Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,61

“Take you and the peas. If you expressed yourself more, you’d need less peas.”

“But peas are good for me,” she answered.

“In theory.” I turned my head to check for rogue drivers before I turned into the all-night convenience store lot. “But stuffing your feelings is never good.”

“Like Mom never telling Dad to go to hell?”

I winced. Perhaps I wasn’t teaching this kid using the best examples, but I held my ground, nodding. “Just like that. Only you don’t have to swear to express yourself.”

I slid the car into an open space, shifted into Park and cut the ignition.

Ashley wrapped her fingers around the passenger door handle. “I just need to stop stuffing my feelings?”

“That’s it.” I shrugged. “Basic concept. Got it?”

“Got it.” She tipped her chin toward the storefront. “Peas?”

“Peas,” I answered, following her into the store, remaining close on her heels until she turned down the canned food aisle and I headed for the candy racks.

Peas.

The kid might grasp the concept of self-expression, but one thing was perfectly clear.

She had zero appreciation for true comfort food.

o0o

“Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”

-Michel de Montaigne

EIGHTEEN

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-EBDYP LZYDLYCHHDW

When Sunday arrived, so did the opportunity I’d been waiting for. My niece’s first birthday party.

I’d picked up Poindexter from Number Thirty-Six and dragged my faithful companion along for two reasons.

First, he could stand to learn a thing or two about the art of confrontation.

Second, his dog-cousin, Buster, not only graduated at the top of his obedience class, but he had the certificate and T-shirt to prove it.

I arrived late as usual, screeching my car to a stop. I scrambled to grab Elizabeth’s present and climb out of the car in one motion.

I opened the back door and Poindexter sat staring at me, not moving a muscle.

“Come on.” I waved dramatically toward the house. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t exactly shake his head, but he did make a general motion that clearly communicated his disinterest in going inside.

He’d spent the night here on more than one occasion, and I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of trauma he’d suffered. Of course, with Poindexter, a raised voice constituted trauma.

I reached into my pocket for the treat I’d brought along. Number Thirty-Six had assured me Poindexter would be putty in my hand as long as he knew I had these little goodies.

I pulled out a red gummy piece of I-don’t-know-what shaped like a miniature steak.

Poindexter gave me a single brow arch.

I’d be damned.

I waved the treat in front of his nose, pointed at the house and worked up my most authoritative tone of voice. “House. Now.”

He was out of the car and up on the front step like a shot.

I did my best to hide my dismay, figuring a blatant display of surprise would do nothing for the success of any future doggie commands.

I handed over the treat then rang the bell.

My mother answered the door, and I leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Welcome to the zoo,” she said with a smile, but the light in her eyes let me know she was in heaven.

Mark and his first wife had never had children, even though he’d always wanted a houseful. When he’d married Jenny, who was no less than ten years younger than he was, she’d been pregnant within the first year.

Elizabeth was their youngest.

I found the birthday girl in her high chair, clearly the center of attention at a table full of sugar-crazed children. Mark was in the process of lighting the cake’s single candle but managed to give me a quick chin tip.

“Bernie.”

“Mark.”

I wasn’t sure whether the chilliness between us stemmed from the fact I had missed most of the party or whether it was just our usual chilliness.

Buster’s nose hit my knee, and I reflexively bent down to pat his head. My fingers connected with hard plastic, and I frowned, dropping my focus to the dog’s level.

He wore a bright blue helmet, some sort of high-tech contraption more commonly seen on the Tour de France, if I wasn’t mistaken.

“What’s wrong with Buster?”

“Nothing.” Jenny breezed into the room with a second helmet in her hand.

I never ceased to wonder how she kept up with her life. I found myself tired just watching her buzz around the party, juggling toddlers, adults, food, and tantrums.

My mother always said people adapt.

If that was the case, I felt I’d adapted fairly well to being a slug.

But not Jenny.

Her cheeks were flushed with color