Seasons of Her Life by Fern Michaels

Author:Fern Michaels [Michaels, Fern]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2014-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

With silly little smirks on their faces, Martha and Andy Blue watched their father’s inept efforts at the stove. Andy kept nudging his sister and whispering, “This is the third day we’re eating eggs, and if the grape jelly gets on them, they turn green. I don’t like green eggs, do you?”

“I looove green eggs,” Martha purred. “I even love Dad’s black toast. He said I could set the table,” she said importantly.

“Yuk. You never liked to set the table before Mom went away. All you did was whine and try to get out of it.” He felt rather than saw his sister shrug her shoulders. Her eyes were glued on her father. It was okay, he decided, because these past few days their father had paid more attention to Martha than to him.

He adored Marty. It was good to see her giggle and joke with Dad. She’d gotten a kiss on the cheek today after school when she showed him her big red A on a math test. She was smart, the smartest one in her class—everyone said so. “Keep that up, and they’ll give you a scholarship to Harvard or Princeton,” his dad said. Marty beamed from ear to ear. She said she’d love to go to Princeton someday, but Andy hoped she wouldn’t because it meant she’d go away, and he wouldn’t have a sister anymore.

“Go wash up, Andy,” his father ordered briskly. Andy trotted off to the bathroom. Boy, did he ever hate green eggs. He counted to sixty-five times as he lathered and rubbed his hands together, the way his father taught him. If he got to the kitchen one second earlier, he got a check mark on his list, which was pasted to the cabinet door. He dried his hands thoroughly, then hopped from one foot to the other and counted out another twenty seconds just in case he’d counted too fast the other five times.

The little boy took his seat, folded his hands, and waited for his father to say grace. He eyed the eggs and the mound of grape jelly on his plate. The eggs were green all around the edges. There wasn’t any bacon or sausage, either. He liked bacon and sausage. He hated eggs. He thought the toast looked like tar paper, the kind they were putting on the roof down the street. If he ate it, he was going to get little black specks in his milk. He hated black specks in his milk. He hated this whole supper. He sucked in his breath and blurted out, “I don’t want to eat this. I like Mom’s eggs better. You’re supposed to push the button on the toaster so it doesn’t get like ... tar paper.”

Andrew laid down his fork and stared across the table at his son. “Did I hear you correctly?” he asked in a calm-sounding voice, one the little boy recognized as the tone he’d always used on Marty.

“Yes, sir,” Andy said defiantly.

“If it’s good enough for your sister, it should be good enough for you.

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