Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

pillow. Elsie turned on the TV to PBS and curled up on the cushion she referred to as her dog bed while Nick started building cars out of Duplo.
    “I’m in the kitchen,” my husband sang out. I took a deep breath; there was a wonderful smell of garlic and rosemary in the air.
    “You’re . . . cooking?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen, stunned at the sight of my husband in an apron. He was as handsome as always, with dark hair and chiseled cheekbones, but he no longer made my heart do anything but contract a little bit.
    “Why not? It’s our anniversary, after all,” he said, handing me a glass of chilled white wine.
    “Oh. Right.” I pasted on a smile, realizing with a rush of embarrassment that I’d forgotten the date. I was surprised Prudence hadn’t reminded me. “Thank you,” I said, and took a big sip of wine—after the day I’d had, I needed it—and peered into the pan on the stove, where two pork tenderloins were sizzling.
    “What happened to your clothes?”
    “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I spilled something on them; let me go change.” I escaped the kitchen to what used to be our bedroom and changed into a fresh pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Not the most romantic getup for an anniversary dinner, but romantic wasn’t what I was going for. I took a look at myself in the mirror; I’d gained a couple of pounds over the summer, and I needed a haircut. Maybe when my mother was here I could slip away for a few hours. I tossed my dirty clothes onto the growing pile of laundry, arranged my face into what I hoped was a pleasant expression, and headed back to the kitchen. “What’s cooking?” I asked.
    “Italian marinated pork tenderloin,” Blake said. “I picked it up at Central Market.” He gave me one of those breathtaking grins of his, all straight teeth and sparkling eyes. “I figured you could use a break in the kitchen.”
    “Thanks,” I said, taking another sip of wine and hoping this didn’t mean he wanted to try to get romantic.
    “Becky called, by the way. I told her you’d give her a ring back.”
    Becky? I felt a surge of hope. Were things looking up? If so, that was the only relationship that had any glint of hope.
    I studied Blake as he poked at the pork tenderloin with a fork. Although our first year of marriage had been wonderful, filled with spontaneous trips to the beach, candlelight dinners, and passionate nights, things had cooled quickly and never warmed back up. My funny, dashing husband had morphed into someone who was snippy, intolerant, and very worried about what the neighbors thought of us—particularly of me.
    I’d written it off as the stress of having children, whose natural tendency toward entropy was obviously a challenge to someone who kept his socks folded and ordered not only by color, but by shade. About six months ago, though, the underlying reason for Blake’s frustration had surfaced when I found a photo of him with a beautiful transvestite in his lap.
    Blake had relocated to a hotel room for a week, begging me not to tell anyone what I’d found. He’d then pleaded with me to let him move back in, telling me it was just a phase, and that he had put it all behind him. (I resisted the urge to ask exactly what he’d put behind him.)
    I’d reluctantly agreed, provided he stayed in his office while we worked things out. After all, I reasoned, I had grown up believing that marriage was a commitment you made for life, and it would be better for the kids to have both parents living in the same house. And I was worried about my sweet daughter, who had been withdrawing from both of us more and more lately, lost in her dog persona. She needed all the support she could get right now; I was on the verge of sending her to the Canine Center for Training and Behavior. Or a psychologist.
    At least Blake had been less snippy the last few months, which was nice, and even folded laundry once in a while, a welcome change. Things hadn’t exactly been lovey-dovey,