Read Online What a Man's Gotta Do by Karen Templeton - Free Book Online

where that led.
    Mala lobbed a pencil across the room, then sank her chin in her palm and stared out the window, watching the sun flash off the icicles suspended from her next-door neighbor’s eaves as she admitted to herself that the one hitch in her decision not to put herself through the dating/courting/marriage wringer again was that, contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t dead. In fact, if recent physical stirrings could be believed, she was a helluva lot more alive than she’d thought. However, she had far too much sense—
    Another roar of shrill laughter shot down the far-too-short hall.
    â€”not to mention children, to let herself be bossed around by a few clueless hormones. Loud and insistent though they might be.
    â€œOoooh, Lucas—you are gonna be in so much trouble!”
    Mala shut her eyes and the hormones hobbled back to their cold, airless cell. To the casual observer, the downstairs apartment was more than big enough—besides the living room, there were three bedrooms, two baths, the eat-in kitchen and the office. Today, it seemed about as big as a matchbox. And four times as suffocating.
    Something thudded out in the living room. The doorbell rang. The phone rang. Lucas screamed. Carrie remonstrated. Lucas screamed more loudly, the sound escalating as he approached the office, which meant he was ambulatory at least. The phone rang again; Mala picked it up.
    â€œGrandma’s here!” came Carrie’s yell from down the hall.
    â€œI slipped and bumped my head!” Lucas wailed. “Kiss it!”
    â€œLucas, shush!” She kissed his head, said “hello?” but got nothing for her trouble except a dial tone.
    â€œMa- ma! Grandma’s here! ”
    Her headache escalated to nuclear proportions.
    Â 
    Like a dog burying its bone, Bev Koleski wiped her booted feet about a hundred times on Mala’s doormat before stepping inside, chattering to the kids. Mala glanced out at the curb. No car.
    â€œYou walked?”
    â€œWell, of course I walked,” her mother said as she began shedding layers of clothes—scarf, gloves, knit hat, down coat, cardigan, a second sweater and, at last, the wiped-to-death boots—neatly placing each item on or by the mirrored coatrack next to the front door. Then she tugged down a rust-colored turtleneck that she’d been swearing for ten years must’ve shrunk in the wash over fearsome, polyester-ized hips. The women in Mala’s family were not petite. “Carrie, honey—go put on the kettle for me. Yes, you, too,” she added to Lucas, whose ten-second old boo-boo had already been consigned to oblivion, then said to Mala as the kids bunny-hopped down the hall to the kitchen, “You don’t think I’m gonna risk gettin’ in a car with the streets like this, do you?”
    No, of course not. Out of the corner of her eye, Mala spied somebody’s wadded up…something draped over the banister. She sidled over, snatched up whatever it was as Bev frowned in the mirror at her somewhat lopsided hairdo, which, thanks to better living through chemistry, had been exactly the same shade of dark brown for thirty years. With a resigned sigh, she swatted at her reflection, then dug in her aircraft carrier–size vinyl purse for a pair of pink terry cloth scuffs, which dropped to the wooden floor, smack, smack. Then she squinted at Mala as she shuffled her feet into the slippers.
    Oh, Lord. Here it comes.
    â€œYou look tired.”
    â€œI’m fine, Ma.”
    â€œDon’t lie to your mother.”
    â€œOkay, I have a little headache. It’s nothing.”
    Golden brown eyes softened in sympathy. “Kids making you nuts?”
    â€œNot any more than Steve and I did you. And you lived.”
    â€œBarely.” Then the eyes narrowed even more. “You doin’ okay, money-wise?”
    â€œYes, Ma. Picked up two new clients this week, in fact. But thanks for the