Final Arrangements by Donna Huston Murray

Author:Donna Huston Murray [Murray, Donna Huston]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Donna Huston Murray
Published: 2011-02-23T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

For a change Rip's car was in the driveway when Barney and I got home. In the kitchen the man himself stood with a fistful of silverware. Behind him Chelsea poked at her roast chicken with a knife.

"Garry! Come feed the dog. Dinner's almost ready," Rip shouted.

"Barney run away?" he asked. An Irish setter trait–they like to break loose and keep going. Barney's a bit elderly for much distance, but established procedure is to grab a leash and drive after him. Barney running away would have explained my being out with the Nissan at dinnertime.

"Nope. I was with another man."

Rip gave me a quick kiss as I went by on my way to check the table. It appeared that we were having chicken, canned corn, and potato chips.

"You taste like beer," my husband remarked.

"I told you..."

"Didi Martin's been corrupting you again." He clucked and shook his head. "Honestly, that woman..." He gazed at a spot on the wall. "...reminds me of my college roommates."

I opened a jar of applesauce and stuck in a spoon.

"How is she?" Rip asked.

"Fine, I guess." I'd ask her tomorrow at lunch. We'd been friends since the playpen and knew each other better than sisters. We also liked each other better than sisters usually do, which is not to say we were not vastly different. Didi owned a beer distributorship, was usually single, and maintained a romantic fondness for men despite all experience to the contrary. With Didi for a best friend, I led a varied and surprising vicarious life. I believe she would have said the same about me.

I hugged Chelsea and thanked her for making dinner. "Next week maybe we'll move up to baked potatoes in the microwave."

She wrinkled her nose. "They all had antennae, Mom."

"Oh." Time for the grocery store.

On the car radio I heard that Tuesday's weather was expected to be dry and mild. Since both kids were between after-school activities, I spent dinnertime negotiating their help raking leaves Tuesday afternoon. Nothing motivates you to finish tiresome chores quite like entertaining strangers.

The kids dropped their dishes off in the kitchen and departed for desks and homework. On school nights television is verboten. Rip scraped and I loaded the dishwasher.

"I want to go away on vacation," he said solemnly. The two weeks of spring break began Saturday.

"We've had this discussion before."

"I know."

"We agreed we can't afford to go away."

"I know."

I put in the last dish and began to knead Rip's shoulders. "I'll add it up again," I promised. Tuitions, mortgage, new clothes dryer, et cetera, et cetera. Private school personnel always seemed to have their noses pressed to the candy store window. Still, we'd never trade the lifestyle for any other, and in today's economy most teachers tended to agree. They were grabbing the jobs and hanging onto them for dear life.

"Any more information about the vandal?" I asked. We were into the wiping up stage, Rip around the corner doing the table.

"Nothing new. Nobody bragging, no informants. We've still just got Miles Pendergrass, whose grandmother happens to have one of the foundations we've approached.

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