Occasion of Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

paragon has taken Daddy and her ample bosom into the living room.”
    “What’s a pair of gones?” piped up Julie who had appeared, unaccountably, on the other side of the accordion gate that kept Chloe from crawling upstairs.
    “Paragon,” corrected Emily. “It means super-special, like Abby.”
    “Can Chloe play?” Julie asked.
    Emily gave her cousin’s ponytail a playful tug. “Sure, squirt. Let’s take the baby and go down and see what the boys are up to.”
    Thank God for Emily! While the grown-ups spent the cocktail hour do-si-do-ing about the kitchen and living room, she kept the children occupied downstairs with popcorn and Coca-Cola, watching, from the periodic roar wafting up from the family room and from Julie’s delighted squeal—“Ooooh! Flying cows!”—the Twister video. I thought Twister was a bit intense for little kids—it had scared me spitless—but they’d seen it seven or eight times already so it was probably a little late for me to object.
    Meanwhile, Darlene and Daddy had migrated to the kitchen. Spreading a cracker with brie, she extended it toward my father, who was noisily lobbing ice cubes into a shaker. “Now, George, you’ve already had one martini!”
    Was she some sort of fool? Everybody knew that the drink he was fixing had to be his third or fourth, at least.
    Daddy added a splash of vermouth to the vodka already in the shaker and shook the nasty mixture vigorously. He took the cracker from Darlene’s fingers and popped it into his mouth whole. “Just cleansing my palate.” He poured his drink, sipped it experimentally, then turned to Ruth. “When’s dinner?”
    Ruth scowled over her shoulder. Some of the water from the pasta pot she was emptying into a colander in the sink slopped over onto the counter. “Five-minute warning. Tell everybody to wash their hands and come to the table.”
    After the rocky start, I was determined that the dinner would proceed pleasantly. Sitting on my father’s left, Itold Darlene about the St. John’s College library where I was cataloging the collection of L.K. Bromley, the famous American mystery writer. I brought everyone up to date on my volunteer work for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Somewhere in the middle of asking Scott a question about the big account he had just landed, I noticed Darlene was shoving her spaghetti around on her plate, turning it over with her fork as if she were hoeing a garden. A tidy pile of mushroom bits grew to one side of her plate.
    Ruth noticed it, too. “Something wrong with your spaghetti, Darlene?”
    Darlene glanced up at Ruth. “I’m allergic to mushrooms.”
    “Oh?” By the grim set of her jaw, I could tell Ruth didn’t believe that for one minute.
    Daddy laid down his fork and patted Darlene’s hand. “Ruth will fix you something else, won’t you, Ruth?”
    Without saying a word, Ruth stood, shoved back her chair, walked around the table, and snatched Darlene’s plate. I hurriedly excused myself to see if I could help. By the time I got to the kitchen, Ruth had tipped Darlene’s dinner into the garbage disposal and flipped up the switch so violently I thought it would fall off the wall. Over the grinding she snarled, “What the hell does he think I am? A short-order cook?”
    Even though Daddy had been a bit over the line, I found myself coming to his defense. “She is his guest, Ruth. He just wants to make her happy.”
    “Well, next time he can make her happy at the Maryland Inn or Cantler’s.” She sluiced the remaining sauce off Darlene’s plate, then mounded it high withfresh pasta. “Get the butter out of the fridge for me, will you?”
    I handed Ruth the Land-o’-Lakes and said, “Look, Ruth. I don’t like Darlene much, either, but what can we do? Daddy’s a grown-up, and he’s clearly smitten. I keep thinking, what would I do if Daddy didn’t like Paul?”
    Ruth stared at me thoughtfully, a carving knife in her hand.
    “I’d want him to give Paul