Page 21 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“Oh. No. Nothing.” She took a sip of her drink. “It’s just that … well … I’m not sure. I think … no matter how old or sophisticated we think we are, love isn’t ever done messing with us.”

I had a sinking feeling she was right. The look I’d exchanged with Joe made me realize there was unfinished business between us.

Chapter Seven

“We’re on our own for breakfast this morning,” Kathleen said as Diane came out of the bathroom area. “Liz got up early, said something about the light, and drove off.”

“She warned us that was going to be important to her,” I replied, making my way to the kitchen space. A quick breakfast of toast and jam, accompanied by a few mugs of good, strong coffee suited me fine. Maybe I’d finally catch up on past online copies of the San Francisco Chronicle before handling the work my remaining clients had sent me.

“She was like that at home,” Kathleen said, settling into one of the armchairs that were created by spinning the driver’s and passenger’s chairs. “She’d be up before me in the summer and come home late. Even in the winter she was out late at night, trying to capture the right light.”

“You ever seen any of her work?” I asked.

“Nope. She must sell well, though, because money is never an issue.”

“Wonder why she won’t show us her paintings?”

“I’m not sure. She said something once about disappointing Mom, but when I questioned her, she told me I’d misheard.”

Hmmm. I plucked the toast from the toaster and slathered the Amish butter we’d brought with us from home. A dollop of raspberry jam, a product of my sisters’ efforts in the brambles and kitchen, went on next.

The television clicked on.

“Got to catch up on the news,” Kathleen announced as she picked up her knitting.

“Uh-huh.” I took my breakfast outside, more than happy to leave the mayhem of the TV news behind. In California, I hadn’t been able to escape it. Larry was a television addict, needing the drone of the talking heads on the air all day, whether he was watching it or not.

Even starting a conversation about what to have for dinner could be a challenge. If I tried to get his attention when he was zoned out on something, he’d throw down the remote as if he’d had to stop brain surgery to answer my irritating question.

The ink on the divorce papers was dry, but getting over the constant small hurts was taking a lot longer than I’d thought it would. I’d be ill-advised to get involved with anyone again, no matter how good he made me feel. I knew from experience how poorly things could turn out, no matter how much effort you put into a relationship.

With a few clicks, I got to the current version of the Chronicle, picked up my mug of coffee, and began to read.

~ ~ ~

A snap close to my ear made me jump.

“What?” I turned my attention away from the in-depth article I’d been reading about the merits of live musicians versus the technologically-produced music in the play, Frozen, and glared at Kathleen.

She snapped the blue glove on her hand again. With a malicious grin, she held out another pair of latex gloves. “Someone besides me needs to know how to do this.”

“Not me. It’s your job.”

“What if I get sick? You don’t want me out there puking all over the sewer hose.”

“You never get sick.”

“There could always be a first time.” She gestured again with the gloves.

Over her shoulder I could see Henry headed our way.

“Why don’t you let Henry help you? I’m sure he knows everything about sewers,” I said.

“I thought he was hurrying back to his wife,” Kathleen commented.

“Maybe he’s not as fond of her as he made himself out to be.”

“Or maybe she’s run off with the Fuller Brush Man.”

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