he'll find irresistible?
In another saucepan (don't worry, that's what a good-looking man is for, to get sudsy with you and help with the dishes), melt the butter, then add the flour. Stir in the milk a little at a time with a whisk, cooking until it's as thick and bubbly as your desire for more. Add the mozzarella and stir until it's melted. Finally, add the wine.
Oh, yeah . It looks good enough to eat as it is, doesn't it? Trust me. Layer one sauce, then the other on the lasagna noodles, repeating one more time. Top with the Parmigiano. Then bake it uncovered (doesn't everything look better naked?) for a half an hour.
It says this recipe serves six to eight. But honestly, I've never been able to stretch it past two. And with a good-looking man sitting across the table to indulge with, why the hell would you want to invite anyone else over anyway?
Chapter Six
Meredith sat in the waiting area of an upscale hair salon in Harvard Square during her lunch hour and instead of eating the Subway wrap in the bag beside her, she chewed on a big regret.
That she'd answered her cell phone. Again.
"Are you eating your vegetables, dear?"
Meredith knew no matter how bad her mother got, she was still her mother. And she did this all out of love—a love that sometimes suffocated her like a two-ton comforter, but still, love. "Yes, I am."
"Because if you don't, you'll get constipated and when you get your plumbing backed up—"
"Momma, this is not the time."
"I'm just saying a girl's gotta keep her plumbing in good condition. Don't want those pipes freezing when you're a married woman."
"I'm not getting married."
"That's not what Caleb says," her mother sing-songed over the phone. "A little birdie told me he has plans."
"We had plans. We're no longer engaged. It's over."
"Oh, pshaw. Temporarily. When you start eating more fiber, you'll come to your senses again."
"My diet has nothing to do with how I feel about Caleb."
Martha harrumphed. "It's all that smog. I tell you, it isn't good for your brain. Why I can practically hear your brain cells dying from here." On the other end, her mother started the water for the dishes. It was nine-fifteen in the morning. If there was one thing Martha Shordon excelled at, it was sticking to a schedule. Breakfast dishes soaked until nine-thirty, then they were washed, dried and back in the cabinet before ten.
"All my brain cells are intact," Meredith said, then wondered for a moment if they were. Was this idea completely insane? It would be so easy to go back home, to settle back into the complacency of Heavendale that had surrounded her with the thickness of one of her grandmother's wedding-ring pattern quilts. "I'm doing great," she said as much to reassure herself as her mother.
"Your voice sounds a little hoarse. Are you catching a cold?" Her mother didn't wait for an answer. "Chicken soup. That's what you need."
Next it would be an onion poultice. Meredith had some particularly ugly memories of onions and childhood. "I'm fine," she repeated.
"Don't forget to take your vitamins, either. You get too low on your Bs and before you know it—"
"I will. Give Dad a kiss for me. I have to go now."
A pause, then a sigh. "Meredith, what should I tell Caleb?"
Undoubtedly, telling her mother not to say anything would backfire. 'Tell him I've moved on. And I'm happy now."
"You don't sound happy. It must be a cold," Momma insisted. "You're not acting like yourself at all. I'll send you some Campbell's. I'll put that on my list for the Kroger store."
Meredith bit back her first response. As well as her second. "Thanks, Momma. That would be great."
"I knew you'd come around. You always were my good girl." Back in the sunflower-yellow kitchen in Heavendale, her mother turned off the water and let the egg-coated plates soak. "Once you're back home where you belong, everything will be back to normal. You'll see."
Meredith hung up her phone and knew one thing for sure. Soup or not, it
In another saucepan (don't worry, that's what a good-looking man is for, to get sudsy with you and help with the dishes), melt the butter, then add the flour. Stir in the milk a little at a time with a whisk, cooking until it's as thick and bubbly as your desire for more. Add the mozzarella and stir until it's melted. Finally, add the wine.
Oh, yeah . It looks good enough to eat as it is, doesn't it? Trust me. Layer one sauce, then the other on the lasagna noodles, repeating one more time. Top with the Parmigiano. Then bake it uncovered (doesn't everything look better naked?) for a half an hour.
It says this recipe serves six to eight. But honestly, I've never been able to stretch it past two. And with a good-looking man sitting across the table to indulge with, why the hell would you want to invite anyone else over anyway?
Chapter Six
Meredith sat in the waiting area of an upscale hair salon in Harvard Square during her lunch hour and instead of eating the Subway wrap in the bag beside her, she chewed on a big regret.
That she'd answered her cell phone. Again.
"Are you eating your vegetables, dear?"
Meredith knew no matter how bad her mother got, she was still her mother. And she did this all out of love—a love that sometimes suffocated her like a two-ton comforter, but still, love. "Yes, I am."
"Because if you don't, you'll get constipated and when you get your plumbing backed up—"
"Momma, this is not the time."
"I'm just saying a girl's gotta keep her plumbing in good condition. Don't want those pipes freezing when you're a married woman."
"I'm not getting married."
"That's not what Caleb says," her mother sing-songed over the phone. "A little birdie told me he has plans."
"We had plans. We're no longer engaged. It's over."
"Oh, pshaw. Temporarily. When you start eating more fiber, you'll come to your senses again."
"My diet has nothing to do with how I feel about Caleb."
Martha harrumphed. "It's all that smog. I tell you, it isn't good for your brain. Why I can practically hear your brain cells dying from here." On the other end, her mother started the water for the dishes. It was nine-fifteen in the morning. If there was one thing Martha Shordon excelled at, it was sticking to a schedule. Breakfast dishes soaked until nine-thirty, then they were washed, dried and back in the cabinet before ten.
"All my brain cells are intact," Meredith said, then wondered for a moment if they were. Was this idea completely insane? It would be so easy to go back home, to settle back into the complacency of Heavendale that had surrounded her with the thickness of one of her grandmother's wedding-ring pattern quilts. "I'm doing great," she said as much to reassure herself as her mother.
"Your voice sounds a little hoarse. Are you catching a cold?" Her mother didn't wait for an answer. "Chicken soup. That's what you need."
Next it would be an onion poultice. Meredith had some particularly ugly memories of onions and childhood. "I'm fine," she repeated.
"Don't forget to take your vitamins, either. You get too low on your Bs and before you know it—"
"I will. Give Dad a kiss for me. I have to go now."
A pause, then a sigh. "Meredith, what should I tell Caleb?"
Undoubtedly, telling her mother not to say anything would backfire. 'Tell him I've moved on. And I'm happy now."
"You don't sound happy. It must be a cold," Momma insisted. "You're not acting like yourself at all. I'll send you some Campbell's. I'll put that on my list for the Kroger store."
Meredith bit back her first response. As well as her second. "Thanks, Momma. That would be great."
"I knew you'd come around. You always were my good girl." Back in the sunflower-yellow kitchen in Heavendale, her mother turned off the water and let the egg-coated plates soak. "Once you're back home where you belong, everything will be back to normal. You'll see."
Meredith hung up her phone and knew one thing for sure. Soup or not, it
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