On the Same Page by N. D. Galland

Author:N. D. Galland [Galland, N. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

IV

April

JOANNA SPENT THAT DAY AND THE NEXT TRYING TO DISTRACT herself. First with a thorough cleaning and airing of Hank’s bedroom and his corner of the bathroom, which the cats protested raucously. Then by contemplating the immense project of tidying up all the junk in the yard, but it was too muddy. March on the Vineyard equaled mud, and it was only the first of April. Instead of tackling the yard, she baked piles of food to get them through the next few weeks—casseroles, lasagna, chowder.

Hank came home after forty-eight hours in the ICU. His swollen, angry shin and ankle were now exposed and haloed by a sinister-looking bit of metal scaffolding, a sort of open-air Death Star/Erector Set mash-up. It took up more room than the boot had, making locomotion even clunkier and more cumbersome. He was furious at fate, and trying not to act furious at Joanna. Or at the patient home health aides who once again paraded through. She trimmed her schedule to be at home more often, as when she’d first arrived.

Orion texted her in the middle of that Thursday morning edit meeting at the Journal while Everett was crowing about the pinkletinks.

Each spring, the two papers competed, compulsively, to report the first pinkletinks. This year, a plumber had heard the shrill chorus of spring peepers—as pinkletinks were called off-Island—on his way out of a client’s house off Lambert’s Cove Road. Being nonpartisan, he had informed both of the papers, and both had immediately posted it online. But the Journal came out the day before the Newes, so the Journal got to herald the good news in print: It’s spring! You read it here first! Everett, with close-lipped grin and terrier eyebrows raised high, was triumphant.

Hope things are better with the family emergency . . . and if so . . . dinner? Tonight?

Her happily partnered friends in New York always warned her that saying yes to a spontaneous dinner was a terrible idea. But she wasn’t in New York, and she was not enthusiastic about sharing reheated casserole with Hank while he sniped yet again about that asshole Orion Smith and then insisted upon using a Sam Adams lager to fortify the effect of his pain meds. She texted back under the table.

Will meet you but will bring my own food again.

Almost immediately, Django Reinhardt’s music began to play between her hands. All eyes at the table jerked in her direction. Reddening, she slid the ringer volume to mute and stared very deliberately in Everett’s direction to demonstrate that she was not distracted. “. . . because when the shadbush blooms, that means the shad are running,” he was explaining.

“Actually I don’t think that’s true anymore, because of climate change,” said petite Sarah.

“I saw some in bloom,” said Rosie, the Goth reporter with runic tattoos. “So I guess we could get a shot of that.” She did not sound enthusiastic. Joanna could almost hear her thoughts: This isn’t our thing. This is the Newes’ thing.

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