Dial M for Meat Loaf Read Online Free PDF

her think of her grandparent’s home in Grand Rapids. Luxuriating finally in the cool stillness of the kitchen, Sophie was grateful for the central air. Outside, the evening was thick with heat and humidity, just the kind of summer night likely to spawn a storm.
    While Milton switched on the lights, Sophie scoped out the lay of the land. A long living room dominated the downstairs, with two picture windows capping off either end. Toward the front of the house, an archway opened onto the front hall. Peering into the dimness, Sophie could make out a beautiful old wooden stairway leading up to the second floor. It hugged the far wall, a remnant of the house as it had once looked, before the interior had been modernized. The furniture in the living room seemed comfortable and functional, neither antique nor modern. None of the furnishings were particularly tasteful. Two brown plush recliner rockers faced the TV, as did a nondescript gold-and-green couch. The dominant colors in the room were gold, green, and brown, with orange accents scattered here and there. Family photos and oil paintings of flowers lined the brownpaneled walls. All in all, the house seemed homey. It smelled of coffee and contentment.
    Sophie didn’t really want to spend the night in Rose Hill, but she saw the wisdom in not heading back to St. Paul in a potential storm. Still, she hated to impose on the Washburns, especially at a time like this. She could easily have found a motel for the night, but Bernice wouldn’t hear of it.
    “Hey, Sophie,” Milton called from the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
    “Sure,” she said. She found him bent over with his head in the refrigerator. The small, round breakfast table behind him was overflowing with opened Tupperware bowls. The spread looked like a church basement feast, everything from deviled eggs to potato salad, coleslaw, fried chicken, carrots and green peppers pickled in a tomato sauce, Jell-O with canned fruit and Cool Whip, pickled cucumbers, tuna macaroni salad, cornbread, tiny bran muffins, the ubiquitous “overnight salad,” and a cold ham loaf. Sophie did a double take at the couscous salad. Someone in town was clearly a budding gourmet. On the counter next to the table were paper plates filled with brownies, chocolate chip blondies, lemon bars, spice bars, two homemade berry pies, seven-layer bars, a rhubarb crisp, and slices of pumpkin bread.
    “Help yourself,” said Milton, handing her an uncapped beer bottle, then chugging half of his before he sat down. “Just thought I’d get out a few things for us. I’m famished.” He pointed to some paper plates and plastic forks on the counter, then bit hungrily into a chicken leg.
    Sophie heaped a small plate with food. She sat down on the other side of the table and took a bite of a deviled egg. She’d always loved them, but rarely ate them anymore. Nobody did these days, what with eggs in general being frowned upon by the nutritional powers that be. Perhaps people in small towns weren’t as impressed by “experts” as their fellow city dwellers.
    “I’m beat,” said Milton, scooping out some potato salad and pickled carrots.
    “Have you been spending long hours at the hospital?”
    “And then some. I’m worried about Mary. She’s pushing too hard.”
    “Sounds like her husband made some major progress today.”
    Milton’s eyes flicked to her, then away. “Yeah. At least he’s out of his coma. Funny, you’d think that if anybody would have had a stroke, it would have been me. My eating habits are deplorable. Always have been. By all rights, I’m the one who should be lying in that bed, not John.” He shook his head, then added, “He’s worth two of me, Sophie. John was the good brother, the responsible one. He settled down with Mary, raised a family, and became a pillar of the community. I got lucky in life, but John made his own luck.”
    He seemed to want to talk. Sophie was more than happy to let him. “Are you from