Hit and Run Read Online Free

I’m sure,’ Mama said. ‘A big place like that doesn’t run itself. I’m seeing a real opportunity for an entry-penner like me to appreciate how everything runs.’
    â€˜Entrepre— Oh, never mind. Sounds like you want to stay over.’ AnnaLise had been thinking the three of them would attend Thanksgiving dinner, then return home to post-mortem the event. Maybe go back again as visitors on Saturday or Sunday. But Phyllis obviously had more in mind. ‘What about the restaurant here?’
    The ‘entry-penner’s’ eyes fell, then came back up, shining brightly. ‘No problem to close down for the holiday itself. And the whole weekend falls in our quiet time anyway, what with the pretty leaves on the ground from that last hard rain and its wind. No snow for the skiing yet, so our winter tourists—’
    The bell interrupted again. One, two, three, a nearly unimaginable
four
times. And hard, like a fist was pounding on it.
    Phyllis Balisteri more grunted than sighed as she began sliding out of the family booth. ‘That invitation, now – you respond civil-play to it, AnnieLeez. We’re entitled to a break – all three of us.’

THREE
    â€˜I’ m still not sure this is a good idea,’ Lorraine ‘Daisy’ Kuchenbacher Griggs said on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
    Mother and daughter were in Daisy’s bedroom on the second floor of the two-story building she’d lived – and worked – in most of her life. The storefront that had been Griggs’ Market took up one-half of the ground floor, its entrance fronting diagonally on the corner of Main Street and Second. That space was now rented to young Tucker Stanton and had been transformed into a coffeehouse/nightclub called Torch.
    Around the corner on Second Street, you’d find the entrance to the Griggs’ over-and-under apartment. The door led directly into the kitchen of what to others might seem like an unconventional living space, but AnnaLise just called it ‘home.’ At least, she had until she’d gone away to college in Wisconsin, returning only for short visits.
    And even those, as both Daisy and Phyllis liked to remind her, had become sporadic at best.
    â€˜I know it’s my first Thanksgiving here in years,’ AnnaLise said as Daisy picked through her lingerie drawer. ‘But look at it this way. You won’t have to cook. According to Boozer Bacchus, Dickens Hart has brought in some high-powered chef from Las Vegas for the weekend.’
    Her mother snorted, turning from the drawer with what looked like a very expensive – and skimpy – thong in her hand. ‘A chef – I can’t wait for Phyllis to hear that. Besides, you know full well that I never made a holiday dinner. Thank the Lord, that’s always been at the restaurant.’
    And, therefore, a supermarket-case turkey with pop-up timer, stuffing from a box, and canned green beans and mushroom soup, topped with crunchy French-fried onions. Also canned.
    None of which AnnaLise could ever remember sneering at.
    â€˜â€¦ oyster stuffing,’ Daisy was saying, ‘which they’ll call “dressing,” of course. And maybe fancy cranberry-orange relish. I’m sure this chef—’
    â€˜Cranberry-orange relish?’ AnnaLise interrupted, nearly reconsidering the campaign to shepherd her two mothers to Hart’s mansion for the holiday. Even after leaving home, AnnaLise insisted that
her
Thanksgiving berries be jellied and capable of slithering like a short, squat snake from can directly onto plate.
    Tradition was, after all, tradition.
    â€˜Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a fine meal.’ Daisy picked out a few more lacy frills and dropped them into her overnight bag. ‘But it won’t be Thanksgiving.’
    â€˜Is that why you think our going is a mistake?’ Not for the first time, AnnaLise reflected on the fact that Daisy