“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’ve got this.” Despite the cold and damp, my palms were sweaty. My everything was sweaty.
The carton slipped from my hands as the words left my mouth.
Thunk!
“Damn.”
Sighing in irritation, Katy set down a lamp, a peculiar Alice-in-Wonderland arrangement with a long, crooked neck.
“Did you notice the word on top?” Assuming I hadn’t, she spelled it out. “B.O.O.K.S. What do you suppose that means, Mom?” We’d been at this for hours and, in addition to clammy, we were exhausted and sick of the whole bloody thing. And cranky as hell.
“The box contains books.” Terse.
“And what is one property of a box of books?” Lips barely moving.
I said nothing.
“They’re heavy!”
“Let’s break for lunch.”
“Let’s.”
We hopped from the back of the truck. Grabbing the lamp, Katy crossed a small patch of winter-dead lawn fronting a mid-century brick bungalow whose entrance was standing wide. I followed her inside, for the zillionth time that day, and closed the bright red door behind me.
As Katy climbed the stairs with Alice’s curious illuminator, I continued down the hallway to the kitchen. Which, given the home’s aged exterior, was astonishingly state of the art. Marble countertops, College of Surgeons–level lighting, built-in coffee extravaganza, adult beverage center, top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances.
Crossing to a Sub-Zero refrigerator the size of a boxcar, I withdrew two cans of cream soda and placed them on the island beside a white takeout bag. I was adding paper towel napkins for flair when Katy reappeared…
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