Beth Andrews – Charming the Firefighter (страница 9)

“That’s a disturb—”

“Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”

“I’m—”

“That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”

“I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”

“The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might want to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”

“Really, I don’t—”

“—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”

Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.

Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.

Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.

Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.

Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.

Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.

Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.

Still.

She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.

If they loved her.

She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.

Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.

Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.

With a soft aha, Gracie faced her, waving a small spatula in the air. “Molly says chocolate is the perfect food, good for any and all occasions. Celebrations...commiserations...breakups and makeups...”

Using the spatula, Gracie cut into the dessert, whacking away at the chocolate all willy-nilly so that a few brownies were huge, a few were tiny and none were all-four-sides-are-perfectly-equal squares, as brownies should be.

Curling her fingers into her palms, it was all Penelope could do not to grab the pan and save her dessert from such butchery. How difficult was it to cut straight, neat lines?

Gracie dug out a huge, misshapen brownie and set it on a napkin. “Here you go.”

Penelope glanced from the dessert in Gracie’s hand up to the cheery, expectant grin on her face. “Thank you.”

Then she broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth because Molly—Penelope’s neighbor and Gracie’s stepmother—was right. There was never any occasion that didn’t go well with chocolate.

Even occasions such as suffering first-degree facial burns, being ditched by your own son, and, oh, yes, being alone while everyone else had somewhere to go and people who actually wanted to spend the day with them.

The bite stuck in her throat so she took another one to try to push it down. No need to feel sorry for herself. She was fine. Things could have been much worse, after all. She was healthy and whole and not seriously injured.

She ran her fingertips over her eyebrows. Still there.

See? She was just dandy.

But she’d been careless. Stupid. She really could have been seriously injured. Or killed.

All because she’d let her emotions get in the way of her good sense. Had let Andrew’s behavior and attitude upset her to the point where she’d been unable to think of anything else.

She couldn’t be an effective parent if she took things so personally. If she let him hurt her feelings or make her angry. Composure. Control. Those were the traits she needed to focus on. They would help her do her job of raising a productive, well-adjusted, hardworking human being. One she could send out into society without guilt, doubts, regrets or fear.

She shoved more brownie into her mouth. It wasn’t helping. Maybe chocolate didn’t make things better. What she needed, she decided on a brilliant flash of insight, was another glass of wine.

And possibly one of the Valiums she’d been prescribed during the worst of Andrew’s illness. Of course, she’d had way too much pride to ever take any of the pills. Pride that was currently crumbling faster than her brownie.

Wine was definitely the lesser of the two evils.

She slipped off the stool and crossed to the table, snagging her glass and the bottle. On her return trip she wove a bit, her steps not exactly steady. Perhaps Andrew was right. Perhaps she had imbibed a little too much alcohol.

Except she didn’t feel drunk. She felt quite good—other than her twinges of self-pity, her stinging face and her sore rear from landing so hard. She certainly wasn’t acting drunk. No dancing topless on the table, no wearing a lamp shade on her head. She had complete control still.

She set down the bottle, then sipped from her glass. Glanced over to see Gracie staring at the pan of brownies with undisguised longing. “Would you like one?”

Gracie smiled and it lit her entire face. She wasn’t what Penelope would call a pretty girl—took one plain Jane to know a plain Jane, after all—but she was cute with her wild hair and big gray eyes.

“I’d love one, but I’m a vegan. I don’t eat any meat products, and that includes eggs and dairy. Well,” she continued, as if Penelope had asked her to go on, which she definitely had not, “actually, I only decided to start practicing veganism last week. My dad, of course, thinks it’s stupid, but then he’s a carnivore right down to the barbaric practice of hunting animals—like going out and shooting a helpless deer makes him some sort of alpha male. Molly says it’s his way of providing for his family, but I figure it’s easier and costs less for him to go down to Pineview Market and pick up a package of ground beef, you know?”

No, Penelope didn’t know. Just as she didn’t know how to respond to Gracie. How to act or react with the girl around. She was much happier on her own, taking care of herself and Andrew. She didn’t need or want help.

“I’m not sure—”

“Besides, no one I know even likes the taste of the animals he brings home. I mean, who eats rabbit, squirrel or venison? If it was that good, they’d have it in the stores, am I right? But he just laughs, like my beliefs and ideas are some big joke, so I decided to counterbalance his overabundance of meat consumption by going vegan.” Gracie slid another longing look at the brownies. “I’ve been good, too. I mean, Friday it was super hard because I forgot my lunch and it was pizza day—which is the only decent food they serve at school—but I held firm and I was really proud of my willpower.”

“Well,” Penelope said, shifting in her seat. Did the girl want a pat on the back or the go-ahead to forget her convictions this one time? “If you’re sure—”

“Then again, I haven’t eaten dinner yet on account of my entire family going to my grandmother’s for a picnic, which, let me tell you, Molly was not happy about. Not that I blame her. Grandma can be so mean. Like last time she actually told Molly she was gaining too much weight even though she’s the same size she’s been at this stage with all the other pregnancies. Molly started crying, right then and there, and Dad just sort of stood there like he had no clue what to do or say. I mean, how hard is it? Your mother insulted your wife. Your pregnant wife. The woman who popped out five—and counting—sons for you. Say something. But he didn’t so I had to step in and then I got in trouble for being mouthy and disrespectful to my grandmother. Where’s the justice in that?”

Was Penelope supposed to answer that? “Thanks again for helping me. I really am feeling—”

“So, I’m sure a brownie would make me feel way better about being abandoned on a holiday by my own family,” Gracie continued, as if she had no intention of ever running out of steam, breath or words. “And it’s not like you actually told me you used eggs or butter to make these.”

She stared at Penelope as if waiting for something. Penelope had no idea what. Denial? Confirmation? She couldn’t read minds, after all, and was horrible at deciphering expressions. Oh, how she hated these situations. Social situations, which, oddly enough, this one definitely qualified as. She was always insecure and out of her element. It didn’t help that her hair smelled singed and the pleasant, buzzed feeling she’d had was fading to a pounding headache.

She gulped more wine, then refilled her glass.

She could tell Gracie that of course she’d used butter and eggs. Who made brownies without those ingredients? And why would you want to?