Blindsided Read Online Free Page B

Can we trust you to look after the ladies? “It’s okay, I have the picture. Go!” They did and were back within minutes as they lined up waiting for their treats, which they all carried back to the family room.
    As smart and as astute as he was, Charles knew something had gone down while he was in the catacombs, and it wasn’t his disappearing Crock-Pot, although he rightly assumed it had something to do with the ladies’ afternoon nap.
    Annie was back after only three days. He again rightly assumed she’d been either kicked out of Vegas as she put it or she returned because . . . because . . . Maggie Spitzer was here. He craned his neck to look out the kitchen window to see if Annie’s spiffy one-of-a-kind sports car was in the courtyard parking lot. It wasn’t. That had to mean someone brought them home from wherever they’d been. It could have been anyone, but if he were a betting man, which he wasn’t, he would bet on either Ted Robinson or Joe Espinosa. Or both of those worthy gentlemen.
    Something had happened, and he’d missed it. Whatever it was. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy that he’d been excluded and all because he was hell-bent on writing his memoirs, an opus that no one would ever read. Even Myra, who said she didn’t care to revisit the past in any way, shape, or form.
    Dinner. He’d fallen way short on that, too, using the silly Crock-Pot to give himself more time to write his equally silly memoirs. Obviously, he needed to make some changes, and he needed to make them quickly, or he was going to be standing outside the door looking in. Myra could be unforgiving. Annie more so. Maggie . . . Maggie would send him to the dogs and not even blink. Women!
    Charles munched on cheese and crackers as he watched the digital clock on the gas range. His thoughts were all over the map as he waited for the time to pass. Somewhere deep inside he knew something was wrong, and the women hadn’t seen fit to include him in whatever it was. And that confirmed his thought that he needed to clean up his act. He looked over at the empty space on the kitchen counter. His first clue. Myra meant business.
    The minutes, then the hours, ticked by so slowly, Charles wanted to scream. He tried browsing through cookbooks to pass the time, turning the television set on the counter off, then on, then off again because there was nothing even remotely interesting. He debated about baking a cake, then negated the idea even though he’d heard or read that after a drinking bender, the drinker always wanted something sweet.
    The bottom line was he was feeling sorry for himself, and he didn’t like the feeling. Maybe he needed some fresh air. A walk around the garden might be just what the doctor ordered. He could gaze at the harvest moon and bay at it if he wanted to. He wanted to.
    The dogs must have intuitively sensed what he was planning because, even before he could get up, they were at the door, waiting expectantly.
    Charles reached for a cigar and some dog chews and let himself and the dogs out the door. The dogs immediately ran off, leaving Charles to meander through the leaf-strewn garden. He sat down on a bench by a small pond Myra had put in two years earlier and listened to the soft sounds of the pump at the far end. Such a peaceful spot. But he wasn’t feeling peaceful at the moment. He was feeling angry. Not at the ladies but at himself.
    The wind whipped up suddenly, and within minutes, the pond was covered with leaves. The gas lamp at the far end cast a hazy yellow glow over his surroundings. It looked eerie to his eyes. He looked up at the beautiful harvest moon and wondered if he should make some kind of wish. What would he wish for? Happiness for all his loved ones. What could be better than that? He made his wish and didn’t feel silly at all.
    â€œWake up and smell the roses, Sir Charles,” he muttered to himself as he fired up his cigar.