Page 29 of Until Landon
My father watches her face then mine, trying to gauge just when we will self-combust. I know the man. We both can see this woman is special. There is no need to talk about the effect of being around her. It is obvious. Like a beautiful fairy from some freakin magical world, she lights up whatever room she occupies.
She isn’t like us. There is no roughness or sharp edges, that I can see. Walking to the bar, I reach for two glasses and set them atop the small counter.
“I’ll make margaritas in celebration of making the list.”
“Great!” Dad says. “Best news of the day.”
It is Kim who responds first, giving me a break from being bad cop.
“You can’t have alcohol! Aren’t you on pain medication?”
“A little.”
She chuckles. “That’s like being a little pregnant. You either are or are not.”
There is no further comment from Ronnie Podesta. What? He didn’t fight her, like he would have me. There was just pissed acceptance. Beats angry rejection any day. Interesting.
“I brought some sugar free root beer,” Kim says cheerfully.
“Whoop dee fuckin’ do.”
There’s sarcasm, but no pushback. And his delivery doesn’t faze her in the least. Kim gets my attention.
“Everything’s in the backseat.”
“I’ll go get it.”
I walk outside to the backseat of the car. Taking out the fully packed tote and the foil covered casserole dish, I spot the note left on her windshield a few days ago. She’s tucked it in the center console. Makes me smile like an idiot. I’m taking it as a good sign, regardless of the fact she most likely just forgot to toss the thing. I like thinking shekeptit.
If I ever write another one it will be more worthy of saving. I better start thinking now, because writing more than a sentence to a woman is not a strong suit of mine. It is no suit at all. Moon, June, loon, goon. Hell.
Climbing the steps, I am greeted by her holding the door open so I can pass. But I linger at the open door instead.
“Thanks. What is all this stuff?”
“We couldn’t just have enchiladas. I brought salad fixings and strawberries and grapes for dessert.”
“I think there’s some crème fraiche in the refrigerator. We could put it over the fruit,” Dad says.
“Sure. If you want,” Kim says. “But I’m watching my weight. The cheesy enchiladas are enough of a cheat for me. But you two go ahead.”
The look on my father’s face says it all. He hears my mother’s voice gently suggesting a better way to go. He wants to disregard the truth but knows where the truth lies. So I put my two cents in to the mix.
“We don’t need crème. I don’t. And the nutritionist at the hospital said you don’t either, Dad. You just had a heart attack. Things need to change.”
The scowl on his face proceeds the sharp comeback saved just for me.
“I don’t need you to tell me. I know perfectly well I need to adjust my diet a little.”
The sound effect that follows after a few beats says more.
“Humph.”
Kim takes the casserole dish and moves to the kitchen with me right behind.
“That’s good, Ronnie. I don’t think we have to be crazy strict about our goals. Probably if you cut down on the soda and I didn’t eat so much bread, we’d be golden. Hey! Let’s start a club!”
“What are you talking about?” There’s a hint of disgust, and he doesn’t care to hide it.
