Wild Rendezvous Read Online Free PDF Page A

child.’
    â€˜Well, I am sure you could do it at her age, pumpkin, I was only a little worried that the child you’re taking on might be a little, how shall I put it? Developmentally challenged.’
    â€˜Hello, Joe, hello, Mrs Moore and Lucy. I’m home.’
    â€˜It’s Ms Simpson,’ she snaps. ‘You can call me Beverly because that’s my name.’
    I realise I’ve made a boo-boo with her name so maybe I should be a little more circumspect but the tension in the room is palpable and Beverly is obviously the centre of it. I try really hard to smile sweetly and not to go and throttle the old lady perched on the edge of my sofa. She may have bright red lipstick on and a short, floaty summer dress but she is certainly not young. She reminds me of a lovely old lady I knew when I was a child. She was 70 and wore a bright red wig and make-up to match till the day she passed on. She was bonkers but harmless. Joe’s mum is clearly the former but I’m not convinced of the latter.
    â€˜Ahh, so you’re Deanna.’ She stands up primly, brushes the skirt down her legs, and offers me her hand.
    â€˜Yes, I am Le anna.’ I emphasise the “L” sound at the beginning of my name. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says and feebly takes my fingers and wiggles them up and down. ‘Of course.’
    â€˜Mama!’ Lucy greets me by enthusiastically throwing herself around my legs.
    â€˜Hello sunbeam.’ I giggle. ‘Did you miss me?’
    I pull her away from my legs and lift her into my arms. Her sticky fingers come up to my cheeks and stroke them. She giggles and I kiss her on her nose. She slobbers on mine in return.
    â€˜You were a much cleaner baby,’ Joe’s mum mumbles a little louder than I believe she realises. ‘I was very careful of that.’
    â€˜Mother,’ he exclaims in a low, measured tone, ‘would you stop it?’
    â€˜What, pumpkin? I was just saying.’
    â€˜And stop calling me that.’ He’s at the end of his tether, I can tell.
    â€˜Joe, love, tea smells lovely. Cinnamony, in fact,’ I spout, trying to alleviate some of the tension.
    â€˜Tea? Oh no, dear, this is coffee, not that disgusting weak brew you Brits like.’
    â€˜Mother, she means the evening meal.’ He sighs.
    â€˜Yes, we call our evening meal “tea” here in the north.’
    â€˜Oh, how very peculiar,’ she replies with something approaching a smile or it could have been a grimace. ‘I call it dinner.’
    â€˜I made a pie.’ Joe decides to completely ignore his mother. ‘Lucy helped.’
    â€˜Yes, the poor urchin was covered in flour when I arrived.’ Joe’s mum butts in again.
    â€˜Did you have fun baking?’ I speak directly to Lucy, who giggles and nods.
    â€˜So we have apple pie for dessert and we’ve got chicken salad for tea. In fact, it just needs serving up.’
    â€˜Brilliant.’ I smile. ‘You’re a star, Joe.’ I put Lucy on the floor. ‘OK, bub, show me the way to the food.’ She giggles, grabs my hand and pulls me over to the dining table. I try hard not to pick up on what Joe’s mum is mumbling about but she doesn’t seem to like the idea of people not hearing what she has to say.
    â€˜Fancy not changing before dinner, how uncouth, and expecting the man to cook? Oh my, it’s ridiculous. What a terrible wife she’s going to make.’
    I take a deep, calming breath. She’s of the older generation; she may be suffering a little culture shock or jet lag, maybe both. I’m willing to cut her a little slack. I fasten Lucy into her high chair and sit beside her. Adult silence reigns. Lucy babbles quite happily to herself as she waits.
    â€˜How was your flight?’ I ask when Joe brings out a big bowl of salad and a plate of cold chicken left over from last night’s