Astrid Amara by Holiday Outing Read Free Book Online Page B

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    her response that morning surprised me. “Of course you didn’t,” she had said, as if she knew I
    was innocent. And the only way this made sense to me was if she herself was guilty. Why
    else would she ever defend me?
    I found her scrubbing at the breakfast plates, her fingers blue from the cold water.
    “What’s the plan for lunch?” I asked her.
    She scraped at a plate with her fingernail. “Don’t even talk to me about lunch, Jonah.
    I’m still worried about breakfast, and we’ve already eaten it!”
    I opened the freezer to see what was available. I spotted a melting tub of chocolate ice
    cream and decided that needed to be consumed immediately.
    I found a spoon and went at it. “You want some?” I offered my mother.
    Holiday Outing
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    She shook her head. She dropped the plate in the cold water and quickly fetched a slice
    of rye, which she put beside me.
    “What’s that for?” I asked.
    “Have a little bread with your ice cream,” she told me.
    I rolled my eyes. “So who do you think took it, Ma?”
    Her expression hardened. She turned back to the sink and attacked a crusted-on
    globule of tomato paste.
    “It’s your uncle. I’m sure of it,” she whispered conspiratorially.
    “Uncle Al?” I asked.
    “Shh!” She nodded.
    I frowned. “Why would he give it to you and then take it back?”
    “Because that’s the way he is!” she whispered. She rinsed the plate under the tap. “This
    way, he keeps the precious pushke, but he gets credit for giving it away. We all admire him
    for his selflessness and all the while, he holds on to it!”
    “But that doesn’t make sense,” I reasoned. “Where would he put it? He couldn’t ever
    display it again, at least not while we’re around. And Rachel and Daniel would know.”
    “They wouldn’t tattle on their father,” she told me.
    “Maybe. Rachel seemed pretty upset that Uncle Al gave it away without consulting
    them first.”
    My mother’s expression softened. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said quietly. “It will look so
    good on that mantel. Once Uncle Al is shamed into giving it back, that is.” She shook her
    head. “It’s the one thing I wanted from your Zadie’s possessions, all these years. To imagine it
    in our home!”
    “Now we just have to find it,” I reminded her.
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    Astrid Amara
    “Oh, it’ll show up. I’m sure of it. He’ll confess, you see.” She frowned. “You aren’t
    eating your bread?”
    “I’m saving room for lunch,” I told her.
    She tsked me again. “Don’t mention lunch, Jonah. I’m serious. If this weather continues
    we’ll all starve. Starve to death, in our own home.”
    “Better than starving in someone else’s home.” I kissed her cheek and then went in
    search of Ethan, to share my mother’s Uncle Al gift-stealing theory, and also find out what
    he had discovered.
    I found him in the garage, stripped to the waist and resourcefully chopping wood. My
    father always bought cellophane-wrapped sets of nicely shaped show wood, and he would
    haul out a log once a year to make sure the fireplace worked.
    “The wood is burning too slowly,” Ethan said, not even out of breath as he swung the
    ax in a perfect arc. When did he become the poster boy for chopping wood? His form was
    impeccable. So, for that matter, were his pecs.
    “It’s negative twenty in the garage, and yet you are shirtless,” I said. I couldn’t take my
    eyes off Ethan’s chest. How did he get that buff? His lean torso had definition, his arms
    muscular, with biceps that bulged and twisted as he swung the ax. He had a dark pattern of
    chest hair that trailed down his flat stomach and dipped invitingly downward. I could see the
    contours of his hips just above the waistline of his jeans.
    “Sweating in cold weather leads to dehydration and increases susceptibility to cold
    injury,” Ethan informed me. The wood split evenly before him. Every stroke fell perfectly
    centered. “Besides, I don’t want to wear