The Secret Poison Garden by Maureen Klovers

Author:Maureen Klovers [Klovers, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-06-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

The Squirrels won the game—23 to 14. Sal was ecstatic. He twirled Rita around the living room, crooning “Volare” and “Lovely Rita, Meter Maid,” until Rita got dizzy and begged him to stop. Then he gave her a blow-by-blow account of the game as if he were announcing the game in real time, seemingly unaware that Rita’s mind was on other things.

Those other things included not only Marco’s possible infidelity and bald-faced lying to his mother (she wasn’t sure which was worse), but also a surprisingly friendly meeting on the sidelines between Angelica and her ex-husband. Rita had watched the encounter unfold through her binoculars and while she had no idea what had been said (neither her binoculars nor her lip-reading skills were up to that task, regrettably), it seemed quite friendly indeed. It appeared as through Angelica had leaned in and given Craig a kiss on the cheek.

“Victory!” Sal mumbled happily as he polished off the last of their gelato. Rita went to bed.

In the morning, she went into her garden to harvest what she needed for Sunday dinner—a big round pumpkin, a few shiny eggplants, a big bowl of arugula, and a handful of gleaming apples. Then she changed into a dress as black as her mood and went to Mass with Sal. Afterwards, she gulped down three pastries and two cups of coffee, alternating between staring at the Morris County Gazette without really reading it and anxiously glancing at the clock.

She dreaded Susan’s arrival. It was bad enough that Gina had foisted Susan on Rita in a misguided attempt to engineer some sort of détente. The cooking lesson was sure to try Rita’s patience; she shuddered just thinking about how Susan would be itching to deep fry everything in sight and mixing up the sugar and the salt. Dinner would surely suffer as a result. If Rita turned her back for a minute, the eggplant would turn out dry and woody, the ravioli would unravel, and the cheesecake would fall flat—as, no doubt, would Sal’s face. Rita owed him a nice Sunday dinner, and she was annoyed that it was almost sure to disappoint. But the worst part was that, while she pulsed and puréed, diced and julienned, patiently explaining it all to a befuddled Susan, she would also have to be on guard not to reveal that she suspected Marco was unfaithful. On the other hand, she didn’t want to encourage the poor girl’s delusions that Marco walked on water either.

Should she steer clear of talking about Marco, or gently plant the seeds of doubt in Susan’s mind? Rita sighed. Just surviving the afternoon would require all her reserves of subtlety, tact, diplomacy, and patience—not to mention culinary mastery. It was like being asked to be Julia Child and Condoleeza Rice, simultaneously.

Rita was reaching for a fourth pastry when Susan arrived wearing her Sunday best.

“Hello, dear.” Rita kissed her on the cheek and waved her into the kitchen. “Here’s the first tip. Wear sneakers and old clothes.

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