Whiskers & Smoke by Marian Babson Read Free Book Online Page B

calories.
    â€œI’ll have the Crepes Suzette,” he said casually.
    â€œWill they let you?” Patrick was dubious. “You’re underage and it contains alcohol.”
    â€œThe booze will burn off—” Dexter licked his lips—“when they flambé it. Sure, they’ll let me have it. Rudi’s made them for me before—he likes making them.”
    â€œWell …” Patrick said.
    Rudi had no qualms at all. In fact, he was delighted. He wheeled the serving trolley to our table with a flourish, conscious that everyone was watching. Gino hovered in the doorway, checking on the proceedings.
    Tessa and Timothy had never seen the dish prepared before and were enthralled. As the flickering blue flames danced over the crêpes, they laughed with glee. Smiling at their reaction, I sought Celia’s eyes to share the amusement—and felt a chill that owed nothing to the overemphatic air-conditioning.
    Celia was watching Patrick with a look of unmistakable concern. Patrick was watching the flames with a curious intensity, as though they held him hypnotized.
    I looked away quickly, uneasily, and focused on Dexter. He, too, was staring deep into the miniature blue inferno with more than healthy interest.
    Suddenly I wished that we were back in England.

Chapter 5
    B y the time we got back to Cranberry Lane and Patrick and the boys had carried in the groceries, we were exhausted. I felt as though I had spent the day fighting alternating spells of chills and fever—which I had.
    After lunch, we had gone shopping. The constant transition from the overpowering heat outdoors to the icy blasts of air-conditioned stores would have been enervating even when uncomplicated by jet-lag. Outside, one longed for the cool interiors of the shops; once inside, it instantly became too much of a good thing. By the time we strolled down the frozen food aisles of the supermarket, with the double chill coming from the freezers on both sides, I began to see why so many shoppers carried light cardigans, despite the heat. I would have been glad of a cardigan myself—and a pair of gloves.
    â€œYou’ve turned off the air-conditioning,” Celia said accusingly as we entered the house. “That’s an English habit you’re going to have to lose, or you’ll collapse with
heat prostration. If you don’t care about yourself, think of the children!” She switched on the window unit in the living-room.
    â€œI’ve put it on low,” she said grudgingly. “No, stay there—” she waved me back as I started for the stairs. “I’ll turn it on in the bedroom. I can’t trust you, otherwise—not until you get acclimatized.”
    She darted up the stairs and, after a moment, I heard her footsteps in the master bedroom overhead. I decided not to tell her that I had switched rooms—it would cut out one more argument and make life easier. I’d turn off the air-conditioning up there after she left.
    â€œWhere do you want things to go?” Patrick returned from the kitchen looking helpful but inadequate to the situation. “I’ve left the bags on the kitchen table.”
    â€œI’ll see to them.” I reached the kitchen just as Errol climaxed a magnificent leap by landing lightly on the tabletop with his nose unerringly in the bag containing the fresh fish.
    â€œDown, Errol!” I removed his head from the bag and pushed him towards the edge of the table. He fought me all the way, protesting wildly that I couldn’t expect him to leave when the party had just begun.
    â€œDown!” Errol was strong and determined; so was I. We had a brief undignified struggle and then Errol hit the floor. Once down there, he changed tactics and twined sinuously around my ankles, purring of devotion and undying affection.
    Nothing is undying, Errol. Nothing … and no one …
    But he had succeeded in making me feel guilty. We had been