One Door Away from Heaven by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

boobs.”
    Leilani winced. “Unfair. You
know
that’s one of my sore points.”
    “No sore points. No points at all,” Micky observed. “Flat as a slice of the Swiss cheese on that platter.”
    “Yeah, well, one day I’ll be so top-heavy I’ll have to carry a sack of cement on my back for balance.”
    To Micky, Aunt Gen said, “Isn’t she something?”
    “She’s an absolute, no-doubt-about-it, fine young mutant.”
    “Dinner’s ready,” Geneva announced. “Cold salads and sandwich fixings. Not very fancy, but right for the weather.”
    “Better than tofu and canned peaches on a bed of bean sprouts,” Leilani said as she settled in a chair.
    “What wouldn’t be?” Geneva wondered.
    “Oh, lots of things. Old Sinsemilla may be a lousy mother, but she can take pride in being an equally lousy cook.”
    Switching off the overhead lights to save money and to avoid adding heat to the kitchen, Geneva said, “We’ll use candles later.”
    Now, at seven o’clock, the summer-evening sun was red-gold and still so fierce at the open window that the shadows, which draped but didn’t cool the kitchen, were no darker than lavender and umber.
    Seated, bowing her head, Geneva offered a succinct but heartfelt prayer: “Thank you, God, for providing us with all we need and for giving us the grace to be satisfied with what we have.”
    “I’ve got trouble with the
satisfied
part,” Leilani said.
    Micky reached across the dinette table, and the girl responded without hesitation: They slapped palms in a modified high-five.
    “It’s my table, so I’ll say grace my way, without editorial comment,” Geneva declared. “And when I’m drinking piña coladas on a palm-shaded terrace in Heaven, what will they be serving in Hell?”
    “Probably this lemonade,” said Leilani.
    Spooning pasta salad onto her plate, Micky said, “So, Leilani, you and Aunt Gen have been hanging out?”
    “Most of the day, yeah. Mrs. D is teaching me all about sex.”
    “Girl, don’t say such things!” Geneva admonished. “Someone will believe you. We were playing five-hundred rummy.”
    “I would have let her win,” said Leilani, “out of courtesy and respect for her advanced age, but before I had a chance, she won by cheating.”
    “Aunt Gen always cheats,” Micky confirmed.
    “Good thing we weren’t playing Russian roulette,” Leilani said. “My brains would be all over the kitchen.”
    “I don’t cheat.” Gen’s sly look was worthy of a Mafia accountant testifying before a congressional committee. “I just employ advanced and complex techniques.”
    “When you notice those piña coladas are garnished with live, poisonous centipedes,” Micky warned, “maybe you’ll realize your palm-shaded terrace isn’t in Heaven.”
    Aunt Gen used a paper napkin to blot her brow. “Don’t flatter yourself that I’m sweating with guilt. It’s the heat.”
    Leilani said, “This is great potato salad, Mrs. D.”
    “Thank you. Are you sure your mother wouldn’t like to join us?”
    “No. She’s wasted on crack cocaine and hallucinogenic mushrooms. The only way old Sinsemilla could get here is crawl, and if she tried to eat anything in her condition, she’d just puke it up.”
    Geneva frowned at Micky, and Micky shrugged. She didn’t know whether these tales of Sinsemilla’s debauchery were truth or fantasy, although she suspected wild exaggeration. Tough talk and wisecracks could be a cover for low self-esteem. From childhood at least through adolescence, Micky herself had been familiar with that strategy.
    “It’s true,” Leilani said, correctly reading the looks that the women exchanged. “We’ve only lived beside you three days. Give old Sinsemilla a little time, and you’ll see.”
    “Drugs do terrible damage,” Aunt Gen said with sudden solemnity. “I was in love with this man in Chicago once….”
    “Aunt Gen,” Micky cautioned.
    Sadness found a surprisingly easy purchase in Geneva’s smooth, fair,