Indelible Read Online Free Page A

planter garden.
    Oliver licked his lips. “Can I taste it?” At ten he was growing like crazy and always hungry.
    Angie held out a hand to block Jack from handing the spoon to Oliver. “What’s in it?”
    Not that a small taste would likely hurt Oliver, but she’d rather not expose him to the wonders of cooking with marijuana quite this young. And with her father, you could never tell. Was he making the sauce for their dinner or to take to a potluck? Old hippies were big on social gatherings.
    “Nothing to worry about.”
    Angie pulled back her hand, Oliver tasted the sauce, and Jack waited. He took great pride in his cooking and his grandson. The boy’s opinion mattered. If Angie hadn’t insisted Oliver do some reading from his summer book list, he’d be at the stove cooking with Jack.
    “Mom’s right. Basil.”
    Jack nodded and chopped the herb. He stirred it in and returned the lid to the pot. “I have a date tonight, but I’ll be home for dinner.”
    “I won’t.” Oliver threw the statement out casually and Angie resisted a laugh. That was the hardest part about being a parent—holding back laughter when her son said something absurd.
    She put on her carefully practiced “mom” face—stern, loving, but no pushover. “And where do you think you’re going?”
    “Rich and I plan to hit the mall.”
    “You do, huh?” She arched a brow and waited for the theatrics to begin.
    Oliver closed his book. “Mom, don’t act like it’s a big deal. His brother said he’d drive us.”
    Rich’s older brother was a rolling disaster. Someone would get seriously hurt around him soon, or he’d end up in jail, or both. Angie no longer found the situation amusing. “No way.”
    “Mom,” Oliver whined and Angie cringed. She’d take surly and argumentative over whiny any day.
    “Don’t ‘mom’ me. I just canceled your plans.”
    Oliver shoved his chair away from the table with much greater force than necessary. “Fine!” He stormed out of the room, and his bedroom door slammed a moment later.
    Angie shook her head. “He makes me tired.”
    Jack stirred the marinara and shrugged. “He’s ten.”
    “I didn’t act like that.” Angie remembered being ten. Her father was barely present at that age and wouldn’t have noticed a loud door.
    “No, honey, you didn’t.”
    Angie wondered if he really remembered. He’d spent the majority of that year half-baked at the beach with a woman named Monica, who painted icons on the sand just so she could watch them wash away with the tide. She claimed to be very existential. Angie thought she was flaky.
    “You should probably change for your date.” The sauce was simmering and it wasn’t time to cook the pasta.
    Jack looked at his clothes—the long dress ended just below his knees. Even though she should be used to the visual combination of feminine skirt and hairy legs, she still found it disconcerting.
    “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” He hung his apron on a hook in the pantry and began to pull his housedress over his head.
    “Jesus, Dad, in your room. I don’t want to see that.”
    “How did I raise such a prude?”
    His question was legitimate. He was a dress-wearing hippie, a free spirit who let the moment determine his actions. The thought of floating through life like a damn leaf made Angie shudder. She wanted control. She made plans, worked hard, and adjusted. She refused to just let life happen.
    “Just lucky, I guess.”
    Learning that her family was different was a lesson that came in degrees for Angie. Her first day of kindergarten, she came home and asked where her mom was. Jack’s answer—“Honey, she loves you and will be back soon”—lost its power when year after year the woman never reappeared. She was long dead, for all Angie knew. Her first soccer game—second grade, Running Hornets—all the other fathers showed up wearing jeans and T-shirts. Her dad wore a lovely skirt and work boots. A friend had dared him and he—in a giggling