Gone With a Handsomer Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

on South Battery, and the doctor brought out a brown and white puppy. It ran in circles; then it stopped and tilted his head as if he’d just noticed me. A broad white stripe ran down the center of the pup’s flat, mashed-in head. The undershot jaw widened into a grin. Honest to god. The doctor sold him cheap, claiming he couldn’t stand the drooling and snorting.
    I was a little nervous as I drove back over the bridge to Mount Pleasant. I wasn’t sure how Bing would react, but it was love at first sight for him, too. “Look at these teeth,” he said. “A dog like this commands respect. Let’s call him Sir.”
    The name took. I house-trained Sir in a week, using little bits of cheese as a reward. Bing hired a carpenter to install doggie doors in the people doors. We taught Sir to fetch a stuffed squirrel—not so easy with that atrocious underbite. Every night we helped him onto our high cannonball bed. Sir would circle and circle before flopping down between us, his stubby legs stretched out behind him.
    Those days were so sweet, and they stayed in my mind the way lemon meringue pie lingers on the tongue. Now they were gone. We’d only been together almost six months. That came to 4,320 hours. I’d read in the National Enquirer about short-lived celebrity marriages. Rudolph Valentino left his bride six hours after the wedding. Britney Spears’s first marriage ended after fifty-five hours. Ethel Merman and Ernest Borgnine, 768 hours. Nic Cage and Lisa Marie Presley, 2,160 hours.
    Now I was all alone, sleepless in Charleston.
    A car rumbled down East Bay Street, and lights ran over the walls. When I rolled over, the mattress shifted like it might crash to the floor. I held real still and thought about food. When I got nervous, I had my own ways of calming down; I made up unusual recipes that weren’t necessarily edible but suited my mood.
    What I needed was my family’s private cookbook, but it was locked up at Bing’s house. No matter what had happened between me and Bing, I couldn’t lose that book. Long before I was born, my aunt and her sisters began a Templeton tradition. They started with a spiral-bound Baptist cookbook, covered it with blue plaid, and painted Templeton Family Receipts & Whatnot across the front. Whenever one of the sisters got peeved, she wrote a recipe—not a normal one, mind you, but one that helped her relax. Some people have punching bags, time-out rooms, or Prozac. The Templetons had a cookbook. Our recipes were fanciful, listing umpteen lethal ingredients. Not that we’d ever tried them on anyone. It was just our way of venting.
    I pictured Bing’s peach tree. Too bad I’d used the fruit as ammunition or I could make You’ll Get Yours Peach Icing. It calls for 1 cup heavy whipping cream, 1 ⁄ 3 cup sugar, and ½ cup pureed peaches. Reserve the pits and beat the cream until it stiffens, about five minutes. Add sugar. Fold in peach puree. Set aside. Smash the pits with a hammer. Retrieve seeds. Place in a mortar and use pestle to pulverize the seeds until they resemble your heart. Cry a little. Smile when you remember that peach seeds contain cyanide. Shrug because they aren’t fatal unless consumed in humongous amounts. They have been known to cause explosions in the digestive tract.
    Quick note to self: Mix seeds into peach puree. Spread icing onto a layer cake and serve it to the skanks who stole your husband-to-be. Refrigerate to prevent spoilage.

six
    I was dreaming of monster cheesecake, the kind that’s drizzled with dark chocolate, when I heard gunfire. I sat up and listened to the rhythmic pops. Was a robber downstairs shooting Miss Dora’s antiques? I looked around for a place to hide, but the noise seemed to be coming from the street.
    I got dressed, hurried downstairs, and grabbed the tasseled key chain. My pulse thrummed as I went out the gray door, into the corridor, and peeked through the iron grille. I half-expected to see a sniper or furniture thief; the