Free Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) by Christine Kling Page A

the old days when it was effortless, when we didn’t have to think of what to say. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t like she was making it any easier, either, just sitting there staring at that damn flame.
    “She called me this afternoon.” Molly spoke so softly, I wasn’t sure I heard her right.
    “What?”
    “She didn’t say anything, but I heard her breathing. I knew it was her,” she said. Then she got up, rearranged the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and mumbled something about checking on Zale before disappearing down the dark hall.
    I walked into the kitchen, where B. J. had turned on the lights. He was chopping some onions on a wood board. Leaning my cheek against the cool steel of the refrigerator door, I wondered what the hell that was all about. She had to have been talking about Janet. I didn’t want to think my old friend was losing her grip on reality, but it didn’t make any sense to think that a new widow was making crank calls. I wondered if Molly needed more help than any of us could give her. I fought down the urge to unload on B. J., to complain about the ache I felt deep in my gut whenever I was around her. He would tell me to let it go, to forgive her and move on. He wouldn’t understand me when I told him it wasn’t that easy.
    My stomach growled. I could smell the garlic sizzling in the frying pan on the stove next to another lidded pot. B. J. stepped over to me, slid his hand under my sweatshirt, and rubbed my belly with his free hand while he kissed me on the mouth. His tongue tasted of cool mint. “Hungry?” he asked when he stopped for a breath.
    “Hmm, ummm, yeah,” I mumbled, trying to get my brain back in gear. I always had to do that after one of his kisses. “Can I help?”
    B. J. turned back to the counter, swept his onions into the pan with the garlic, handed me the chopping board and knife, and pointed to a pile of zucchini.
    Now what kind of man gets romantic, then hands a woman a knife and a zucchini? I looked at the vegetables and then at B. J.’s back as he lifted the lid, stirred some rice in butter, then poured in water from a measuring cup. “Uh, B. J., what do I do with these? I mean, do I cut them this way, or like this?” I demonstrated with the knife over the squash.
    He sighed and took the knife from me. “Why don’t you find the cutlery and go set the table? Then maybe see if you can round up some wine somewhere. Red, preferably. I’m making ratatouille.”
    “Ummm,” I said, rolling my eyes as I started opening drawers, not willing to show my ignorance and ask him what the hell that was. “Sounds yummy.”

    B. J. did an admirable job of keeping the conversation going during the meal. The more they talked, the more he and Molly found they had in common. They were both fish-eating vegetarians and both were really into all that Eastern religion stuff. Molly’s voice had lost that deadpan tone, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. She leaned her chin on her palm and listened, fascinated, as B. J. told her about how the Samoan people eat taro cooked in a coconut sauce back in the islands. I didn’t know how she was finding a description of eating roots so fascinating—or if it was really his gorgeous face that was keeping her so engrossed. All through our teenage years, every time I liked a guy, Molly wiggled her ass or batted her eyelashes in his direction, and he was drawn off to follow after her. Old habits, apparently, die hard.
    As we were finishing up and B. J. was carrying plates out to the kitchen, loading them in the dishwasher and brewing some hot tea, I said under my breath to Zale, “Anytime you want to break out of here and go for a Big Mac, just call me.”
    He attempted a smile and gave me a thumbs-up, then asked his mother if he could be excused and disappeared back into his room.
    Molly watched him go. “He’s just sitting in there in the dark with his headphones on, blasting that music of his