Free What Doesn't Kill You by Virginia DeBerry Page B

cinnamon, nutmeg…then you taste it to see if it needs something. I had to make one to figure out amounts I could write down. It would have been easier to just bring the thing, but Amber had to do the wholemeal herself, so I wrote it on an index card, had it laminated, then gave it to her in the casserole dish from her china pattern. I was passing on something precious, in something precious. That made me feel good.
    What wasn’t sitting so well was the prospect of Ron as a fellow dinner guest, but I decided not to sweat it. After all, they won’t convict you of a crime if you’re mentally incapacitated. I committed an indiscretion while suffering from stress-induced, champagne-assisted insanity. I’m sure it’s a defense in somebody’s court of law. Anyway, I figured I’d see him and wonder what in the world I could have been thinking.
    Wrong.
    Before he arrived I was perfectly relaxed, looking sharp in a cranberry knit-pants outfit I hadn’t been planning to buy, but it was too “me” not to. There was hooting and hollering from the football game in the background and I was sipping cider, talking to friends and family and staying out of the kitchen, per Amber’s request. But it sure smelled like Thanksgiving. Hadn’t seen Baby Son-in-Law yet. He was on a supermarket odyssey, trying to find the fresh pearl onions Amber had left off her shopping list and just had to have, bless him.
    I was feeling proud and, I’ll admit it, a little weepy, celebrating with my daughter and her husband in their first apartment. The folding tables they borrowed—since their dining-room set hadn’t arrived in time—were set with new china and linen, and they were starting traditions of their own. Mom and Dad didn’t make the trip since they’d been up for the wedding, but I was sorry they weren’t there to see it. Neither were J.J.’s parents, but the newlyweds were heading to Texas for Christmas.
    Then Ron came strolling in with a bouquet the size of an end table. And that smile. I made a break for the bathroomwhile he took off his coat, but I could still hear him so I turned on the faucet, squirted some mouthwash and started gargling. Don’t ask me why. After a while I was relaxed by that minty fresh feeling and composed enough, I thought, to speak to him like a rational adult, so I came out. Guess who’s waiting to use the facilities?
    He said, “That’s where you’ve been hiding.” For some reason my eyes fastened on his left eyebrow where the shiny black hairs stood up against the grain and I had the strongest urge to smooth them, but I knew better than to touch him. Instead I said, “What makes you think I’d be hiding from you?” and exhaled as I slipped by, but I still caught a whiff of that cologne. Damn.
    I thought I was safe back on the couch, but then he stood somewhere behind me, talking to one of J.J.’s buddies. It was like I could feel him smouldering back there and then I was having goose bumps, which made me mad after all I’d been through on his account, so I got up and moved closer to the TV. Somebody asked him if he was still driving at Pocono Speedway, and I blurted out, “You race cars?” before I could shut myself up. He kind of swaggered, shook his head. “Used to.” Now I knew the man was crazy. Then he said, “Racing stock cars was my passion, but I gave it up about a year ago. Still do some customizing. Restoring classic cars is my main business.” Like I wanted to know about his passion. He added something about the good old days and his Demon Dodge, but by then I had tuned him out and glued my eyes to fourth and goal—stupidest thing I ever saw. Grown men crouching like bullfrogs in the snow, then slamming each other into the ground. For a ball? I couldn’t tell you what happened, but some folks cheered, some booed, and next thing I knew Ron was atmy side