Theresa Monsour Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    â€œStay where you’re at!” she yelled to the line. Then, so only he and those next to him could hear, she said lowly, “Good eye, Number One.” The deputy stayed hunched over the finger while she radioed for help.
    Number Two, a pretty blond woman, kept her place in the line but turned her back to the finger. Stared up at the sky.
    â€œYou okay, ma’am?” Number One asked in a low voice.
    â€œSorry I’m such a baby,” she whispered.
    â€œN . . . no,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
    She turned to face him and touched his arm. “Thank you.”
    He lowered his eyes and nodded. His heart raced. He tried to keep from breathing fast. Tried to keep from grinning. He covered his mouth with his hand, pretended to cough. Don’t grin, he told himself. This wouldn’t be the time or the place for grinning. It would peg him as a creep, and it would tip them off.

FIVE
    SUNDAY AFTERNOON JACK relaxed on the deck off the living room while Murphy chopped and mixed in the galley. Every time they had a quiet moment, she wondered if she should tell him about the affair she’d had over the summer. The urge to confess was overwhelming; she blamed it on her Catholic upbringing. That morning she’d gone to the cathedral without him. All during mass she’d thought about their marriage, their problems. She scanned the pews in the cavernous church. Saw couples worshiping together. Families. The fact that he wasn’t next to her in the pew spoke to one of their differences.
    When she was growing up, Sunday mass and meals were a big deal for the Murphy clan. She and her mother would be up before church preparing the feast. They’d make Lebanese flatbread from scratch. The first loaf out of the oven would be theirs. They’d spread butter on the hot bread and wash it down with mint tea. The smell of baking would fill the house and rouse the males out of bed. They’d all attend morning mass together, filling up two pews. After church came a family meal that seemed to last all day.Jack was raised differently. He was the only child of two University of Minnesota professors. They seldom went to church and rarely cooked. Jack’s childhood memories of Sundays involved sleeping late and going out for brunch at a restaurant. Murphy didn’t relish visiting his parents in their upscale St. Anthony Park neighborhood. Their house was too quiet and the copper pots they had hanging in their kitchen were covered with dust. Murphy thought there was something sacrilegious about buying nice cookware and using it solely for decoration. Jack was equally uncomfortable in her childhood home. Holidays were especially crazy with her brothers’ wives and children added to the mix. More than one Thanksgiving she’d found Jack sitting alone on the back porch. “Too much noise,” he’d mutter.
    She watched him sitting on her deck, his feet up on the rail and a Sunday paper next to his chair. She went over to the refrigerator and stood in front of it, hand on the door handle. She ordered herself to go out on the deck and spill her guts. She stood still for a moment, and then pulled open the door and reached for the tomatoes. She told herself she’d unload her conscience on another day. She slammed the door shut and returned her attention to something she could control: the food.
    She was glad she had all the ingredients on hand for tabbouleh:
Half cup of bulgur (cracked wheat)
    Four cups of chopped parsley (no stems)
    Two medium tomatoes, diced
    Half cup of finely chopped green onions (including tops)
    Quarter cup of finely chopped fresh mint
    Quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil
    Quarter cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice
    One teaspoon of salt
    Half teaspoon of pepper
    She covered the cracked wheat with lukewarm water and let it soak until it was soft—about twenty minutes. She drained it and squeezed it with her hands to get out as