Free Cupid's Confederates by Jeanne Grant Page A

like a brick?”
    “No more than sixty-two times.”
    His arm draped lazily over her side, pulling her closer. “All right,” he said sleepily after a time. “We’ll live with it, regardless, Bett. Give or take her ridiculous psychic, she’s a ton better. So we knew that a little disruption in our lives was inevitable. It won’t kill us to live with it for a while.”
    Bett didn’t answer, but simply curled closer to him. Zach, most of the time so very easygoing and patient, was unquestionably faring better through the “disruption” than she was. How could she feel disgruntled, when the problem was her own mother? She felt grateful that he wasn’t angry over the interruptions in their love life. She felt resentful, as well, for her own sake. How could he not mind? She did.
    ***
     
    Bett slipped a Debussy tape into the tape deck, let out the clutch, glanced in the rearview mirror of the tractor cab and steered toward the orchard. A fine white cloud billowed from the spray rig behind her, covering tree after tree. The gentle strains of classical music didn’t blend too badly with the soft whine of the sprayer.
    Bett relaxed. The Massey was the best tractor they owned, and a beauty to work with. In the glass-windowed cab high above the ground, she was in her own private tower, loftily surveying the world she loved so well. She hummed an accompaniment to the rhythms around her. Every time one of their baby trees was covered, she felt a ridiculous surge of maternal relief. Got you, bug 9110. Safe, my sweethearts.
    In college, she’d been an ardent ecologist; so had Zach. When they’d started farming, they’d made a solemn pledge not to use chemicals. They’d soon been forced to absolve each other of the pledge. No one wanted to buy wormy peaches. And there was no fun in watching a tiny tree one had planted, fed, watered and nurtured with love wither because of a fungus.
    She and Zach were careful with their chemicals, their idealism not so much lost as tempered with realism. Grady told them regularly they were fools to be so fussy. Grady, on the other hand, didn’t view those rows of shiny green leaves and spreading branches as babies.
    In two hours, she was done with the young block. There was another block to do in the afternoon, but it was almost lunch time. Vaulting down the three steps of the tractor, Bett hopped to the ground, stuck her hands in her back pockets and headed for the pickup.
    She had left the driver’s door of the vehicle open, on the off chance that Sniper wanted out. Sniper hadn’t. In fact, the cat had picked up a hitchhiker, a saggy, tawny mutt with four inches of hanging jowls and mournful eyes.
    “Baby!” A wet tongue lapped her cheeks as Bett hugged the hound. “So you’re looking for a ride, are you?” Lap, lap, lap. Bett grimaced. “Would you mind washing the cat for a minute or two? You’ll get your bone—you know there’s no need to butter me up.”
    With a mournful sigh, Baby settled his head on Bett’s lap, making it extra difficult to drive. She hadn’t gone a hundred yards before she heard an odd sound in the engine. She braked to a stop, petted Sniper, shifted Baby’s head and stepped out to open the truck’s hood. The fan belt had a habit of jumping off at will. Five years ago, Bett would have been collecting competitive bids from the local garages while waiting for a tow truck. But now, with a glove on one hand, she slipped the belt back in place and returned to the driver’s seat.
    The animals tussled for dominance, Sniper ending up on Bett’s lap this time and Baby announcing his hurt feelings by moaning through the open passenger window. Both animals made Bett chuckle. She was exhausted but didn’t care. The whole morning had been a joy of work she loved to do. She switched on the radio to an oldie about a song that made the whole world sing, and belted out the harmony in a husky alto. Baby joined in.
    It was a joy just to get out of the house. In the two