Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,47

imagined I’d have to toss out this particular article of clothing, but I wasn’t ready for that day. Not yet.

I peered through the peephole and groaned. Mrs. Cooke stood on my front step, smiling brightly.

“Bernie?”

Apparently I’d groaned louder than I thought.

I considered using the answering machine even though she’d stopped by instead of calling, but hadn’t I lied to the woman enough over the years? Plus, the whole idea of an answering machine attached to the front door was far-fetched, even for me.

Besides, if not for Mrs. Cooke, Number Thirty-Six might never have saved Poindexter the day the dog escaped through the back door.

Truth was, I owed Mrs. Cooke a thank you, not another round of avoidance.

I sucked in a deep breath and pulled open the front door, stunned to find myself staring down into a plate of cinnamon buns.

Saliva puddled in my mouth as I stood transfixed by both the heavenly scent rising from the plate and the sight of freshly-baked pastries, ripe for the taking.

“I felt like baking,” Mrs. Cooke said with a smile. “I was hoping you hadn’t had breakfast yet.”

Gooey caramel syrup dripped over the sides of the buns, pooling around the lip of the plate.

Breakfast? Who the hell cared about breakfast? Didn’t everyone know cinnamon buns weren’t just for breakfast anymore?

“Are they still warm?” My voice cracked on the last word.

Mrs. Cooke nodded knowingly. She had me exactly where she wanted me.

“Won’t you come in?” I asked.

I delivered an awkward thank you for looking out for Poindexter as I led her to the kitchen. I’d grown so used to thinking of the woman as my nemesis I found it difficult to think of her, well, as my neighbor. Simply that. My neighbor.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening as her focus zeroed in on my hair.

“Too short.” I winced. “I know.”

“Nonsense.” She reached up to touch a strand and smiled. “It’s lovely for the New Year. And it shows off your cheekbones. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always wanted to tell you to get your hair out of your face.”

You. My mother. Ryan and just about everyone else in my life.

I forced a smile. “Thank you. Let me get us some coffee.”

Fortunately, the coffee maker had just finished its brew cycle. Mrs. Cooke moved toward the back door as I reached down two mugs from the cabinet.

“What is it he’s doing, dear?” She pointed through the glass to where Poindexter was now chasing plane number two. “I must admit he looks quite pleased with himself.”

“He’s chasing airplanes.”

“Airplanes?”

She obviously hadn’t believed this explanation when I’d delivered it in the past. Maybe it was one of those phenomenons in life you had to witness to appreciate.

“Chasing airplanes,” she repeated. “Isn’t that the darnedest thing?”

I nodded. “Cream? Sugar?”

“What about bows, dear.”

Bows? I squinted. “Bows?”

“For your hair.”

I blinked, shoving the sudden image of me with bows at my temples out of my head. Not pretty.

“I’ll think about that,” I said very slowly. “Thanks.”

“Black.” Mrs. Cooke pulled out a chair and made herself comfortable at the kitchen table.

“Black bows?” My gaze narrowed so severely I was sure my eyes must be nothing more than slits.

“Coffee, dear.” She smiled. “I take it black.”

We chatted about the weather and our holidays and my new employment at the skating rink. When she pressed for information about how I was coping, my heart squeezed.

“I’m okay,” I answered. “Really...okay.”

Mrs. Cooke nodded without saying a word. She had that same I-can-see-right-through-you look my mother often used. Amazing.

“Well--” she pushed to her feet “--I’m sure you have things to do. Just holler if you ever need someone to talk to.”

“I can’t thank you enough for the visit, and breakfast--” I gestured to the half-eaten plate of cinnamon buns as I scrambled to my feet “--this has been a real treat for me.”

She paused to lean against the counter. “I’m proud of you, dear.”

I frowned. “Proud of me?”

She nodded. “For the article in yesterday’s paper. Not many people take the time to say what they think, but you did.”

She pushed away from the counter and headed toward the front door. I stood frozen to the spot, weighed down by my intake of cinnamon buns and stunned into a state of disbelief by Mrs. Cooke’s words.

“So, you read it?” I asked after several seconds of silence.

Mrs. Cooke was halfway to the front door. “I cut it out and taped it my fridge.” She waved as she let herself out. “Words to live by, dear. Did you ever