Downhome Crazy by Cammie Eicher Read Free Book Online Page A

unwitting player has made me forget the bigger picture, which is a teenage boy desperately worried about his mother.
    Well, not desperately. He’s not calling to ask about her as it turns out. He wants to know if I’ll pick him up at school, so he can go home and get his piccolo before band rehearsal.
    In an unaccustomed flash of brilliance, I see the solution to my current predicament. I put the call on speaker, and five minutes later, Penelope is heading for her car, and Eugene has assured her he’ll be waiting in front of the school. I must admit I fibbed to make that happen. But if they both believe that I’ll lose my job if I’m not at the radio station by eleven to start writing the noon news, is there really any harm done?

 
    Chapter Three
     
     
    I’m warmed by the sight of Carson’s SUV in my driveway when I finally get home. Yeah, I missed him, but it occurred to me on my walk that the containers of food for Miss Priss are still in his back seat. At this point in our tenuous relationship, I don’t want the cat to find reasons to do me in. And yes, I think she could suffocate me in my sleep or trip me to make my head hit the counter if she wanted me dead.
    I peek and see Carson has already taken the food in. I mentally chalk up some brownie points for him. He is such a good guy.
    I find him sitting on a chair in the kitchen, staring at the cat who is glaring at her food.
    “She won’t eat.” His voice is morose.
    I pick up the dish. It’s cold. While I have no way to confirm this, I suspect Miz Waddy warmed every bite of food that friggin’ cat put into her tummy. I stick the dish in the microwave, set it for thirty seconds, and hope I’m right. I so do not want to do the cupboard search another time.
    Victory. Miss Priss chows down with the enthusiasm of a sailor on leave when I put the food in front of her. The small success cheers me more than it should. I think it’s because I was ready for a ray of sunshine.
    “Well, Mrs. Forrester is in the psych ward.”
    “The preacher, too.” I offer a succinct description of the events at the parsonage as I go about making coffee. In my family, the first step in times of trouble is to make coffee and keep making it. We’re living proof that it’s impossible to overdose on caffeine.
    “We never had lunch,” Carson reminds me as I sit beside him with my cup. Strange how I’d forgotten about food. Apparently, dealing with outbreaks of craziness is a great appetite suppressant. Maybe I should look into a patent on that.
    Carson stands and stretches to pull something off the top of my refrigerator, which gives me a marvelous view of his magnificent butt. Again, I am amazed how lucky I am that he loves me.
    “Ta-da.” He sets down a box that holds two foam carryout containers and a couple of bitty-lidded foam bowls. Opening one container, he pushes it toward me before pulling the lids off the little bowls. I touch the hotcakes inside; they’re still warm. I realize he’s brought five of my favorite syrups and am beyond flattered that he remembered which of the twenty or so I liked.
    Quiet reigns as we devour the pancakes almost as fast as Miss Priss finished off her specially prepared food. I am looking forward to the hiring freeze at our sheriff’s department being lifted and Carson resigning from his state job. I could spend every meal like this, sitting across from him as he rubs his foot along my calf. When what I thought were his toes take a bite, I realize Miss Priss is again pissed.
    “What?” I hiss in annoyance as I stick my head under the table. The cat wants something, although I’m not sure what it could be. Her litter box is clean and she just ate.
    I pull my head back up as I hear a rustle. Carson has wadded up the paper that covered our pancakes and tossed it toward the far side of the kitchen. Miss Priss goes after it, attacking with the enthusiasm of a starving lion in a meat market.
    “Smells like butter.” Carson takes my