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- CHAPTER 1
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"They probably put subliminal
messages in between the lines," I said, referring to sports
pages in general, not just the Philadelphia Inquirer that was
tucked under my arm. "Ego boosters like 'Today's your day,'
or 'Women love you,' or 'You're the handsomest dude to ever slosh
coffee on his tie."
I poured some decaf into Rip's
mug and went around to retrieve his waffles from the toaster.
". . . like a hormonal horoscope
only men can detect," I elaborated via the passthrough,
watching to see if I'd gotten a rise out of my husband yet.
Nothing. He just stood at his end
of our all-purpose plank table, lips smugly pursed, cheeks shining
with after-shave. For the moment his dark hair remained perfectly
in place. In other words he looked--and smelled--especially good,
but then he always did just before he had to leave.
"You
realize, of course," I prattled on as I delivered his waffles.
"Your doctor only told you to read the sports section because
it's so boring. Box scores and statistics. Who got arrested for
mouthing off at a night club. Bor-ing."
Rip's blood pressure had been up
a little at his recent physical, and our doctor actually had
advised him to read the sports more often. Since most wives would
regard that as a boondoggle rather than a male metaphor for "Slow
down and relax," the man had actually written a prescription.
I'd been razzing Rip about it all week, partly for fun and partly
to remind him I wasn't most wives--I was his.
This morning's feigned indifference
said, "Go ahead and hang yourself--save me the trouble,"
but then I knew my husband pretty well. He probably had better
luck using that stance on students the teachers brought into
his office for discipline.
"No!" I corrected myself
brightly. "I know what it is--they put hormones in the ink!"
"You wish," responded
my mate, his lips finally twitching.
We stood face to face suppressing
our amusement until Rip proffered an outstretched palm.
I slapped
the Monday paper onto it.
"Thank you." he said.
"You're welcome," I replied.
After he sat down, he inquired
mildly, "Just out of curiosity, did you collect this from
the driveway in that outfit?"
I glanced down at my pink bathrobe
and duck slippers, which, I had reasoned, were much less revealing
than a bathing suit. "Sure," I admitted.
Rip grunted something noncommittal,
but his observation prompted me reconsider my behavior, a habit
I'd acquired a few years ago when Rip's job opportunity relocated
us to this side of the Schuylkill River. Although our street
was unusually casual for the area--which was the only reason
we could afford it--Beech Tree Lane was still located squarely
in the middle of Philadelphia's enviably upscale Main Line.
So maybe tomorrow I would wear
an overcoat to run out for the paper.
Then again, who was around to care?
Certainly not Letty MacNair, the zany recluse who lived to our
left. Her whole wardrobe had improved tenfold when she discovered
sweatsuits at Kmart. And nobody else could even see our drive
through the assortment of unkempt bushes and trees that dominated
the immediate landscape.
Still . . .
"From now on you go out and
get your own paper," I concluded, rendering the bathrobe
question moot.
"Doc said you wouldn't get
it," my husband groused thoughtfully as he rattled the paper
smooth and reached for his coffee.
"The paper?"
"The sports page thing. I
shouldn't have told you."
"Nonsense," I said. "Just
because I think it's soap opera fodder drenched in testosterone,
doesn't mean . . ."
"Gin,"
he interrupted; and if I hadn't been so carried away, the change
in his tone would have registered right away.
- ". . .that you can't read
it to your. . ."
"Gin!" Rip pulled me
down onto the table's side bench. "Just listen a minute,
will you?"
Down at eye level his hardened
features and paled skin stunned me into silence.
"What?" I rasped through
a clenched throat. Fear had swallowed me whole.
Rip turned the newspaper toward
me. "TOMCATS' QUARTERBACK
FOUND MURDERED," screamed the three-inch type, so naturally
I assumed my cousin's husband was dead, and with her expecting,
too, a multiple tragedy.
My lightened head lolled on my
neck, revealing my mistaken conclusion to Rip.
"No, no," he said, patting
my hand to secure my attention. "I thought that, too, but
it's not Doug. Keep reading."
The subheading said, "Tim
Duffy Shot in Stadium Training Room."
I couldn't help it; I felt relieved.
Michelle's husband was alive. His backup quarterback was the
one who got shot.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling
that this tragedy skated perilously close to our family . . .
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