Too Many Cooks Read Online Free PDF Page A

get there on her own, first.”
    Angie took the dress off the ironing board. “I’d better change. I’m going to have to figure out what else to wear.” She stepped out of the kitchen, glancing from Stan to her front door by way of a hint.
    â€œDon’t worry about me. I’ll go see to Mrs. Calamatti soon.” He opened the door of her refrigerator. “Ah! Leftover lasagna. I love your lasagna, Angie.”
    â€œTake it.” She waved her free arm in the air as she went off to the bedroom. As she passed the bathroom, she got an idea. She went in, spun the shower faucet to the highest setting for hot, turned it on full, then hung the dress nearby, where it’d catch a lot of the steam.
    As she stepped out of the bathroom, she looked down the hall to see Stan seated at her mahogany dining room table, a plate of lasagna and a glass of cabernet in front of him. She walked to the doorway and stood there silently, watching him.
    He turned, as if feeling her stare. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. My microwave is on the fritz.”
    She glanced at the digital clock on the VCR. “Oh, no!” she cried.
    â€œIt’s not that bad, Angie. I’m sure there are plenty of good microwave repairmen around.”
    â€œNo, Stan. The time.”
    â€œOh. How much longer until Dick Tracy arrives?”
    â€œThat’s just it! He should have been here fifteen minutes ago.” She began to pace.
    â€œFifteen minutes is nothing.”
    â€œHe’s always been punctual before.”
    â€œIsn’t he back at work now, though?”
    â€œYes. That’s just the problem. It’s dangerous. Maybe he got hurt and that’s why he’s late.”
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    â€œI’ve got to worry.”
    â€œGot to?”
    â€œIt keeps people safe. I learned that from my grandmother. We had a big family, and it was her duty to worry about all of us. She scarcely had time to sleep, poor woman. It worked, though.”
    â€œAngie, that’s just superstition.”
    She glanced at the clock again, then bit her bottom lip as she clutched her elbows and walked back and forth across the room. “My God, Stan, don’t you think I know that? I wasn’t born in the Dark Ages.”
    â€œThen relax.”
    â€œI can’t. Don’t you see? I know it’s superstition, but if I stopped worrying and he got hurt, I’d never forgive myself.”
    Stan looked blankly at her and poured himself another glass of wine.
    A half hour later, Angie sat on the yellow silk Hepplewhite armchair, her feet up on the Queen Anne coffee table. Worrying was exhausting. Maybe she’d have to rethink this new relationship.
    A loud knock sounded at the door. She knew that knock. Cops, she thought, hurrying across the room. Sounded as if he’d come to make a drug bust.
    She swung open the door. It was Paavo. Soft blue eyes took her breath away and made her heart beat faster. Her gaze raced over his gray sports jacket,black slacks, and pale blue shirt, the same shade as his eyes, then zeroed in closer for any signs of fatigue after his first day at work.
    His face was thin, but then it was always thin: his nose highly arched, his brows straight, his eyes intense. Relief, coupled with a pulsating excitement at simply being with him, hammered through her. “You’re late!” she cried.
    He cocked an eyebrow as he strolled in, the room seeming to shrink in his presence. His gaze pointedly took in her mid-thigh-length robe, then traveled to shapely bare legs and little pink-polished toenails peeking out of the open toes of her fluffy slippers. He shifted his eyes to Stan, who was holding a glass of wine, then back to Angie. “I see you had help keeping your vigil,” he said to her. “Am I interrupting something?”
    Her whole world seemed to tilt at the smooth, graceful way he glided into the room, at the cool, arch look he gave her now. God,