A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,55

with pride as my dogs sniffed the air then slunk away.

Donna and Karen’s reaction didn’t bode well for Tim’s culinary skills. My dogs would eat anything—including poop. Tim didn’t notice that the aroma had offended my dogs. He kept right on talking.

“Found the recipe in a cookbook I failed to deliver due to the recipient calling me an unsavory name. This particular individual, who shall remain nameless, also cheats on her taxes, has procured an illegal cable box and lives in the blue house with the overgrown lawn three doors down from the park on South Street. I felt justified in keeping the cookbook… among other things. The wonderful part of the story is that I just so happened to have all of the ingredients in my pantry.”

“Wow,” I said, taking the enormous tin-foil-covered platter from his hands while breathing through my mouth so I couldn’t smell it. There was a whole hell of a lot wrong with his story, but I refused to take the bait. I’d deal with it another time. “Thank you.”

Tim winked. “I’m working towards an A,” he whispered. “I also refrained from rehoming three of the twelve vibrators that went through the mail system this week.”

It was tempting to ask him what he had done with the other nine, but I didn’t want to know. Tim had now dropped from a B- to a D+ with a little extra credit for bringing food to the meeting. It was irrelevant if it was inedible.

“For the most part, I’m proud of you,” I told him, praying he wasn’t the one. In a very short time, Tim had wedged his way into my heart and I was completely fine with it. I enjoyed him—even with his penchant for outlandish illegal activities.

“Thank you,” he replied, pulling a piece of paper from the pocket of his uniform. “I wasn’t sure what kind of party this was going to be, so I prepared some trivia.”

“Umm… it’s not really that kind of gathering,” I told him.

Tim’s chin dropped to his chest and he made a squeaky noise that brought my guilt roaring to the forefront. The man was crushed.

Shit.

“However, a bit of trivia could lighten the mood,” I said, sure I would regret trying to spare his feelings.

“I wouldn’t eat that crap,” Candy Vargo announced, pointing to the platter and waltzing around my house like she owned it.

“Candy Vargo, you’re makin’ my butt itch,” Gram snapped, appearing from out of nowhere and getting up in Candy’s face. “You’re gonna need to slap that yap trap shut. I don’t see you bearin’ any hostess gift. Tim here is workin’ on his manners. It’s not goin’ real well, but he’s tryin’. It don’t matter that what he brought smells like a wet dog after a polecat bath.”

“Thank you,” Tim said to Gram while making a face at Candy.

It was shocking to watch people who were older than time act like fourth graders.

“She just said your dish smelled like a skunk’s ass,” Candy pointed out gleefully to Tim.

“That’s it,” Gram shouted as Candy realized she’d gone about ten steps too far and dove behind the armchair to avoid Gram’s wrath. “I’m gonna jerk your tail in a knot and cancel your dang birth certificate. You apologize to Tim right this second.”

“Are you serious?” Candy asked, appalled.

Gram’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do I look serious to you?” she demanded.

“I’m going to go with a yes,” Candy muttered, terrified.

Gram was dead. She was a ghost. Candy was Karma. She controlled fate. The exchange fascinated me. Bottom line… don’t screw with fate and never screw with Gram.

“Can’t hear ya,” Gram said, putting her hand up to her ear.

“I have to do it now? In front of everyone?” Candy asked, feeling the situation out.

Charlie and John Travolta wandered into the house after chatting on the porch and watched the standoff with interest. Heather and Gideon came out of the kitchen to see what the fuss was about and ten ghosts floated down the stairs for the show.

“Yep,” Gram snapped, slapping her hands on her hips. “I’m doin’ this for your own good, Candy Vargo. You’ve been alive far too long to have such crappy manners, bless your heart. But now you have me, and I’m gonna fix you if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Good luck,” Heather said, putting an array of fancy hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table.

“I’d suggest you apologize,” Charlie said, grinning. “Gram means business.”

“No one asked you,” Candy shot back and walked over to Tim.