Free U Is for Undertow by Sue Grafton Page B

animal.”
    The waitress set down two fresh drinks along with a basket of Parker House rolls and a plate of individual butter pats. Kip turned to Annabelle. “Sorry, I should have asked. You want another martini or you want to switch to wine?”
    “I better lay off. I’m embarking on a new exercise program—a half-mile ocean swim three mornings a week.”
    “Starting on a Saturday? You’re not serious!”
    “I am. I leave the kids with a sitter. It’s the only time I have for myself.”
    “Must be freezing.”
    “You get used to it.”
    Deborah said, “I’ll make the sacrifice and drink her wine as long as you’re ordering. It’s the least I can do.”
    Kip asked the waitress for a bottle of Merlot, pointing to his selection on the wine list before he surrendered it.
    Deborah raised her hand. “Here’s one I almost forgot. Yesterday, I found Shelly sobbing her heart out. It was the first emotion I’d seen that wasn’t anger, petulance, or disdain. I thought maybe she missed her mother, but when I asked, she said she was still in mourning because Sylvia Plath had killed herself.”
    Annabelle said, “Who?”
    “A poet,” Patrick said. “She was mentally ill.”
    Annabelle shrugged and chose a roll from the basket. She pulled off one segment and buttered it. She took a bite and tucked the nugget of bread into one side of her cheek, a move that slightly muffled her speech. “We know a couple who claim to be vegetarians. Talk about tedious. We had ’em over for dinner once and I served macaroni and cheese. After that I was stumped. They invited us back for a sumptuous bowl of vegetarian chili. The worst. Inedible. Not even close. What got me was they were wearing leather shoes. I voted to drop them and Kip was opposed until I told him he’d have to cook for them if they ever came back.”
    That set Patrick off again. “Here’s the kicker as far as I’m concerned. Shelly doesn’t like vegetables. The only vegetable she’ll eat is beans. She doesn’t like fruit either. She says bananas are disgusting and apples make her teeth hurt. She’s got a list of food no-no’s that includes just about everything known to man. Except quinoa, whatever the hell that is.”
    Kip was shaking his head. “Why do you put up with her?” Deborah said, “She’s carrying our grandchild. How can we turn our backs on her without rejecting an innocent child? Would you do that?”
    “I guess not,” he said. “Well, I might, but Annabelle would have my hide.”
    There was a pause while they studied their menus and decided what to have. Salads, rare New York strips, and baked potatoes with sour cream, green onion, and grated cheese.
    Once the waitress took their order, Patrick returned to the subject. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t so opinionated and superior. She looks down her nose at us. We’re materialistic and shallow. Everything we do is ‘bourgeois.’ She talks about the proletariat. God save the Queen.”
    Annabelle made a face. “And Greg goes along with it?”
    “She’s got him under her thumb. He sits there with his mouth hanging open, acting like she’s reciting from the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” Patrick said. “And you know what else? She smells. She doesn’t brush her teeth. She doesn’t believe in shaving under her arms, or anywhere else. She’s got leg hair that looks like beaver pelts. I don’t see how he can stand being in the bus with her. Every time she leaves the room, we have to spray.”
    Kip and Annabelle were both laughing by then. She said, “Oh, Patrick. You’re terrible.”
    “I kid you not. Ask Deborah if you don’t believe me.”
    Kip lifted an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “I hate to say this, kids, but I think your mistake was giving Greg too much. How else did he come up with this attitude of entitlement?”
    Patrick held a hand up. “You’re right. You’re right. Deborah and I have talked about that.”
    He paused, looking up, as the