Read Online Vicious by Kevin O'Brien - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin O'Brien
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the sofa.”
“Well, I still don’t want him playing out here unsupervised,” she insisted.
“Yes, cupcake, anything you say, cupcake,” he replied in a whiny, milquetoast voice that sounded a bit like Truman Capote.
She rolled her eyes at him and then started into the house. “God, I hate it when you do your henpecked husband act.”
“Yes, pudding,” he said—with that whiny voice again. “Dinner will be ready in about five minutes, pudding.”
Susan could hear him chuckling as she slid the screen door shut behind her. She didn’t think it was very funny, not when they were discussing the safety of her child.
Lately, she found herself cutting Allen very little slack. She wasn’t quite as enamored of him as she’d been when they’d first met. Then again, maybe that was just what she needed right now. If she wasn’t completely in love with him, she wouldn’t get her heart broken.
Susan set the dining room table—with plaid cloth mats that had seen better days, plain white plates, and mismatched stainless pieces. This was about as close to “roughing it” as they got here. That nice young man she’d met by the restrooms at Rosie’s had been right about this place. It was lovely.
She could smell the Tater Tots cooking; they had about five more minutes. She remembered the Tater Tot casserole she’d made that one time—eighteen months ago. She would probably never make it again.
Walt and she had been invited to a party.
Tater Tot casserole was the “kitsch-dish” Susan had decided to make for Connie and Jim O’Mara’s Fourth of July potluck. The hosts, old friends of Walt’s from college, were barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers. Connie encouraged their guests to bring a side dish or dessert that was some guilty-pleasure comfort food, parish picnic delicacy, or trailer-trash cuisine. Connie had explained to Susan over the phone that one guest was baking a mock apple pie from Ritz crackers. Another guest was bringing a Jell-O ambrosia salad.
“And Melissa Beale is bringing a Seven-Up cake—whatever the hell that is,” Susan said, folding a load of still-warm laundry on the bed while Walt dried off from an after-work shower. Steam wafted out the open bathroom door. Dinner was on the stove, and the kids were in front of the TV in the living room. Susan could hear it blaring. “Anyway, I told Connie we’d be there.”
“I really don’t want to go,” Walt grunted from the bathroom. “Can you call and cancel?”
“But why?” Susan asked while folding a pillowcase. “I figured you’d be all for it. They’re all your old college friends….”
The O’Maras had recently moved into a new luxury condominium on the edge of Capitol Hill. They were supposed to have a spectacular view of the Puget Sound and the fireworks. Kids were invited, too. Connie had hired a nanny to look after the little ones and read them to sleep in the guest room while the adults and older kids enjoyed the fireworks. Susan thought it sounded terrific—what with a sitter for two-year-old Mattie, and Michael, age eight, begging to stay up and watch the fireworks this year. It was an ideal arrangement—and she didn’t even have to cook, except for the Tater Tot casserole.
“I’d just as soon skip it,” Walt sighed, emerging from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He was working a Q-tip around his ear.
Susan caught him furtively looking at her in the mirror over her dresser, and she could tell something was wrong. She stopped folding one of his T-shirts and tossed it on the bed. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t feel like going to a party on July fourth. Traffic is always a pain in the ass. And the parking…” He snatched a pair of boxer shorts from her pile of laundry, then shed the towel and stepped into his boxers. The whole time his eyes avoided hers. “It’s too much of a hassle. I’d rather not go….”
Folding her arms, Susan stared at him.
“Well, I still don’t want him playing out here unsupervised,” she insisted.
“Yes, cupcake, anything you say, cupcake,” he replied in a whiny, milquetoast voice that sounded a bit like Truman Capote.
She rolled her eyes at him and then started into the house. “God, I hate it when you do your henpecked husband act.”
“Yes, pudding,” he said—with that whiny voice again. “Dinner will be ready in about five minutes, pudding.”
Susan could hear him chuckling as she slid the screen door shut behind her. She didn’t think it was very funny, not when they were discussing the safety of her child.
Lately, she found herself cutting Allen very little slack. She wasn’t quite as enamored of him as she’d been when they’d first met. Then again, maybe that was just what she needed right now. If she wasn’t completely in love with him, she wouldn’t get her heart broken.
Susan set the dining room table—with plaid cloth mats that had seen better days, plain white plates, and mismatched stainless pieces. This was about as close to “roughing it” as they got here. That nice young man she’d met by the restrooms at Rosie’s had been right about this place. It was lovely.
She could smell the Tater Tots cooking; they had about five more minutes. She remembered the Tater Tot casserole she’d made that one time—eighteen months ago. She would probably never make it again.
Walt and she had been invited to a party.
Tater Tot casserole was the “kitsch-dish” Susan had decided to make for Connie and Jim O’Mara’s Fourth of July potluck. The hosts, old friends of Walt’s from college, were barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers. Connie encouraged their guests to bring a side dish or dessert that was some guilty-pleasure comfort food, parish picnic delicacy, or trailer-trash cuisine. Connie had explained to Susan over the phone that one guest was baking a mock apple pie from Ritz crackers. Another guest was bringing a Jell-O ambrosia salad.
“And Melissa Beale is bringing a Seven-Up cake—whatever the hell that is,” Susan said, folding a load of still-warm laundry on the bed while Walt dried off from an after-work shower. Steam wafted out the open bathroom door. Dinner was on the stove, and the kids were in front of the TV in the living room. Susan could hear it blaring. “Anyway, I told Connie we’d be there.”
“I really don’t want to go,” Walt grunted from the bathroom. “Can you call and cancel?”
“But why?” Susan asked while folding a pillowcase. “I figured you’d be all for it. They’re all your old college friends….”
The O’Maras had recently moved into a new luxury condominium on the edge of Capitol Hill. They were supposed to have a spectacular view of the Puget Sound and the fireworks. Kids were invited, too. Connie had hired a nanny to look after the little ones and read them to sleep in the guest room while the adults and older kids enjoyed the fireworks. Susan thought it sounded terrific—what with a sitter for two-year-old Mattie, and Michael, age eight, begging to stay up and watch the fireworks this year. It was an ideal arrangement—and she didn’t even have to cook, except for the Tater Tot casserole.
“I’d just as soon skip it,” Walt sighed, emerging from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He was working a Q-tip around his ear.
Susan caught him furtively looking at her in the mirror over her dresser, and she could tell something was wrong. She stopped folding one of his T-shirts and tossed it on the bed. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t feel like going to a party on July fourth. Traffic is always a pain in the ass. And the parking…” He snatched a pair of boxer shorts from her pile of laundry, then shed the towel and stepped into his boxers. The whole time his eyes avoided hers. “It’s too much of a hassle. I’d rather not go….”
Folding her arms, Susan stared at him.
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