High Energy by Joy, Dara (ink book reader .TXT) 📗

mouth doesn't move when she talks. She ran over my motorcycle!"

This last was said with spleen.

"Well…" She opted to answer for the least of Auntie's offenses in an attempt to

sidetrack him. "Auntie talks that way because she went to Wellesley."

"What the hell does that have to do with it?"

"They sort of trained them to talk that way in those days." She bit her lips,

waiting to see if he was appeased. No way. Not even close.

"Zanita, she commented on the shape of my—" He stopped, feeling too foolish to

say it out loud.

"The shape of your what?" she asked curiously.

"My buns," he spat out.

Zanita put a hand to her mouth and giggled. He frowned down at her.

"Well, they are worth commenting on." She winked at him.

Tyber knew when he had been outmaneuvered. The outrageousness of the past half

hour hit him. Against his will, his left eye twinkled; the corner of his mouth

lifted. She was defusing him. He wasn't sure he wanted to be defused, dammit!

He tried to regain his righteous indignation. "You did just invite her for the

weekend, didn't you?"

"By tomorrow you'll love her."

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring straight down at her, the imprint of

doubt.

"I suppose it's a relative concept." Zanita suddenly beamed proudly up at him as

she realized something. "That's a physics joke, Tyber!"

His expression softened. "C'mere."

His arms went around her. He bent to her lips.

The parlor door rolled open, and Mills stuck her head out.

"If you leave me alone in there with her for another minute, I'm going to kill

both of you! Now stop smooching; get back in here and do your time."

Tyber exhaled in resignation. They each took one of his hands and dragged him

back into the room.

Auntie's no-nonsense lock-jaw greeted them. "What were you two naughty children

doing out there? Come sit by me, you thoroughly marvelous man. I want to know

everything about you." Tyber groaned.

Chapter Twelve

« ^ »

LaLeche arrived exactly on time at the stroke of seven.

He entered the parlor all smarmy charm, immediately sizing up the occupants as

Zanita hoped he would, making a beeline for Auntie. This, of course, was only

after he had gushed on and on about the charming grace of Tyber's Victorian

mansion while undressing her with his eyes.

Zanita sank back into the thick cushions of the green velvet chair, thankful

LaLeche had just missed the tragicomic altercation that had started in the

kitchen and ended up in the sitting room. She winced as she remembered it.

There had been another loud crash from the kitchen and a lot of furious yelling

before Blooey came charging into the room, a dripping wooden spoon held aloft in

his hand like a righteous weapon of indignation.

"She's done it this time, Captain! The harpy has done it this time, I tell ye."

Tyber, grateful for any reason to be released from the grueling clutches of

Auntie's third degree, courageously stepped into the fracas.

"What is it, Blooey?"

He pointed a condemning finger at the stout woman standing behind him. "She put

salt in me vichyssoise!" All eyes turned in fascinated horror to the culprit,

who stood there implacably at anchor.

She was a battleship of a woman.

A white cook's hat sat low on her forehead, allowing only a few stray steel

wisps of hair to escape around her ears. Her visage was stern, uncompromising,

and would likely put a stop to a cattle stampede. A starched white apron covered

a flower-splashed shift that might be called a dress in kinder circles.

She looked like countless cafeteria cooks Zanita had seen in her school

years—those stalwart ladies of institutional kitchens everywhere who, from

substandard ingredients, loads of grease, salt, and mystery meat, whipped up

cast-iron fare for the beleaguered masses of the student body. Les Femmes du

Gastro Morte.

Arms akimbo, My-Maggy threw her pointed chin in the air, proclaiming, "The man

has a cork fer a brain."

Dead silence followed her pronouncement.

Zanita guessed half of the guests were too flabbergasted to respond, while the

other half agreed with the Battleship but were too polite to say so. Taking into

account the self-preservation rule of dining—one never insults a host's cook and

expects to get a choice piece of roast served to them by said cook—the silence

was perfectly understandable. Normal under the circumstances. Normal. Right.

Tyber strolled over to the pair, throwing his arms around both their shoulders.

It was clear to Zanita that he was going to use the "we're all good ol'

boys—what's the fuss" method of calming them down.

"Now, Blooey, I'm sure she meant nothing personal by it. She probably didn't

think about what she was doing, did you, My-Maggy?" Wisely, he didn't give her a

chance to answer. "And Blooey, you know how much store I put by crew members

getting along. These are dangerous times; we need to be able to depend on one

another. We never can tell when those bloody Lobsterbacks are going to attack us

again, can we?"

Blooey dropped his head in shame.

My-Maggy stared stonily at Tyber, muttering, "Sure and I'm liking you, Mr.

Tyber, but I'm thinkin' you've got a bigger cork fer a brain than he does."

Tyber patted her back in commiseration, steering them back toward the kitchen.

"See now? All settled."

"Just so she keeps her dockside cooking away from me own." Blooey's voice

trailed off as they turned into the hall.

Auntie was the first to recover. "I have always loved a man who takes charge in

these situations." As if these situations were a commonplace occurrence. Zanita

tried to hide behind her iced tea.

"He's marvelous! Zanita, where did you find him?"

She couldn't even remember what she had told her aunt. Shortly after that, the

doorbell had rung. Coming from different directions, both she and Tyber arrived

at the door at the same time. Their eyes met in mutually exasperated humor.

"Have courage," he whispered before he opened the door.

Stan Mazurski, the physicist, was standing there, but his wife was not beside

him. Next to him stood one of the most beautiful little boys Zanita had ever

seen. With coal-black hair and emerald-green eyes, he was destined to grow up a

lady-killer.

Zanita looked over at the balding little physicist with the coke-bottle glasses.

How had this man ever produced such a remarkable child? His wife must be

stunning.

"Hi, Stan," Tyber said. He threw