LITMIR.BIZ

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Not that it mattered, really.

      “Could she have known who the winner was in advance?”

      “I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure.” I allowed my gaze to travel to the bottom of the page and last year’s picture of Cassie standing on the platform at the top of the spiral stairs, her ad displayed on the screen behind her head. “I know it would be a tragedy no matter who this had happened to, but I can’t help but feel like it wasn’t supposed to be Deidre at all.”

      When Mary Fran said nothing, I looked up to find her staring at me. “What are you saying?”

      “It wasn’t Deidre’s ad that was starting to play when she fell. It was Lexa’s.”

      “M-maybe the tech guys made a mistake and ran the wrong one.”

      “Maybe. In fact, that’s what Andy thinks, too. But it’s also possible that—” I stopped, took in Cassie’s high-wattage smile, and shivered.

      “Possible that, what?” Mary Fran prodded.

      I lifted my gaze back to my friend and went for broke. “Maybe Cassie deliberately read the wrong name.”

      ~Chapter Six~

      I’m not much of a cook. Never have been. If a meal didn’t come from a box (hello, Cocoa Puffs), my freezer, or one of about a half dozen eateries that offered delivery, I didn’t eat. Unless, of course, my grandfather was in town and it happened to be a Sunday.

      Which he was and it was.

      Sunday night dinner was a tradition that began long before I was born. It was my grandmother’s way of keeping tabs on everyone. The fact that my grandmother had also been an amazing cook pretty much guaranteed the success of her plan. By the time I came along, the weekly gathering had grown to include games, an occasional theme, and close friends interspersed around the table alongside blood relations.

      So while I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a certain sadness at not seeing my parents (they had tickets to a show), my siblings (transplanted to other parts of the country), and my late grandmother (currently cringing at my lack of prowess in the kitchen, no doubt) assembled around the folding banquet table Carter had managed to secure from the theater, I was also pretty stoked about having all of my friends in one place for the second time in as many days. The only thing that could make it any better (other than the ability to raise my grandmother from the dead), would be the subtraction of one person and one oversized rat that doubled as said person’s dog.

      “So what are you subjecting us to this time, Sunshine?” Carter asked from his spot next to my chair.

      I rolled my eyes at the laughter that spread around the table and plunked the first of a half-dozen or so platters down in front of my own personal doubting Thomas. “I’ll have you know, my grandmother made this very same roast when I was a kid and it was always a hit, isn’t that right, Grandpa?”

      My grandfather leaned in close, sniffed, and then looked up at me, his I-love-you-no-matter-what face letting me know I’d missed an ingredient (or five). “I’m sure it will be delicious, Sugar Lump.”

      “If not, I saw an unopened box of Cocoa Puffs in the pantry a little while ago and—” At my answering sputter, Sam laughed and then amended his suggestion. “Okay, so there’s an opened box of Cocoa Puffs we can pass around if necessary.”

      “Ha. Ha. Everyone’s a comic.” I returned to the kitchen, grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes and the bowl of stuffing, and carried them back to the table and the empty spots on either side of the roast.

      Curling her upper lip, Ms. Rapple lifted her fork from the table and poked at the contents of each bowl. But just as she was obviously revving up for one of her cutting remarks, she glanced at my grandfather seated to her left and…smiled.

      This time when I rolled my eyes, it was mirrored by both Mary Fran (who sees everything) and Carter. But that wasn’t enough for me. Oh no…

      “Is there a problem, Ms. Rapple?” I challenged, earning myself a flash of surprise from my clearly smitten (and therefore blind to the reality of McPhearson Road’s resident nut job) grandfather.

      “Of course not, Tobi. Everything looks”—Ms. Rapple stopped, cleared her throat, shifted in her seat, and smiled at my grandfather—“delicious.”

      I reared back to challenge the sincerity in her words, but let it go as Andy rose from the table and ushered me into the kitchen with an offer to help shuttle in the rest of my attempts at cooking. Still, the second my feet hit the chipped linoleum denoting the start of my rental unit’s kitchen, I balled my hands into fists and released a frustrated groan.

      Andy leaned against the kitchen sink and motioned me over for a power hug. “Let it go, Tobi. It’s just one dinner and there’s enough of us here we can talk around her if necessary. Don’t let her presence ruin a really cool idea.”

      He was right and I knew it. But still, I had to have my say. Because, well, I’m not exactly a fan of silence. “Her presence shouldn’t even be an issue because she shouldn’t be here. This is supposed to be for family and friends. She qualifies as neither.”

      “She was there last night, to cheer you on.”

      I stepped out of his embrace and made a face. “She wasn’t there to cheer me on. She was there because my grandfather invited her and she has the hots for him.”

      Bookending my shoulders with his hands, Andy waited until my gaze met his. When it did, he gave me the smile that generally turned my legs to mush. But even the addition of his dimples didn’t work this time. I was aggravated. Plain and simple.

      “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but your grandfather has the hots for her, too.”

      I shuddered so hard all conversation in the other room stopped for a moment. When it resumed, I marched over to my cabinet, reached inside the Cocoa Puff box I’d opened for sustenance while I was cooking, and pulled out a gorilla-sized handful. “I don’t get it. What does he see in her? She’s mean-spirited, her breath is questionable, and she bears an uncanny resemblance to the beast currently sitting under the table—uninvited, I might add.”

      “Apparently your grandfather sees something very different when he looks at Ms. Rapple.”

      “Does Medicare cover eye transplants on wiry bald grandfathers?” I groused. And when I say groused, I mean groused.

      Andy waited as I shoved the last few puffs into my mouth and then pulled me close once again, his breath against the top of my head a comfort. “I know she’s not who you would have picked for your grandfather.”

      “I wouldn’t pick Rapple for the delivery guy who dropped my pizza on the sidewalk last week, either.”

      The sound of a throat being cleared in the general vicinity of the kitchen doorway made me jump back in time to see my grandfather’s hooded eyes gazing back at me. “I thought I’d check and see if you needed any help, Sugar Lump.”

      I looked from Andy, to my grandfather, and back again as my heartbeat rose into my ears.

      Uh oh.

      “Grandpa, I—”

      He stepped all the way into the kitchen, pointed at a bowl of green beans on the table, and then hooked his thumb in the direction from which he’d come. “I’ll take these out to the table before Carter starts lecturing everyone on the importance of greenery at all meals.”

      I looked to Andy for help, but his eyes were cast down at the floor. Mine joined his until my grandfather (and the beans) were en route back to the living room.

      “Please tell me you don’t think he heard me,” I whispered.

      Andy’s answer came via his silence and a squeeze of my left hand.

      “Crap.” I raked my hand through my hair only to realize, as I did, that I’d completely screwed up the braid I’d

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