Page 66 of Deja New
“Raspberries to the right of us! Raspberries to the left of us!”
“‘Half a league, half a league onward.*’”
“What?”
“Idiot.”
Then he went lower. And stayed there for a while.
A few minutes later, she was reminded that Archer might not be up on his nineteenth-century British poetry, but he was an expert in how to make her gasp and shake and want him. Pregnancy hadn’t dampened their sex drive, though she wondered if that would be true five months from now.
She’d cleaned up, then came back to a snoring Archer; he’d dropped off before she could offer him a washcloth. Normally Leah would have followed suit, but too much had happened in too short a time. She’d start thinking about Dennis and the tombstone and then would wonder about Jack. Then she’d think about Angela, who, for all her controlling ways, was quite pleasant and to be commended, partly for her own talents but also for being the head of the family since she was a child. Then she’d start wondering if there was any juice left and what it would taste like with a tablespoon of mustard stirred in.
The cravings. They sicken me even as they delight me.
Enough.One thing she knew about insomnia: Making yourself stay in bed when you couldn’t sleep was not a good plan. All you did was lie there and think about the time.I have to get up in six hours. In four hours. In two. In ninety minutes.So she slipped into Archer’s robe and padded out of their room, kitchen-bound. For orange juice and what might be even better: If her suspicions were correct, she could finally be of some real help to this nutty, exhausting band of charmers.
That was worth some lost z’s.
