they saw us out together. But it’s always some place I haven’t been to.”
Mildred, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest, forced herself to take on the practical aspect that Angela Lansbury used in Murder, She Wrote . “That’s nothing. Circumstantial,” she said dismissively. “You still haven’t given me anything definitive.”
Sylvie burst into tears. “He’s gotten a pedicure.”
“A pedicure! My god!” Mildred took her daughter into her arms. Sylvie wasn’t just paranoid. “Was it a professional pedicure?” Mildred asked, giving her son-in-law the benefit of the doubt.
Sylvie nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “He’s been stabbing me with those pointy, deadly, fungoid toenails for twenty-one years. And now, just when he’s ignoring me, they’re short and shell pink.”
“He had a professional pedicure?” Mildred repeated, outraged. “He was dying to get caught,” she muttered.
Sylvie began crying on Mildred’s shoulder. “I know he’s sleeping with a younger woman.”
Mildred rocked Sylvie in her arms, but managed to shrug. “Of course
Similar Books
