Bad to the Last Drop Read Online Free Page A

could use the things I had learned in the past to help them. My book is not really about this experience; it's a mystery book. At my age, I've decided to do the things I want. And that's the kind of book I read, so that's what I wrote." The reporter went on to say that the book was refreshingly silly and an unexpectedly delightful read. "A good gift book for that reader in your life," the reporter had noted.
    Pat tossed the paper into the bin.
"They needed me." What an idea,
she thought, walking to the closet to hang up her coat. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and stared at the woman who looked back at her. She saw a woman of average height with more around the waist and hips than was healthy. And frown lines.
Where did they come from?
Leaning closer, she looked into her eyes. Sad? No, that wasn't it, but she definitely had seen more sorrow than most women her age. And her eyes were dull.
Where's the sparkle that used to be in my eyes? Could I sell everything and move to a faraway village, just for the adventure?
    At the back of Pat's mind flashed a time when she was driving, and she'd just stopped the car along the road and cried— cried for no reason. She'd almost been afraid to drive the car for fear of whether she would care if she
—no,
she cautioned herself,
best not to think of that
. She stared more intently into the mirror. "Isn't there something you've always wanted to do?" she asked her reflection.
    Pat thought of Deb, her friend for thirty-five years. They knew more about each other than their husbands and kids knew about them. As best friends, they'd raised their kids together. They'd been there for each other through babies' fevers and chicken pox and husbands' coming (and going). They'd been friends before cell phones were even thought of, and they had to stretch the cord on the phone as far as it would reach, so they could talk and still make dinner for their respective families; friends through picnics and camping, through weight gains and losses.
    I was there when she married Marc,
thought Pat fondly, as she recalled their history.
It was a new beginning for her and the girls. She was there when I was ordained. I laughed out loud when she finally got her law degree, refusing her daughter's advice to sit out the ceremony because she was nine months pregnant. And she cried with me when my pop died.
    Suddenly missing her friend, Pat picked up the phone and dialed Deb's number.
    After Pat told Deb about her restless thoughts, Deb replied, "Come live up here for a while. You and Mitch could fix up one of these old houses. You could paint the lake, and he could paint the outside of the house. And if you really feel guilty about not helping people every minute of the day," she gently chided, "I'm sure there are kids here who need a reading buddy or lots of other things."
    It was insane; a silly imagining. "What would I tell people I was doing?" Pat asked.
    Deb laughed. "Tell them you're writing a mystery."
    "Of course, I could at least ask Mitchell about it," Pat said, feeling her way around the idea as it grew. Just thinking about how they would go about it would be a nice little break.
    "Don't just daydream about," Deb insisted. "Get a 'for sale' sign and put it out in the yard. See what happens."
    It was crazy; simply crazy.
    Still, Pat gave a lot of thought to Deb's suggestion.
How like her to be so generous. A gift of a place and a time where no one listens to me but the waves on the big lake as I walk on its stony shore. A place where I can bring out my brushes and drink coffee every morning, and read the paper from front to back. Where no cell phone connects me to someone who needs my sympathy or
advice, or calls me to judge whether the women's group should really be having a bingo fund-raiser. No one at all to need me, except maybe the big lake herself, to tell her how beautiful she is in my watercolors.
Pat sniffed and blew her nose.
    After speaking to her friend on the phone, Deb