Hearts at Home by Lori Copeland Read Free Book Online Page A

.
    She was wondering if her clothes dryer had begun a program of selective shrinkage when Winslow sailed through the kitchen doorway and dropped his usual perfunctory kiss on her forehead. His aim was off this morning; the kiss landed on the bridge of her nose.
    â€œGood morning, my love.”
    â€œMorning, Win. Sit down, breakfast is ready.”
    Winslow dropped into a kitchen chair, his eyes glued to the note cards in his hand. Edith didn’t mind—she was used to Winslow’s customary practice of studying his sermon notes over Sunday breakfast. The edges of her robe opened wider as she dished up waffles and sausage.
    A moment later she sat down and reached for Winslow’s free hand. “Bless this food, Lord,” Winslow intoned. “Let us ever be mindful of your love and care. Amen.”
    Edith got up for the syrup still in the microwave as Winslow lathered butter on his waffle, his eyes intent upon the note cards now on his placemat. Edith sighed as she set the syrup on the table. After so many years of marriage to a pastor she’d learned not to expect stimulating breakfast conversation on Sunday, but a few observations would be nice: Beautiful morning, Edith. Great breakfast, honey!
    She poured two steaming cups of coffee, and then set the glass carafe on the table. She slid into her chair, then stared down at the bright red of her nightgown. Two inches were now showing, two inches of fabric she’d never noticed before this morning.
    She turned to peer at her husband. “Do you think I’m getting fat?”
    Biting into a piece of sausage, Winslow nodded absently, his eyes trained on his sermon notes. Chewing, he reached for his coffee cup, then took a sip.
    Edith pursed her lips. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
    â€œWin?”
    â€œHmmm?”
    â€œDo you think I’m getting fat?”
    â€œOf course, hon. Fine idea.”
    She bit down on the inside of her lip, realizing she’d get no response as long as he was studying. Unless her words had registered and he really did think she was packing on the pounds.
    Was she? In January alone she’d attended Dana Klackenbush’s poetry reception, eaten two healthy hunks of Russell Higgs’s birthday cake, and attended three potlucks after Sunday morning services. The huge community meals were taking a toll on her waistline. Edith could eat her weight in fried clams—and this morning that would be no small feat. She investigated her gaping robe again, then shook her head. Why, she must have put on fifteen pounds since Christmas! She’d been meaning to get a new pair of bathroom scales; the old ones weighed ten pounds heavy and she could never bring herself to step on the nuisance. But mercy, she’d gotten lax about watching her diet. She’d eaten everything in sight at Christmas time, and since then she’d enjoyed a bowl of kettle corn every night and a candy bar every afternoon when her energy flagged. . . .
    Winslow had eaten right along with her. In fact, half the time he brought the bowl of popcorn to bed, where they munched while watching the evening news. Trouble was, he didn’t seem to care about the soft paunch at his middle.
    Shooting her husband a glare, she nudged his foot with the toe of her slipper. “Winslow!”
    He glanced up, a bite of waffle halfway to his mouth. “What did I do?”
    â€œAm I getting fat?”
    His gaze flicked away, then he rammed the waffle into his mouth and chewed for an unwarranted length of time, his eyes darting about the room as if the answer might be found on the kitchen cabinet, the cherry-patterned wallpaper, or the two Teflon cake pans sitting on top of the counter.
    Guilt assailed Edith as she waited for an answer. She was gaining weight, and sweet Win was too much of a gentleman to tell her the truth. As tears stung her eyes, she dropped her gaze and stared at a mound of sausage floating in a sea of maple syrup on