Dr. Dad Read Online Free PDF Page A

inspiration. “When did you tell her to come?”
    â€œSix o’clock.”
    He swore under his breath. It was five forty-five now. No time to race out to the supermarket. What could he do with frozen shrimp? “Spaghetti,” he said.
    â€œShe won’t eat that. It’s too fattening. You know what they say about TV—it adds ten pounds.”
    â€œTen pounds of what?”
    Lindsey gazed at the ceiling and groaned “Dad,” as if she thought he was just pretending ignorance. But he had no idea what she meant about ten pounds, and he had no time to chisel through her sarcasm. Whether or not the new neighbor wanted to eat spaghetti, that was what he would be serving. It was either spaghetti or pizza delivered from Luigi’s.
    He pulled out the big pot, filled it with water, set it on the stove and turned on the heat under it. Then he tossed the package of shrimp into the microwave to defrost and grabbed a jar of marinara sauce from a shelf.
    Five years ago, no one could have convinced him he could fix a dinner so efficiently. Neither he nor Jane had been particularly talented in the kitchen; they’d cooked edible meals, but they’d never been the kind to experiment with exotic ingredients or collect bizarre appliances—like state-of-the-art garlic presses and vegetable steamers and candy thermometers. Because he’d worked long hours, Jane had done most of the cooking. He’d known the basics of food preparation; during his bachelor days, he’d somehow managed to keep himself from starving to death. But she’d been the boss in the kitchen. He’d been the assistant.
    Now he was the boss, receiving minimal culinary assistance from Lindsey. He used to ask her for help, but lately he’d been hesitant. Asking her for anything meant running the risk of tripping some invisible switch inside her, sending her into one of her sulks or igniting an argument.
    He didn’t have time to argue with her tonight. SueDawson would be over in—he glanced at his watch—ten minutes. But it was Lindsey’s fault that he had to throw this last-minute dinner together. She ought to do something to help out. “Why don’t you set the dining-room table,” he suggested in as mild a voice as he could manage. “If we’re having company, we might as well eat in there.” The kitchen table currently held his briefcase, his jacket, Lindsey’s backpack from school, a stack of as yet unopened mail and a dirty plate left over from breakfast. He didn’t have time to neaten up the place.
    Without a quibble, Lindsey exited into the dining room. She had a new way of walking, he noticed—a kind of slinky, slouchy motion, using her hips more than her feet to propel her. He wondered if her backpack was too heavy, damaging her posture, or if this was simply the way preteen girls walked, thinking they looked sexy.
    God, he was tired of worrying about her all the time.
    Right now, he couldn’t spare a minute for worry. He rummaged in the refrigerator for lettuce, tomatoes and a stalk of celery. He didn’t have any Italian bread—he hoped spaghetti with shrimp and a salad would be sufficient.
    Would Sue like wine? he wondered. The thought of lingering over a glass of wine with her appealed to him. He felt guilty about that. And he felt stupid for feeling guilty.
    The wine rack built into the cabinet near the microwave wasn’t well stocked. He’d never considered wine a beverage to drink in solitude, and the last time he’d had guests for dinner was the office holiday party, which he’d cohosted with his partners. The food hadbeen catered, but he’d bought a case of assorted wines, and he had a few bottles left over.
    He found a bottle of Italian table red and pulled it out, then grabbed a couple of goblets from the adjacent cabinet and carried them to the dining room. To his amazement, Lindsey had done a meticulous job of