Free Cold War on Maplewood Street by Gayle Rosengren Page B

from heaven!” Uncle Zach gestured at the table. “The flowers, the food—I haven’t seen or smelled anything so wonderful in years.”
    Mrs. Waterman blushed. “Thank you, Zach.”
    For a while everyone was silent as they enjoyed the delicious pot roast and roasted carrots and potatoes. But after a few minutes, people started talking between bites, and midway through the meal Marie asked, “Where will you live in Paris, Uncle Zach?”
    â€œI’ll stay in a hotel until I find an apartment,” Uncle Zach replied. “I know what I want, though: something not far from the Seine and the Louvre—with a bakery just around the corner and a marvelous restaurant just up the street.”
    His brother laughed. “Those are your only qualifications, hmm?” He looked at Mrs. Waterman. “Can’t you just see him scouring Paris for the next six months in search of this dream apartment, Gloria?”
    Mrs. Waterman’s smile spread upward until it reached her eyes. “Yes, I can see him,” she said. “And I can see the apartment, too. It will have tall ceilings and narrow windows, and a balcony that overlooks a sidewalk cafe. And one of the other tenants will play the violin very softly late at night.” She shook her finger at Uncle Zach. “Don’t you dare give up looking until you find it.”
    His eyes were fixed on her face, which was glowing the way it always did when she talked about Paris. “I won’t,” he said solemnly. “I promise.”
    Mr. Waterman groaned. “Honestly, Gloria, you’re worse than he is. Don’t encourage him! He’ll be living in a hotel forever.”
    â€œNo, he won’t,” Mrs. Waterman said. “Wait and see.” Then she went to the kitchen to bring out dessert.
    â€œAh, my favorite!” Mr. Waterman cried when he saw what she brought back. “Chocolate cake like you’ve never tasted before, Zach. Give him a big piece, darling. Let him see that all the good bakers aren’t in France.”
    Mrs. Waterman laughed and cut a fat slice for Uncle Zach. When he tasted it, he closed his eyes and sighed. “A dessert worthy of the gods.”
    â€œBe thankful Mom isn’t painting anymore,” Pamela teased. “If she were, it would be a bakery cake instead of homemade—
if
she remembered to go to the bakery.”
    Everyone laughed, Mrs. Waterman hardest of all. “I lose all track of time,” she confessed.
    â€œArtists can’t punch a time clock,” Uncle Zach defended her.
    Marie shrugged. “Well, we like her better this way—a normal mother who remembers to cook supper and has time to make great desserts—right?” She looked across the table at her sister.
    Pamela nodded, her mouth too full of cake to speak.
    Mrs. Waterman murmured, “I forgot the coffee,” and went back to the kitchen.
    She returned and was filling coffee cups when Marie cleared her throat. “You know, I’ve been thinking, Mom. The sunroom would make a great bedroom.”
    Mrs. Waterman looked as startled as Joanna felt. “You want my studio?”
    â€œWell, you’re not using it anymore, so why shouldn’t I have it?” Marie turned to her father. “Don’t you think that’s fair, Daddy? After all, the room’s just going to waste.”
    His eyebrows knotted together. “I’d hardly say the room is being wasted, Marie. Your mother is just taking some time off . . .”
    Marie thrust out her lower lip. “It’s been months! And all that time I could’ve had a room of my own instead of being crammed in with an adolescent who doesn’t respect my privacy or belongings.” She glared at Pamela.
    â€œI haven’t touched anything of yours in ages!” Pamela cried. She was so indignant, Joanna was sure she’d forgotten about The Book.
    Joanna expected Mr. Waterman to